The Kids are Alright

Music is one of my ‘things’. I listen to music as often as possible. Without question there will be music going when I drive, work, or run. Just about all the time. The music that I prefer, naturally is MY music. It is predominately the music I grew up with. My idea of new music is hearing a song on the classic rock station that had been long lost and I'm inspired to dig an old cd out of the attic. The familiarity, the style, and the sounds of that music speak to me. They sooth me and they fire my passion. This is the soundtrack of my life, the sounds of my youth, and the sounds that put me at ease as I age and move on to unfamiliar worlds.  

One morning I found myself driving I-90 West with tired eyes and Hotel California came on the radio. That long mystical guitar intro to The Eagles’ Hotel California was the perfect ambiance as I’m watching the sunrise in my rear view mirror. On the way home later that night, tired eyes on the other side, The Eagles came to me again with Take it to the Limit. These melodies & arrangements framed these moments perfectly while echoing so many other moments. They were there when I was an 8 year old sitting on the vinyl back seats in my parents old LTD with the window down and hot summer air blowing in my face. They were a part of my high school transition to California and followed me to Texas, Germany, South Carolina, and New York, back to California, and to New York again. It is these sounds, and others that do the mental stirring of my memories whipping up all the big moments, the mundane moments, every single road trip, every run, and every feeling in which songs and others like them played a part. My life.

I can be open. I pick up some new sounds here and there. They tend to come from my kids, students, or various sources unknown to me.  Some Train, Katy Perry, & even a taste of One Direction have penetrated the sanctity of my playlist. That is how I found myself listening to International by Pitbull and Chris Brown. I allowed Zachary to choose the radio station and all I could think is, "This is what my kids are growing up with? Total crap." But hope is not lost.

If Zachary's iPod music queue was a salad, 'my' music would certainly be the lettuce. Definitely the base and making a solid presence. Madeline heard Tainted Love on the radio recently and blew a gasket. "Who is this? Can we get it on iTunes?" The girl could not believe it was an 'old' song. She has also developed a love for the song Breakfast at Tiffany's.  

Honestly, that has a lot to do with her adoration of Audrey Hepburn and her trademark black dress & pearls from the movie of the same name. But a good choice, nonetheless. 

Thomas also scores major points in his love for The Beatles. My favorite is his favorite, but his interest does seem to be genuine. He's become skilled at identifying lead vocalists by their voice. Then the other day, over lunch at Panera, Thomas initiated a game of Beatle trivia and 'what is your favorite..'  I asked him what would be his favorite album cover. He took a spoonful of his mac and cheese, his eyes rolled up and to the right as he pondered the question. "Revolver. Definitely Revolver." Good answer, grasshopper! And I didn't even know that he knew that. (His favorite albums are Help! and Rubber Soul, so I was certain he'd go with one of those). 

So, I think musically, they'll be alright. Each of those kids has brought new music to me. Jen & I have made sure that they appreciate the old stuff the same way my parents' Leon Redbone, Leon Russell, and Crosby, Stills, & Nash have solidified their presence in my mental (and physical) playlist. 

Chasing Lightning Bugs on Old Orchard Lane

There was this girl.

That’s the first line of so many good stories. There she was. Here she is, secure in memories of my childhood, somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12. She wasn’t the first crush I ever had. Those were numerous. I figured out early that girls were infinitely more interesting and appealing than boys. Not that I was ever a playah. I compare better to Karl Fredericksen in the movie UP! More of a silent but loyal follower.

My parents had these friends who lived on the other side of town and for a couple years they spent a great deal of time there playing cards and talking until all hours. These friends didn’t have children our age, so if us kids wanted to do anything fun, we had to create it ourselves. The finished basement was our kingdom. It had a bar which was pretty cool for serving up drinks. Alcohol wasn’t on our radar yet, but we had unfettered access to soda. There was also a bumper pool table and a cabinet under the stairs with the biggest stockpile of Playboys I had ever seen.

But in the daylight hours we would make our way outside. It was a neighborhood, so there was always some impromptu gang of kids ready for more to join in on whatever adventure was brewing. Whiffle ball, hide and seek, or just plain exploration were the standard activities. In my mind there were a dozen or so kids around.

But the only one I remember was Angie Rinkenberger.

So many people have gone in and out of my life over the years. I've forgotten most of them. There are people who I have interacted with on a daily basis for years, whose faces and names are fuzzy, faded memories to me. This girl, who I saw a handful of times in the late 70’s or early 80’s, remains fresh in my mind. I couldn't really tell you any specific things we did. I can’t remember any of our conversations. I just remember looking for her. I remember wanting to be around her.

First off, part of what made this girl memorable was her name. The sound of it intrigued me even then. And now, as an adult, it sounds even more like a girl from one’s past. I can say that I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Angie seemed a bit more serious than the most of the kids. Maybe a bit more ‘mature’ than the rest of us 10 year olds, so she always came off as a leader. And where ever she wanted to go, I’d follow.  I liked her eyes. And she smelled good.

What the scent was escapes me now.

Was it her shampoo? Was it soap?

Maybe it was bubble gum.

I can’t say, but it made me want to be close to her. I knew that I wanted to ask her to be my girlfriend, but two things stopped me. Fear of rejection. What if she said no? Then what?

Then there was fear of success. What if she said yes? Then what? I’d have no idea what to do next.

No matter. I would instead, admire her in secret and we’d have fun just being kids chasing lightning bugs from one yard to the next.

Now, as I tend to do, I find myself skimming the obituaries of the local papers and in that of my old hometown. I saw Angie’s name and a picture of the grown up woman that she had become and my heart sank. We went to different schools in Streator and I would later move to California, so my memories of Angie were confined to our pre-teen years. I have no inkling of her life or her journey or what would bring it to a premature end. The obituary offered no clues, either.

I find myself so sad for her and sad for her family, losing her at such a young age.

Selfishly, I am a little sad for myself, feeling the reality of life and age setting in.

Instinctively, I was tempted to copy the picture from her obituary and save it to a digital photo album. Stack it there with so many other memories and events from my life.  

There's no need for that, though, because I’m pretty happy with the picture in my mind that has stayed with me for so many years. That of a humid Illinois evening and a young girl on a grassy front lawn with wavy brown hair and dark eyes. She is dressed in pink shorts and a white tank top, and she's saying “Follow me.”

Happy Birthday, Me!

This is an old birthday post of mine from Facebook. I really like this one and find it an enjoyable read for today, my 46th birthday.

The simple life is good. I just turned 44 and instead of a mid-life crisis purchase like a motorcycle or sports car, I find myself with a new fridge. It's my 1st that dispenses crushed ice. Even if it is some sort of cosmic metaphor, the ice as the years of my life and my youth getting mangled, crushed, ground, spit out and left to melt away into the eternity of my glass. Still, every drink is like a sno-cone. Which is nice. Life is good.

You Can Do Anything With the Right Soundtrack

 It's a Wonderful Run. A 5K race in Seneca Falls, the town where the author wrote the book on which It's A Wonderful Life was based. Oh, it was a cold night. The race started at 4:40pm and standing high above the river atop a bridge we were completely exposed to the wind. Warm light clothes that are perfect for running in this weather are not so hot at standing in the wind. It cut right through whatever I was wearing. There may have been hundreds of people on that bridge, but there was no amount of them to crowd around that could provide the protection that I needed.

The race started on the 'George Baily' bridge, my iPod led off with a song that a Beatles fan can appreciate, She Said, She Said. With the line, "you're making me feel like I've never been born" I thought, well played, iPod. The music is what keeps you going on a night like this. She's on Fire and Soak Up the Sun give warm thoughts and an odd realization that I had an inordinate amount of warm songs to choose from.

Running was tough. With almost 3,000 runners it was scrunchy and crowded. But being my first night run, I enjoyed the sights. People out on the sidewalks and lawns watching & cheering. Some had bonfires in their yards. I couldn't feel the heat, but just the smell of burning wood provided  thoughts of comfort and warmth. Once I got going, though, warmth wasn't an issue. Footing was. After two miles of tromping through the snow I was feeling the wear on my legs and psyche.

The snow was thick and grainy and made it feel as though I was running through sand.  Thighs and knees were burning from plodding over the snow.  Runners crowded around looking for footing in the few maneuverable sections of the road, strong arming me, sometimes physically bumping or by invading my space.  12^o outside, but the cold on my skin wasn’t as much an issue as the frigid air I’d suck into my lungs. Nasal drainage froze to my lip and each breath left my lungs and mouth harder and harder. Environment and physical factors beat me down, saying, “Stop. Walk. Rest.”

But then the song comes on. Uplifting in mood and tone with a pounding of the beat. Horns start in taking the music higher, with a regal and powerful mood. My back straightens a little. My feet hit the road just as hard, but my body was feeling a little lighter. Shoulders back and head up, my eyes scan forward because as my spine and back straighten, my vantage and field of vision increase. This change comes from my mind via the music.  The song has a spirituality to it and I’m lifting higher and lighter, out of body, I am floating up and I can see myself from above. I float higher looking down as I pan away to the sky, seeing me, those next to me, further back puts more and more runners in view as it seems to expand out from me in the center. But then I’m not the center. I am an unidentifiable part of a mass of runners, all moving along the same path like a line of ants.

This is the music from Thor, so I see Thor & the warriors three racing on horses across the rainbow bridge.  Flying between realms, speeding across space on the bifrost, I picture a hammer summoning lightning from the sky then pounding on the ground with enough force to make ripples in the earth like throwing a rock in a pond.  He confronts the enemy and even though it doesn’t always go as planned or easily, Thor fights through pain, adversity, and horrible odds to ultimately triumph. I can do that.

 

I zoom back in on me.  Imagery and music mean everything here. My view of the race. The music becomes part of my drive. Breaths are deeper and strides stronger. There's no stopping. This is heroic. The wind brings the snow in sharply from the north and swirls it around making a cloud moving down on us. The combined breath of the runners creates a haze moving up from the ground. Mixed with the cloud this breathy snow fog  picks up and amplifies the Christmas lights of the houses along the block and the red flashing lights of the police cars lining the route. The nighttime darkness above and a ruddy glow from below are the environment for my struggle. There are 1,000 people in front of me and 1,000 people behind me. The music pounds, sings, and inspires as I start to pass more than pass me.

 

Fighting the urge to walk and fighting to reach and pass the next person on my horizon feels every bit as heroic as anything the Avengers ever did on film. Moving along Cayuga Street past blocks of beautifully maintained Queen Anne and Victorian style houses, I hit a groove. Running down and around the right turn lane on to Main Street gives a boost that feels like I'm using the gravity of some heavenly body to catapult me to points beyond. With that last stretch lined with fans, well-wishers, and a town decked out in Christmas lights, I'm home.

December 8th, 1988

In everybody's past is some magical day. You have that one experience that it is the beginning of a whole new life. And sometimes you had absolutely no idea it was happening.

I had been in Germany for only a week and hadn’t done much. I had wandered the base, hitting all the necessary spots like the post office, the gym, chow hall, theater, and the BX.  And for alternate dining there was always the La Hacienda, a diner who aside from its name offered no actual Latin options, as long as you don't count nachos.

There I was. In Germany. My fascination with all things German - the language, culture, food, history, architecture - moved me to put it down on my Air Force 'wish list'. Incredibly, I actually got orders. I was excited to be there, but also a bit melancholy. After a move to California in 1985, the Air Force and tech school in 1986, Scott Air Force Base in 1987, here I was starting over again, again. That isn't an easy thing to do. The best way to get over those blues is to get the hell out and do something.

It was Thursday and the word was that on Thursday you HAVE to go to ‘the club’.  Everybody goes to the club on Thursday. If these people really knew me, they’d know that wasn’t much of a selling point. Even at 20, I was more of a bar person. I'd be happiest as one of a dozen or so people on barstools nursing drinks. A jukebox playing 60’s & 70’s hits and maybe an old dog in the corner. Clubbin’ wasn’t my thing, because then, as now, I would generally try to avoid places where I had to dress a certain way and yell to speak to the person standing next to me.

But I was 20 and fresh from the States. Back there, not having reached majority age, I could never go out. Everyone would go out and I’d be stuck with the rest of the under 21 crowd, looking for someone to bring beer to the dorm. Pathetic for sure. Fun at times, but it still felt like I was a high school kid being left behind while the grownups had fun. (I feel comfortable putting that out there because my son refuses to read anything I write).  So, rocking to some 10,000 Maniacs, I put on my generic and borderline fashionable 80's goin' out clothes, got some cash and headed to the NCO Club.

To say that the evening started as a disappointment would be an understatement. Let's start with the complete and utter let down that this walk to the club turned out to be. I had spent the last two years in the states watching others celebrate their 21st birthdays with debaucherous blowouts. It was an event. An American male's bar mitzvah celebrating 'adulthood'. You may have already been allowed to file a tax return, join the military, sign a legally binding contract, and drive a car. But at 21 you're really an adult because you can drink. A rite of passage to celebrate.  And here I was a month and a half short of that magic date in a country with no drinking age, and I very unceremoniously and without fanfare, walk alone into the club.

Passing through the doors of the establishment, my outlook didn't get any better. The Zweibrücken NCO Club was put together with all the style and imagination you'd expect from the U.S. military. I couldn't tell you much about the details. My memory of the NCO Club generally involves the color brown. There was a basic bar/dance floor/stage set-up, and the walls were lined with cheap lithographs of various aircraft. Base aircraft, F-4 Phantoms and C-23A Sherpas hung most prominently. There was a brightly lit back room with five or six slot machines. All continuously occupied by the slot zombies. 

 

I lingered for a while. Had chats with a couple people I had met in my short time there. Sitting at the bar, I watched with disgust people who chose Budweiser and other American beers over the local brand. Zweibrücken's own Parkbräu Export was my drink of choice as I settled in to conversation with a band of crew chiefs. One guy, Dave Gunner, was telling me of tours that run out of the bases. He went to Paris and on the last day there, he missed the bus as it left the Louvre. His friends hadn't noticed his absence so he had to catch a cab to the Eiffel Tower in hopes that he could find his group there.

 I was one of the medical people. We worked 8 - 5. A girl comes in dressed her BDU's. Clearly straight from work and clearly, she knows these guys. The badges on her uniform told me that she was some sort of mechanic.  Big smile. Bits of her blonde hair frizzed out from a French braid that was impressively snug for someone who just got off a shift of repairing aircraft. She stood out because she never once sat down. This girl appeared to know everyone in the place and moved across the room from one conversation to the next. As she worked the room this girl exuded an energy that came out in her expressions, her arms, her face, her laugh, and her body. And that enthusiasm didn't wane between conversations.

She was a dancer. Again, the girl never sat down. With each song she'd find someone to take out to the dance floor. Guys would tire and she'd move on to the next. At some point she magically had a drink in her hand and was making the rounds at our table. Yelling over the loud music, she leaned in to speak to someone across from me. I could see the name tag on her uniform said JEWELL. The guy I was talking to spoke with her. Dave called her Jennie, but never introduced us. She leaned in to talk to him and rested her hand on my shoulder.  I remember that. After she moved on, Dave let me know that she was one in the group that left him behind in Paris.

Soon enough, I was getting bored with the whole thing and honestly, I still hadn't quite gotten over my jet lag, so I was ready to go. But a song came on and Jennie was once again looking for a dance partner. "Sure", I said, shrugging my shoulders. Now how is that for a passionate start?

My wife would kill me if I revealed this secret, so I won't. The song that we danced to was, and is not a song that she likes. She hates the song. She hates the band. It is a completely undanceable song and has no place being played anywhere that dancing is practiced. But there it was. The music starts off slow. At first we put our hands together, my right hand around her waist. Leaning in close, I could detect a scent of White Rain shampoo and just a hint of jet fuel. We talk, but it was really yelling and we listen as best we can. The dance floor was not that big and there was no escaping this DJ's 1980's mammoth speakers. "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" She did her Air Force tech school in Illinois. I'm from Illinois. She was from the Syracuse area. I had visited Syracuse because of a cousin who lived in Liverpool. It was a lively, but slightly generic conversation. Eventually, my hand left hers and found its way down so our hands rested on each other's hips. The slow start to the song was over and the pace picked up. Unsure of what to do, the dancers stayed the course, defying the recording's pace and volume and continued with a slow sway.

Then the song ended...and that was it. We parted. "Nice to meet you", with no expectation that we’d ever see one another again. I had another beer then walked back to my dorm. We ran into each other at the theater the next night. Somebody blew someone else off, but there is a bit of debate about who exactly that was. There is enough animosity in that story for another whole post. We did not have occasion to speak again for months. Our mini- When Harry met Sally moment was over and we went on with our lives with no inkling that months later we'd speak again. We'd hang out. We'd be friends. Then best friends. Then eventually living in New York with three children on the couch watching Fred Claus.

But that day, December 8,1988 was the first time I laid eyes on Jennie Jewell. It was the first time I held her hand. The first time I held her close. It was the first time I heard her backstory. And I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of my future.

All About Thom

The Facebook game goes like this. Someone gives you a number and you have to list that many interesting, but generally unknown, facts about yourself. While the interestingness is debatable, my responses were a bit long. How lucky you are to get a glimpse into the mind of Thom!  

1.       I often have dreams that I can fly. Not Superman flying. There are 2 types of dreams. Sometimes I concentrate & levitate up and then take off.  Other times I am while running, my strides get longer and higher until I am flying. It seems so real that when I wake up, I still think I can do it.

2.       We pride ourselves in that we have been to so many places. I believe that I could move to and be happy living in any of them. We have never lived in a downtown urban area & that is something that I’d like to do.

3. The three women who have come closest to the American Presidency are Geraldine Ferraro, Hillary Clinton, & Sarah Palin. I have seen them all in person (met two). All within 20 miles of our home. If you knew where I live, you’d be amazed.

4.       Two baseball/softball injuries plagued me for years. First, a bad hamstring ( hamstrung by a hamstring? ) and couldn’t throw a baseball without shoulder pain for years. But both were seemingly cured after only a few weeks of yoga.  

5.       Despite the aforementioned pains and the fact that I am overweight, I am worried that for the most part, I’ve been pretty healthy my whole life. I’ve never been the one looking up from the hospital bed and I am not looking forward to it.

6.       I’ve been to a lot of places, but tops on my list of places that I have yet to see is St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow and the Parthenon in Athens.  Those are lifelong dreams.

7.       If Jennie & I had started having children sooner, we’d probably have 5. When accounting for our kids, I’ll see all three, but still think I’m missing some.

8.       I’m a church going Catholic, but in my view, the message is infinitely more important that the messenger. I really don’t think Jesus minds, but I am sure there are plenty of Christians that would.

9.      I feel passionately about things and the way I think our country should be. But my views are tainted by pragmatism, so I focus on what I think is possible. I feel like I have to sacrifice for progress, but that makes me feel like I’m giving up on what I believe.

10.       I rarely drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t even like coffee. But I need soda. I really do. Diet or regular matters not as long as it is caffeinated and carbonated.  We don’t keep it in the house, so I get little bits at a time. Out to eat or a bottle at work. If I go a couple days without it, on comes the DT’s.  

11.   Smell is a very important thing to me. Not turned off by bad smells as much as enjoying good ones. I always smell my food. I love the scents of the seasons. The smell of perfume or shampoo when a woman passes by or even the smell of cigars & beer that always takes me back to Wrigley Field.
 

 

 

Can We Get a Another Curse Back Here?

As a baseball fan, and a St. Louis Cardinal fan, dealing with the limited viewing choices of the late '70s & early '80s, most of my time was spent watching the Chicago Cubs on WGN. The Cubs were, at best, mediocre, but their leader & best player was Bill Buckner. If they needed  a clutch hit or defensive play, Bucker was The Man. He was the go to guy. So, that is why I have always felt bad for him being considered the goat of the 1986 World Series and for a while, the bearer of The Curse.

For those of you who may not be baseball people, it was believed that the Red Sox sale of Babe Ruth to the Yankees netted the Sox not only cash, but also a curse that would keep them from winning a World Series ever again. Boston had been a dominant team in the early years of baseball. After their owner's fire sale of players, done to finance his Broadway shows, the Red Sox turned into perennial also-rans. When they finally did make it back to championship caliber play, in the big games, Boston came up short. They didn't just lose. They'd lose in some sort of humiliating fashion.

Half an inning away from winning the World Series in 1986, a ball rolled through Bill Buckner's legs, allowing the winning run to cross the plate. The New York Mets scored three times in that inning, sending the Series to game 7 and an eventual Met championship. Of course, the entire Red Sox team was to blame. Every runner left on base, every pitcher's blown save, every missed opportunity in each of their four losses was somebody's fault. In baseball, it is everybody's fault. But Bill Bucker got the blame for the whole thing. He had to take one for the entire team.

Having my Cardinals lose to the once lowly Red Sox in the World Series twice in 10 years makes me kind of miss the curse. Most of my cursing was saved for my own team in the 2013 edition of the baseball Twilight Zone that suddenly had the Red Sox winning. The Cardinals out hit the damn Sox right up until they got men in scoring position.

Four times the Cardinals have played the Red Sox in the World Series. Two wins a piece. Why the hell did I have to be alive for the Cardinal's losses?

What gets me is, I don't hate the Red Sox. I usually don't anyway. They sit somewhere in the upper middle of my baseball team hierarchy. If they were playing someone else like the Dodgers or the Phillies, or certainly against the Yankees, I'd be rooting for Boston. It is hard to wipe away first impressions. Despite their now 3 World Series victories, I still think of the Sox as losers. And who doesn't root for the losers?

Instead, I'm here frustrated and angry, thinking about this disgusting Boston team, known for their long bearded faces like some backwoods creepy red necks. And not the charming Duck Dynasty rednecks. I'm thinking Deliverance. I just want to go through their locker room with a can of Barbasol and some Schick razors. Or maybe a weed eater.  I want to sink their stupid duck boats.

I want a curse!

How glorious would it have been to have David Ortiz bat .700 in a Boston Series loss? Or for the Cardinals, dead in the water, to pop just two or three more hits in the 7th inning of game 6 to turn a sure Boston victory into a stunning loss. AT HOME! Now that would have been a wonderful way to lose!  Baseball gods of fate! Why have you forsaken me?

But for now, a curse is too little, too late. I turn on ESPN or the MLB Network and I get Red Sox talk and clips of their victory parade.  I'm not ready for that. Fine. You won. Congratulations.

For now, I find solace in the internet. And here I thank Yankee fans, now kindred spirits in our mutual disgust for the American League team in Boston. Those wonderful Yankees fans have put lots of images and video of the Sox past failures for people to enjoy. Players in their Boston uniforms with heads hung. Stunned looks of pain on their faces. Fans crying.

And a ball rolling through a first baseman's legs. That makes me feel better. Avenged. And kind of warm and snuggly inside.

Sorry, Billy Buck. You have to take one for the team.