Utopia(noun): Any real or imaginary society, place, or state considered to be perfect or ideal.
What or where is your Utopia? For me, Utopia is the name of a store in downtown Easton that I frequented quite a bit as a teenager in the 1980’s. And not just any store mind you, Utopia was THE place to go if you were a connoisseur of music and someone whose parents had absolutely no intention of driving you across town to the Listening Booth store in the mall. Yes, in an age where record album sales and concert tickets were all the rage, Utopia was the closest place to go to get your music fix if you lived on South Side.
For a melodic rock / hair metal enthusiast like me, it truly was utopia. I still remember the hot summer days of youth walking downtown with a group of kids from the neighborhood with money burning a hole in my pocket. We all knew that what awaited us between those musty smelling walls was pure musical heaven. And unlike some of the more “modern” record stores of the day that allowed you to listen to new music before buying, Utopia was a shopping only experience.
You knew you had arrived at Utopia when you were greeted by the wicker furniture that resided in the store front windows. And once you crossed the threshold and into the store, the smell of cheap burning incense would consume you. Utopia showcased many of the newest albums of the day and even had a ticket counter where you could purchase tickets to the latest concerts coming to the area.
Utopia was the place where I purchased all of my concert tickets for shows at Stabler Arena and The Allentown Fairgrounds, including my first ever concert in 1984: The Scorpions and some new band named Bon Jovi. It was also where I purchased my first Dokken, Ozzy, Night Ranger, REO Speedwagon and Stevie Nicks albums.
Perhaps the only thing I didn’t fully understand about the store were these peculiar objects they peddled in addition to albums and chairs made of sticks. They were oddly shaped, glass bottles that resided behind the counter. I found it strange that these vases were in the same location as the “dirty” men’s magazines and something you would embarrassingly have to ask a clerk to get for you.
I never inquired about them, but occasionally thought about getting my Mom one with flowers in it for Mother’s Day. They looked cool; almost like a genie bottle or glass pipe. My brother even had a blue one in his bedroom that he told me never to touch.
Last night I purchased an album on iTunes and it got me to thinking about the old shop again. It’s been years since I’ve visited Utopia. Perhaps its time to pay a visit and see how much has changed in a quarter of a century. Although I’m sure they still sell wicker furniture and cheap incense, I’m fairly certain that new music and concert tickets are no longer being peddled. I guess I’ll find out. And who knows? I might even get up the nerve to finally ask them about the glass pipes behind the counter.
This is a repost from a blog I originally wrote back in August of 2011. Considering that today marks twenty years since my father passed away I thought it was fitting. October 17, 1997 is a day that will live with me forever. If you’ve already read this post before, my apologies. I felt obligated to reflect on the life of my Dad once again. If it’s the first time you’re reading this, it’s a bit long, but stick with it. I hope it gives you some perspective on why life is so precious.
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Me, My Dad and My Brother circa 1995
Where to begin?
There are so many things I remember about my Dad. He was a tough guy. A south paw that everyone else in my family respected. A hard ass at times. Someone you didn’t want to get into a scuffle with.
But beneath all the tough guy exterior, Dad also liked to have fun too. Some of my best memories from childhood were of him taking our family on long camping trips with my other relatives every summer.
I’ve heard more than one person say that having all of us crazy “Wood’s” in one place during the summer was a sure sign of the apocalypse. But there was no fire or brimstone raining down. All we did was play cards, fish, pitch quoits and sit by the campfire.
Of all the times my father and I shared together, there are three moments I’d like to share with you today:
1. The Stop and Think Moment
2. The Drifting Apart Moment
3. The Prodigal Son Moment
The Stop and Think Moment is the one I’ll remember most of all. It began during a rain storm in summer when there was nothing else to do and nowhere to go.
It was late afternoon and I had just come in from playing football outside just prior to the rain. I was upset at having gotten into a fight with one of the neighborhood kids (over what I can’t remember). Dad was sitting alone at the kitchen table drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette.
Our home didn’t have central air conditioning so to keep cool we’d usually keep the windows open just enough to let the breeze in while keeping the water out. We’d also use big portable fans to help vent the kitchen. The smell of the hot asphalt street outside cooling down from the steady stream of rain would fill the room and also allow for the escape of the second-hand smoke.
It was on this occasion that Dad asked his disgruntled son what happened. “So and So threw the ball at my head” or something similar to that I said. And for the next fifteen minutes Dad gave me a lecture on the football, friendship and life. “Stop and Think…”, he’d say. “Did you do anything to bring on this situation?”.
Inevitably, there would have been something I had done to put some of the blame on myself. I’d usually start with a “but…but” and he’d always continue on. Telling me to just “Stop and Think” for a minute.
Stop and think. Do you think that person who thinks he’s so tough and treats you bad is your friend? He couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. (I still laugh to this day about that one).
There were plenty of other “stop and thinks” over the course of the conversation but the one I remember most was the last one he told me:
“Stop and think. Do you know how much your Mother and I love you guys? (referring to me and my siblings).
Those three words stuck with me and eventually I was able to settle down and actually start to think about what had happened. By the time our conversation was over it seemed like my brain was exhausted but I felt better for it.
On certain days now, when the weather is grey and rainy, I’ll sit at my table staring out the window and think of that day in the kitchen. I never forgot “Stop and Think”. Someday I’ll probably write a book about it and dedicate it to him.
The Drifting Apart moment came during the separation and eventual divorce of my parents in the mid 1980’s. By then, alcohol (which has always been the Achilles heel in my family) had estranged me from my father. We spoke many times over the years on the phone and in person but rarely when beer hadn’t influenced him in some way to make conversations short.
My brother and sister would see and talk to him way more frequently then me. They were able to see past the alcohol. I couldn’t. Soon I was off to college and living on my own and the phone calls became less and less frequent. Years would go by where we didn’t speak at all and were lost to each other.
I eventually heard that he had remarried but the next time I would actually see him for any extended length of time would be at my own wedding in 1995. Strangely, it was a bit awkward at first but I remember it being one of the best times of my life. For, in addition to me getting married to the woman I love, it was the first time in years we all got to take pictures as a “family” again.
It’s not that I didn’t love him or anything like that. On the contrary, the love I had for my Dad never changed. The separation was just a result of our going our separate ways and me not being able to deal with him in that condition. Especially when it got to the point where nothing was ever going to change.
The Prodigal Son Moment
I’ll never forget it. It was mid 1996 when I got a call from my Aunt telling me my father was in the hospital. They had found a mass in his colon and were operating on it. The doctors had thought they had caught it in time. And it appeared so. They had instructed him he needed to give up drinking and smoking if he wanted any chance of fully recovering and he agreed to it.
The next 15 months were spent reconnecting with my Dad.Ironically, the one thing I remember most is going to the bar with him and my brother for the first time (myself now also a legal drinker) and watching him play the poker machines and drink non alcoholic beer.
One might assume that a bar would be the LAST place I’d want to take my father to all things considered. And truth be told I really didn’t want to go into the Lion’s Den either. But he was adamant about taking his sons to the bar with him. Maybe it was some kind of rite of passage that made him this way. Or maybe it was to prove to me that he finally had control over his problem. In any event, and after everything he had gone through with his cancer treatment, he wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. So off we went.
Sadly, his condition continued to worsen until he was finally hospitalized in August of 1997. A man who had just celebrated his 51st birthday was now lying in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him and morphine running through his veins.
I visited him almost every chance I could in between my full-time job and duties at home. Some nights we would have conversations when he felt up to it. I longed to have another Stop and Think session but at that point I was willing to take whatever I could get.
Then there was the moment I had as October rolled around and his condition deteriorated. I remember sitting at his bedside while he was going in and out of consciousness, closing my eyes and asking God that if he was going to take him, to please not take him on my birthday. Any day but on the 5th. It was selfish. But at that time I just couldn’t bear the thought of having my date of birth coincide with the day he died. Looking back now, it wouldn’t have even mattered.
Yet someone on high must have heard me because I was able to spend my 28th birthday with him. The best gift I ever received. And over the next ten days it seemed like he was actually coming around a bit. There was reason to hope even though the doctors had all told us he was the sickest person in the entire hospital.
October 17th, 1997 – 10PM. It was just me in the darkened hospital room along with my stepmother. My brother and sister weren’t there. The single light over the bed and digital displays on morphine pumps and heparin drips were the only illumination.
Now I’m no expert on theology but I do believe souls can feel when another soul moves on. For as he began to gasp for breath I could tell the end was near.
At that moment I literally felt the temperature dramatically drop in the room. So much so that I began to shiver. And I’ll go to my own grave feeling this way but I swear, at that very moment, I had this overwhelming feeling that someone (or something) was coming for him.
I remember we told him we loved him and although his eyes seemed to be fixated somewhere else he was able to say that he loved us back. And that was when my father uttered the last word he’d ever speak:
“God”.
Silence.
Tears streamed down my face. A man who never so much as went to church and who, to my knowledge at least, never said a prayer or even read the bible. The last word he ever spoke on this Earth was “God”.
What did he see?
The distance between us and everything that happened in the past was gone. All that mattered was that he was my Dad, and I was there with him at the end.
I sometimes wonder if I would change anything if I was given another chance. I mean, would things have turned out any differently? Probably not.
Cancer has done horrible things to my family. Things I hope no one ever has to go through. But in some odd way, with all the pain and suffering that it brings, there’s one thing I have to actually be grateful to it for.
Without cancer, I probably never would have gotten my father back.
I’ve often thought about the possibility of making a time capsule.
For those who may not know, a time capsule is a container you fill with messages, articles of clothing and knickknacks that represent the current age. Then, you bury the container in the ground for some future society to discover.
My brother, a real handyman who still lives in the same house he and my sister had grown up in, made one of those interesting discoveries the other day while doing some remodeling.
The small, turn of the century colonial we lived in was originally owned by my grandparents and over the years, my brother has done a lot of extensive work to it. He’s torn down walls, installed new floors and fixtures and even put windows where none previously existed. In fact, the only portion of the house he hadn’t really tackled before was the make shift bathroom my father had built that lied on the first floor.
Since it was the only bathroom in the entire home and would be an expensive endeavor, not to mention a huge inconvenience whenever nature called for the next few weeks, he had put off remodeling it. Finally, the circumstances were right and the demolition could begin.
Upon tearing down many layers of paneling he made his discovery and immediately called me. I rushed over.
Lying beneath the torn, weathered particle board was writing. Some of it written by the hand of an adult, and some by the hand of a boy who would one day grow up to write this blog.
As I shined a flashlight up on the wall to get a closer look, it reminded me of what Egyptian archaeologists must have felt like when they discovered an ancient tomb of some long dead pharaoh. Would the scribble indicate what was housed beyond the great wall? Or perhaps there would be a silly warning I had written to future generations not to proceed any further. Nope. There wasn’t even a map leading to the location of my lost Spiderman action figures. Damn! But, what it was turned out to be something even better.
The first thing I had written on the wall read the following:
“Jimmy 7 years old”
Seven was the age I would have been when I wrote it; which would now be thirty-five years ago. Below my name was written the name of my sister Krissy, who was 6 at the time.
I found myself staring at the scribble for the longest time. Touching it. Running my fingers across the letters just to make sure it was real. The memory of writing it, once long-buried by life, had suddenly come back to me, and I remembered every vivid detail about writing it on the wall just before Dad covered it up with paneling.
I could picture the platinum-blonde, seven-year old boy writing his name and age on the wall. Making the most of his third grade education by trying to use proper spelling and pushing his pencil deep into the surface of the wood to make sure the lead was visibly transferred.
Finding something this cool from a general time period is amazing, but being able to pinpoint the exact day that it was written is something even better. Fortunately for me, on an adjacent wall my father had done just that. Below the names of other family members who had been present at the house that night, he had written the exact date the paneling was placed on the wall: “June 9th, 1977”
Now, I’m pretty sure the last thing on Dad’s mind at the time was: “Hey, let’s see what we’ll all be doing thirty-five years from years now when we find this!”, but I really wish he would have been alive for this amazing discovery. I can only imagine the conversations we would have had about it for the remainder of the day.
Next to the date, Dad had written down his name (Louis) along with my mother’s (Joanne) and for some reason, decided to include the date that they were married: “April 2, 1966”.
Sadly, their marriage would not last, but the memory of this project, once long since forgotten is now one I’ll treasure for years to come.
Don’t you wish birthdays as an adult were the same as when you were a child? I have to admit there are times when I really do miss those innocent days of childhood and the buildup and unexpected joy I had as October 5th slowly arrived every year.
We all have events in our lives that are worthy of celebration. The day you graduate high school for example, or the day you get married. Perhaps it’s the day you get a big job promotion or the day you finally pay off the mortgage. But birthdays themselves are way better.
Consider this:
Birthdays are the one day each year where we as a society celebrate the individual. And we don’t inundate social networking websites with salutations, pay for lunches or give a number of spankings equivalent to your age (plus one to grow on) for some milestone achievement that you’ve made.
No, the real reason people blow out candles, consume large quantities of cake, give greeting cards (hopefully with a few greenbacks in them) and freely give presents is just to commemorate the day you arrived on Earth. You’re alive, and that’s reason enough to celebrate.
As a child, I suppose nothing could quite compare to the day you receive the absolute best birthday present. I can still remember mine.
Bear with me now as to the details; it’s been almost thirty years and my memory may not be as sharp as it used to be. I do know that it was October 5th, 1983, and I had just gotten off of the school bus and started my monumental two-block walk home from school. I’m sure there must have been a bit of a chill in the air and the leaves were no doubt falling from the trees in the early October afternoon; but I wouldn’t have noticed. About the only thing I recall from that walk home was the sense of anticipation that was running through my soul.
I walked into the house and quickly spotted my Mom and Grandmother sitting at the kitchen table with the largest wrapped present I had ever seen. The smile on their faces as I walked through the door was infectious. It was almost as if they had been anticipating this moment all day long. I’m sure they had.
As a child, I can not remember a single time that I was more excited. What could possibly be wrapped inside?
“Happy Birthday!!” they both yelled.
When you’re young, the feeling you get after receiving a gift along with a ‘Happy Birthday’ salutation is equivalent to your first kiss. Your heart flutters and for a second, you can’t even breathe due to all the excitement.
I tore open the paper wrapping in earnest, all the while still wondering what could possibly lie beneath. As the last piece of wrapping paper fell to the floor, I recall just standing in awe as the contents were finally revealed. Amidst the torn paper, my family’s glee and my own surprise was the mother load of all presents:
The Atari 2600. Something that at best might be gifted as a Christmas present for the entire family. But, for ME? On my birthday?
Unbelievable.
I know what you’re thinking. Compared to the state of the art, high-tech devices we have today I’d be laughed to scorn by even the youngest of children. But I’ll never forget that day, or the hundreds of others that followed playing games like Haunted House, Combat and Pitfall.
When you’re through laughing please continue reading….
Today, I am celebrating my forty third year of existence on this planet. Although still a child at heart, my role has changed significantly. I wasn’t walking home from school, but was actually coming downstairs to get ready for work. I was immediately greeted by my eleven-year old daughter, who had gotten up extra early and was quick to be the first to yell:
“Happy Birthday Dad!”
What I saw on the counter wasn’t anything equivalent to an Atari 2600 but something that was just as special and once again gave me that same fluttered heart feeling. It was a huge colorful card that she had made herself which, when opened revealed a beautiful butterfly drawing. As I hugged her, the good times I had growing up all came back. I thought about Mom, my Grandmother and the wide-eyed boy who walked into the kitchen thirty years ago.
So tonight, when all 44 candles are lit on my cake (43, plus one to grow on) someone will inevitably ask me to make a wish. At that moment, I’ll remember all of those birthdays that have come and gone and all of the well wishes I’ll have received from friends and family on Facebook. But I don’t think I’ll have a need to wish for an X-Box, a car or even a million dollars.
My wish already came true.
Because just for a moment, I got all of those care free days of youth back. And I’m grateful to be alive for another October 5th.
Wood. It’s been my last name for as long as I can remember. It’s not as common as say a “Smith” or a “Jones”, but I’m sure it’s up somewhere near the top in terms of commonality. The truth is, I’ve really started to grow fond of it. With four letters, it’s an easy name for people to remember. And it also allows for me to be called “Woody”, a really cool nickname.
But I have to admit, growing up and having “Wood” as a last name angered me; especially during my school years. And I think my problem with it actually started way back in second grade.
In class, the teacher made a list of a dozen or so menial tasks for students to do over the course of the school year. Each student would be assigned a task to do every day for several weeks before moving on to the next task in the list. Some of the tasks were rather boring: like watering plants, washing windows and organizing paperwork. Others though were extremely cool: like actually going outside to clap out erasers (we’re talking 1977 here folks).
The nice thing (or so I thought) was that the coolest of the tasks (eraser clapping) was placed at the very top of the list, and I couldn’t wait for my turn. That is until the teacher decided how she was going to dole out the tasks to the students: alphabetically by last name. That meant that “A’s” clapped erasers first, then “B’s”… and so on.
insert heavy sigh here…..
Having already mastered my ABC’s a few grades ago, it didn’t take long to realize that having a “W” in my last name put me at an extreme disadvantage and meant that I would be one of the last kids to get the cool task. So, while some knucklehead whose last name just happened to start with an “A” clapped erasers, I would have to wash windows.
Yep, I was taught early on in life that being a “Wood” put me behind the 8 ball. Oh sure, I eventually got my chance to do the eraser clapping, but instead of remembering how cool it was to go outside and clap erasers for ten minutes, the thing I remember most is having to WAIT almost the entire school year to do it.
The curse of the “W” would continue throughout my school years. Everything from gym class activities to where you sat in Science and English classes became organized and/or assigned by the first letter of a last name. And can you imagine my sorrow when I’d go to class for the first time and notice there was a cute girl whose last name started a dozen or so letters before mine?
Chance of me sitting next to her? ZERO! It’s no wonder why I became an introvert.
I eventually would overcome my loathing of the “Wood” name though, and am now fully content with it. It’s also given me a great deal of respect for those poor souls whose last names start with a “Y” or “Z”.
Now, if I can only get people to stop asking me if I’m related to James Woods the actor.
And when it’s time for leavin’, I hope you’ll understand … That I was born a ramblin’ man… (Allman Brothers)
I suppose it might have been a bit more apropos had I been riding in the backseat of a Greyhound bus when I saw it. But the truth is, I was sitting in the front seat of my 2012 Toyota Corolla on my way home from work.
I was driving over a hill near my home; one that I had ridden over countless times before and there it was, sitting majestically in the late afternoon sun: A rusted out 1964 AMC Rambler.
Now, you’d be hard pressed to find me discussing anything other than a Mustang when it comes to classic cars. I grew up with the pony car. My father, brother, cousins and uncles all owned them, and every Wood from the South Side of Easton to the outskirts of Palmer Township drove them up and down the strip from the late 70’s right to this very day.
But for some reason, seeing the beat up old Rambler sitting on the side of the road brought back the ultimate memory for me. For you see, not only is a Rambler the very first car I ever remember my family owning, it’s also one of my earliest childhood memories.
It was a beat up machine, much like the one that now sat idle on the hillside near my home. I couldn’t even tell you what kind of transmission it had or any of the optional equipment. All I knew was, it was green and a daily driver for my grandfather in the early 1970’s. From the very first day I had memories of my own, I remember him pulling it up along side the house, beeping the horn and asking me to go for a ride with him to the hardware store across town.
As a five-year old boy, the chance to ride shot-gun with your grandfather is an opportunity not to be missed. It was equivalent to the feeling of getting a new toy for Christmas. Time spent together was priceless, and I immediately dropped whatever it was I was doing at the time and hopped in.
I recall the front seat of the car was well-worn and had holes in it. To help keep the springs from coming up and poking us, my grandmother covered the seating area with one of her many summer dresses. I wasn’t the least bit worried that the pattern of the dress didn’t match the rest of the interior. All I cared about was the drive with my grandfather.
That car meant a lot to everyone. So much so that when my grandfather suffered a stroke and could no longer keep it, it was given to my Aunt and Uncle who lived next door. They had three children of their own and over the next several years the Rambler became the car each of them learned how to drive with. As I got older, I began to think of it as an heirloom; a car that would be passed down among all the children and would eventually wind up in my possession.
As it came closer to becoming my turn to take ownership of the green Rambler, the unthinkable happened. My cousin (who was the current owner of the Rambler) broke tradition and instead of passing it down, decided to sell the car instead. The last I ever saw of the little green Rambler was the day the new owner drove away in it. Although I would eventually learn how to drive in my cousin’s 1986 Dodge Colt; a car that was much easier to learn in than one 22 years its senior, it still wasn’t the Rambler.
Much like how the tooth fairy, Easter bunny and Santa Claus all became distant memories for me over time as I got older, so too did the little green Rambler. That was until today. If only for an instant, I was five again and it was wonderful.
As I drove off into the twilight and looked back at the Rambler, now fading into the distance, a smile came across my face. I thought how funny it was that an inanimate object could make me think of some of the best times of my life.
And what I wouldn’t give right now to take another ride with my grandfather in the Rambler.
I still remember some of the oddball things I used to think about while growing up; one of them being the day I was born. I always liked to brag about which celebrities shared the same birthday as me (October 5th).
Among the lucky ones were Larry Fine (The Three Stooges), Michael Andretti (the Indy Car driver) and Brian Johnson (lead vocalist for the band AC/DC). It was as if somehow, me coming into this world on the same day as these icons put me on an different level of cool.
But, the bragging rights I had for my actual birthday couldn’t compare to what I could shout from the rooftops about the year I was born. It was 1969 and I was roughly seventy-five days away from entering this world when Neil Armstrong first stepped foot on the lunar surface and said:
That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.
I’ll never forget the day I discovered that the first man to ever walk on the moon did so in the same year as my birth. For not only was it cool to be born in the same year as that monumental event, but it also made the date easy to remember on high school exams. If I ever needed to know in a pinch just how many years ago it took place, all I had to do was think about how old I was.
Neil Armstrong was a test pilot, an aerospace engineer, a university professor and a United States Naval Aviator. Those achievements alone are enough to inspire everyone, both and old, to reach for their dreams. But there will always be that one thing that Mr. Armstrong did during his lifetime that was the ultimate in cool.
Neil Armstrong was the first person to do something that no one else has ever done in the history of planet Earth. The same moon that Jesus and his Disciples taught under, the celestial body that Shakespeare wrote Sonnets to, the glowing orb that generations of lovers still hold hands and kiss beneath… Neil Armstrong was the first person there.
Now, think about it being near the end of your life and while you’re lying on your death-bed someone comes up and asks you what it was you did with it. What if you could look them in the eye and say, “I walked on the moon!”.
I remember when Jim Henson died back in 1990 it didn’t really affect me. I was, after all twenty years old and having just recently left the confines of public school; eagerly looking forward to getting my “You can now purchase alcohol legally” card.
I was roughly nine years removed from the days of regularly watching Kermit the Frog and Ernie (who was always my favorite Muppet). So, although still tragic, I saw Henson’s untimely passing as something much too childish to think about.
Fast forward 22 years.
Jerry Nelson, another famous Muppeteer, passed away on August 23rd at the age of 78. Although having lived nearly three decades longer than Henson, his death has affected me more. I look at the list of characters he has portrayed over the course of his career; many of whom were a regular part of my life growing up in the 1970’s. Among them:
The Count and Jerry Nelson
The Count: my second favorite Sesame Street character, next to Ernie of course. I loved him. Herry Monster: The one monster that ALWAYS scared me. Must have been that he always looked angry and had that big nose. Sherlock Hemlock: The greatest detective. The Amazing Mumford: Ala peanut butter sandwiches. Mr Johnson: The bald, blue-headed Muppet who always ate at the restaurant Grover worked at. Floyd Pepper: the bass player for the band Electric Mayhem on The Muppet Show.
But perhaps the most sentimental Jerry Nelson character for me was Emmet Otter from the Jug Band Christmas story that played every December on HBO. A story that I will always remember sitting next to my grandmother and watching every year.
Funny, I can still hear her yelling to me from downstairs, and it always sounded like the house was on fire by the tone in her voice:
Emmet Otter and Jerry Nelson
JIMMY!!! HURRY UP AND GET DOWN HERE – EMMET OTTER IS ON!!
Perhaps it’s because I’m now a middle-aged man that I’m starting to become acutely aware of the fact that every day more and more parts of my childhood die. And even though I’ve never met Jerry, it’s hard not to look back at his passing without a sense of sadness. For in many ways, much like The Count and The Amazing Mumford, he was a part of my family.
My grandmother has been gone for 16 years now. Whenever I think about her, the first thing I think about are those cold days in December when Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas came on. And now, I’ll think about Jerry Nelson too.
Godspeed Mr. Nelson. Your work will not soon be forgotten; at least not by this 42-year-old kid.
Sitting down at my computer early in the morning and drinking a cup of coffee is a ritual that I follow religiously. Browsing my habitual news and entertainment websites each morning not only gives me the chance to catch up on what’s currently going on in the world, but this “alone time” also allows me to reflect on what today’s agenda holds for me.
Today, that agenda includes mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, paying bills and maybe, just maybe if time permits, fixing a loose faucet. You know, grown-up stuff.
But this morning, I can’t seem to get myself focused. The news websites and celebrity gossip just doesn’t interest me at all. Rather, I find myself looking at the dozens of Facebook posts and pictures from yesterday’s 25th high school reunion picnic that I attended.
Yesterday. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were all sitting in class together? Each of us spending as much time as possible in our own little clicks: the jocks, the cheerleaders, the geniuses, the geeks, the stoners, the in-betweens. (I’ll leave you to figure out which of these clicks fit me)
As I watched the attendees (my classmates) arriving one by one, it was as if time stopped. People I haven’t seen since the days of Pac Man and Members Only jackets seemed to appear out of no where. Although we are all now long since grown, I found myself feeling more youthful than ever just being around them.
Handshakes and hugs weren’t just a means of saying “Hello”. For me, the feeling behind each was much more than that. Imagine losing something that you valued for a quarter of a century and then suddenly finding it again. That’s what each reunion felt like.
“Do you remember the time….” seemed to be the five words that started many conversations.
I could write a novel on all of the wonderful reunions I made personally (and who knows, maybe some day I will), but for now, let’s just say that we talked a lot about yesterday, where our journeys in life have taken us and what our hopes and dreams are for the future. Each of us had something different and interesting to say and the hours quickly flew by.
At one point during the day, the heaven’s opened up and it began to rain steadily; forcing us all under a pavilion. In retrospect, it was probably the best thing that could have happened, because it drew us all closer together. It literally was the perfect day.
Truth be told though, I was a bit worried only about one thing: I figured at some point during a discussion with a classmate, sooner or later, someone was going to say something to me that would hit a nerve and the joyful emotions inside would make me have to walk away somewhere lest I become a quivering mess right in front of them. Not cool. I came pretty close a few times but was able to hold it together and was beginning to think I’d make it through unscathed.
But as daylight turned into dusk, I noticed a girl, well now a woman, sitting at a picnic bench making small talk with her friends. A person who graduated with me and someone I remember mostly not from high school, but rather from attending third grade elementary school together. A school that was subsequently torn down in 1979 and caused many of us to separate and transfer to other schools for a year.
Her name is Beth and we both took clarinet lessons after school thirty-five years ago. She and I had both spent many an afternoon in the school’s basement together with an ornery teacher who berated us every time we played a note incorrectly. It’s funny how all of these years later, that one particular memory still sticks out in my head.
Beth and I were never “friends” in high school. We were more like two people who might have just said “Hey” to each other in passing on our way to biology class; on a good day. I haven’t seen her at all since graduation and, quite honestly was a bit apprehensive about going up to her. (Someday, I swear I will outgrow this shyness). But, the thought of this being my only chance to ask her about clarinet class was all the incentive I needed. I went over, sat down next to her and we immediately reunited. She remembered me and we quickly caught up on what we’ve been up to.
And then it happened…
“Do you remember when we used to have clarinet class together in elementary school?”, I asked.
“Porter School!!”, she replied. “Yes, I do remember being in clarinet class with you! I loved Porter School.”
Now, I don’t know if it was the emotion of the high school reunion finally hitting me, Beth saying the words “Porter School” or the way she talked about the school we both attended and loved when we were 8 years old that triggered it, but something inside of me at that very moment said: “Prepare for waterworks!” and I soon found myself having to tell her that I’d be right back.
I spent the next few minutes alone in the bathroom composing myself. Of all things, talking about a silly clarinet class at a high school reunion triggered it.
I shouldn’t say “silly” because I was actually glad that it happened. I think we all need to feel emotion like that in our lives to remind us that we’re human.
This week will be interesting. In just a few short days, I’ll be attending my 25th high school reunion.
The last time I was in the company of many of these people, the world was a much different place. Back then, it was all about sneaking out of restricted study hall at lunch to head over to the nearby Burger King.
It was a time when the only thing that really mattered was getting through the week so we could all go hang out at the mall on Friday night, drink Orange Julius and play Dragon’s Lair.
For me, it also included choir trips, endless hours of practice on my black Gibson Explorer guitar, the longing for unattainable love and of course, a heavy dose of hair metal. I’m actually tearing up right now just thinking about it; the hair metal part that is.
But, I’m looking back now, a quarter century later and am feeling pretty good about how I turned out. Especially when you consider what my original goal was.
Back then, my dream was almost laughable: In a “lather, rinse, repeat” cycle all I wanted to do was write music, record and tour. Pretty much in that order. If I had to sleep on the floor in some stinky tour bus on the way to Small Town, USA or pan handle on the streets for money to buy guitar strings I didn’t care. Music was going to be my life. I wanted to be the opening act for Bon Jovi; at least just long enough until he became the opening act for me.
It wasn’t until the day I woke up in my college dorm room; a twenty year old man with literally nothing but the black guitar and $1.37 to my name that I had an epiphany. And thus began my entry into the work force.
Don’t get me wrong, over the years I was still able to live the dream: I was part of several bands that achieved great things; even playing in front of crowds of 6,000 people. But, there are times that I still think about what might have happened if I had stuck to my original vision.
If things had worked out as planned well, you all would have seen me on the cover of Rolling Stone at least a few times by now. I probably would have also “guest starred” on Adele’s Grammy winning album and who knows; it might have been me in the judges panel on American Idol instead of that guy from Aerosmith…what’s his name again?
Anyway, as I’m typing this entry, over to my right; still hanging on the wall is that very guitar. The same one I put all those endless hours on. The one that contains all my feelings and the one constant that reminds me continually of those days and that dream. It’s still as great as ever 25 years later. I think we all are too!
I believe things happen for a reason. And I’m looking forward to hearing how everyone else’s dreams turned out at the reunion.
Utopia (noun): Any real or imaginary society, place, or state considered to be perfect or ideal.
go.Jimmy.go 