Category: Life

Life

How I Got Out Of Mowing The Lawn

So yesterday I’m sitting down in the basement watching a MASH marathon. Something I don’t get to do too often since the show went off the air thirty years ago and is now on television in syndication only rarely.

And before you go and say anything about why I don’t just go and get the complete collection on DVD or streaming it someplace let me spare you the trouble.

Having every episode on some disk sitting around to play whenever I want is NOTHING compared to the euphoria you get when flipping through the channels and finding your favorite show on. Because when it comes my faves, I still get giddy when I turn on the television and there it is. Oh, and I also like the randomness of not knowing which episode it is too. Don’t judge.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes…. So there I was watching Hawkeye and BJ putting shaving cream on Frank Burn’s face for about the five billionth time when in walks my miffed significant other.  I know she can see the happiness in my eyes watching my boys from the four-oh-double-seven.  She is fully aware of my love for the show. I’m eating nachos and enjoying the good life of reliving the Korean War through the eyes of guys named Trapper, Radar and Klinger.  I am in my happy place. She none the less isn’t so amused.

Apparently, there is a jungle growing out in the yard. A runaway lawn has gotten too out of control and must be addressed. For me, such things do not take precedence over watching Klinger dressing like a woman and trying to eat a Jeep to get out of the army.

She had been wanting me to cut it for the longest time. I said I was going to, but that was before I stumbled upon MASH.  She didn’t say a word though. Just stood there. Staring at me.

So after the stare down has gotten to be too much I did something I rarely do. Please forgive me Colonel Potter….

I put the TV on mute.

That’s right, turned off the sound to one of my all time favorite television shows. There was another ten or fifteen second  moment of silence. The tension in the air was so strong you could cut it with a knife.  Then finally, she spoke.

“You know, you are wasting your life away watching a show that you’ve seen a thousand times already…”

Again, more silence.

I slowly took another bite out of my nacho. The beef and cheesy combination only reminded me that I needed to get back to Korea as soon as possible. So after washing it down with some cold beer,  I cleared my throat and responded with the following:

Honey? I did some research. The average person spends approximately 8-10 minutes every day going to the bathroom (both number one and number two). Mind you, the time could increase depending upon many factors such as drunken nights or eating bad Chinese but let’s just use “ten” as a baseline. This includes the act itself and assuming you use proper hygiene methods afterwards. That equates out to more or less an hour a week.

I multiplied that by 52 and got 52 hours for a year. Follow me? Then I multiplied that again by 75 for the years of an average life span. (I didn’t tell her, but I would have subtracted some time for those early years where we all have incontinence issues and Mom and Dad had to take care of hygiene. But I didn’t want to make this issue too complicated).

Finally, I divided this number by 24 for hours in a day.

Do you know what I discovered Sweetheart? The average person spends almost a full half-year of their entire life either taking a leak or dropping a deuce. Yep, each one of us will spend 6 months of our lives locked in the toilet. Amazing isn’t it? What a waste of time (pun intended).

Now I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather spend that time watching MASH then sitting on the pot. Wouldn’t you agree?

Silence.

She shook her head and walked away. I raised my bottle of beer and gave myself a toast. Looks like the grass will have to wait. At least until MASH is over.

Oooh…King Kong Vs. Godzilla is coming on next…sorry Honey!

1980's, Childhood Memories, Life

Dear Diary: May 13, 1987

I am so grateful to have kept my journal from high school. It gives me the opportunity to look back now thirty years later and see just how far I’ve come.

I’ll be the first to admit, a lot of it is rambling on and on about music, girls and homework but sometimes I said some of the most profound things. Not bad for a seventeen year old.

Case in point: This entry from 30 years ago. I was a member of the Concert Choir in high school during my senior year and quite honestly it’s the best memory I have. I loved it so much that when the director of the choir retired from the school district a few years ago and became the director of an adult choir I immediately brushed up on my Bass II vocals and joined without question.

But back to the story: On May 13th, 1987 my high school choir performed its annual Spring Concert. It was a night of firsts and lasts. It would be the first time I ever performed on stage as a guitarist. It would also be the last time I’d be singing with the amazing people I spent nearly thirteen years of my life with.

I still remember standing in the hallway behind the auditorium when it was all over just letting everything sink in. Receiving high-fives and handshakes from kids, excuse me… “Seniors”… many of whom I only knew from yearbook photos and who wanted nothing to do with me during my entire school career. Sadly, the feeling was mutual.

And yet suddenly, a truly amazing thing happened. The ignorance of  high-school “clicks” was gone and everybody (yes, everybody) suddenly became “cool”. I guess it was because we all knew that in less than a month we’d be saying goodbye for the last time.

It was one of the last true moments of greatness in high school and my youth. This is what I wrote the next day:

5/14/87

Dear Diary: Last night was my first time EVER playing to an audience on stage. I was really scared as the moment approached but they, friends comforted me (in more ways than one).

I tried like hell to psyche myself up but it didn’t work until the curtain opened. Then I WANTED it and I really let loose!

Afterwards, the G- string on my guitar broke (3rd string). I was so grateful it didn’t happen during the concert.

I threw picks into the audience and don’t know what became of them. Maybe somebody’s home with it – happy. That’s what I hope. I hope I made people happy.

That’s what music is all about. It’s not money, sex, drugs, long nights – although all of that somehow seems to go with it. Music has one purpose: To make people emotional.

We did that last night.

I laugh when I think about my rock-star mentality that night. I mean, who in their right mind would ever play a menacing black guitar on stage for “Flashdance” and then jump back in to the choir to sing Aus Justi?

I remember there was one thing I was especially excited about as I put pen to paper the next day. I couldn’t wait to write the line “in more ways than one”.

You see, that night was also the first time a boy five months shy of becoming eligible for Selective Service actually received a kiss on the cheek by a female that was not his Mom or Grandmother. Keeping my journal over the course of the year, I would NEVER have gone so far as to write anything about my interaction with girls. Mainly due to my fear of the journal winding up in the wrong hands. But on that day I didn’t care. And as I read this awesome entry again the words on the now tattered yellow pages began to sink in.

Not only did we make great music that night but I think I became more confident in myself as a person.

Childhood Memories, Life

Teacher Teacher

Most of us wanted our school years to just fly by. Every day of school was just another day closer to the weekend and doing whatever we wanted to do. At the time, most of us never really thought about the real impact school and teachers would have on our lives.

Bring out the way back machine Sherman and set it to the years 1984-1987……

I’m in high school again. You know, those crazy years we all went through. Like walking down the halls in Jordache jeans while Spandau Ballet blared over the loud speakers, carrying books covered by paper grocery bags (a requirement back then and before plastic bags became ALL the rage). Ok, its “True”, I made up the part about Spandau Ballet.

In all of my schooling I can’t remember much about what was learned or very much about my teachers. Although my friend Michele has the uncanny ability to recall exactly WHERE I was sitting in history class in proportion to her location. We’ll have to talk about this at the next reunion. I have a lot of questions that need answering.

Anyway, although I can’t recall much I do remember three teachers during my tenure there that really impacted me the most: Mr. Siddons, Mr. Fox and Mr. Milisits. I won’t even bother to give their first names because to me, respectively, that’s who they will forever be known as.

Mr. Siddons was my tenth grade history teacher. His father was one of the last of the old school door to door sales people who had sold insurance to my grandparents. He was also my brother’s history teacher two years earlier. So there’s sort of a familial relationship there too.

Mr. Siddons was probably the most benign person you’d ever meet. He had a soft tone and rarely yelled. But the one trait he had that I’ll never forget was the ability to tell the lamest jokes. You know the ones I mean, something like: “Why did the chicken cross the road? Because He had to go the bathroom”. And he’d always give out a “Mr. Siddons” laugh. Nothing outrageous or anything. He would just kind of chuckle to himself. You could tell he must have been up all night thinking about it. How he’d deliver it and the kids would go crazy.

At first his shtick didn’t go over too well with me. But by the end of the first month of class I actually looked forward to the little gems he’d throw out. Even though most all were met with crickets (and he must have felt like the size of an ant in a room full of elephants) he never let it get to him. He’d always chuckle, wipe his mouth and seque with “Ok, let’s take a look at the Gulf of Tonkin”….

Strangely enough, every day after having learned about Tonkin, the Volstead Act or some war to end all wars I remember giggling to myself reciting a joke over and over in my head as I walked out of the room. Surely, a joke I would never utter to anyone else. Maybe that was really his shtick. To get me to try to remember them.

During my junior and senior years I rarely got down to the part of the school where Mr. Siddons and others of his “ilk” resided. But on the occasion that I did or saw him in the hall he would always say “Hi” to me and call me by name. He always remembered me. And I’d never forget him.

Let’s transfer over to Mr. Fox in the Art department. A short, grey bearded man with a limp. Mr. Fox had suffered from polio as a child and as a result he walked a bit strangely. Sadly, I’m sure he was the butt of many jokes from cruel students but I think by this point in his life he was immune to all.

Art class was a means of escape for me. I loved to draw and became an affection ado for Bob Ross. I could watch that dude for hours paint a happy little tree. And while we never painted those trees in Mr. Fox’s class it was still a way for me to forget about all the problems of the day.

We all knew Mr. Fox must have been an artist himself. And one day we found out what he loved to do. We came into class to see these miniature models of a circus that he had constructed himself. Everything he painstakingly made from scratch with his own two hands. You could see the pride in his eyes. This guy was GOOD.

But the one day that really stands out for me was when we were drawing the human figure. We’d have students go up and just stand there while the rest of us drew. I could always draw the body (even cool detail on their Converse sneakers with rainbow shoe laces) but never the face. It never came out right. I spent a long time on it and it just wasn’t happening. He must have seen my frustration because at one point he came over and sat across from me. It was just me and him…face to face.

He looked at my piece and was impressed. Then he asked me why I was so frustrated. I told him it was because as hard as I tried I could never get the face to be anywhere close to being right. So he took a piece of paper and started doodling…all the while looking at me and just saying things like “You know, if you really want something and try hard enough, you can make it happen”.

For those thirty seconds or so I was more doubtful than ever…”Yeah, right” I thought to myself. Then he stood up and told me “Keep up the good work Jim”, and passed me the paper he was doodling on.

As he walked away I picked up the paper and looked at it. The old guy with the limp had just drawn a picture of my face. One where even the subject (in this case, yours truly)  would say “That looks just like ME”….he did that in thirty seconds of just scribble.

Finally, we move on to the music department, my personal favorite. I could write a novel on my exploits here (including the day I officially became a ROCK STAR opening for Clay Aiken) but we’ll save that for another time. Suffice to say, I credit most of my music “success” to the days of high school music theory and choir.

Mr. Milisits (or “M” as he is known) would conduct the huge high school choir. One that won many awards over the years. I’m sure for many; choir was like art class was for me. Just a way to get out of taking another boring subject. But that soon changed. Somehow, he would take a group of kids and make them WANT to sing.

He would always tell us inspirational things to keep pushing us. Quotes like “You can do this”, “A new mistake shows progress” and “Talk to me” resonated with everyone. He just had “something” that made you want to work hard.

During my senior year, it was his teaching that made me want to play guitar in jazz band and the school play. Now, to get a metal head that wanted nothing to do with ANY after school activity and would spend most of his free time jamming to Bon Jovi and Def Leppard to perform “Leader of the Pack” is really saying something.  That M’s got some strong kung-fu.

When it came time to perform, be it at school or somewhere in Canada, it was really like “rock star” night for the choir. And well, I even got to play that black heavy metal guitar during our spring concert. One that hangs on the wall in my office right to this day that I still play.

I could bore you for hours on how M’s classes changed me but let me just end by saying those classes are the best memories I have from high school.

A few years ago I had the opportunity to rejoin “M” and a few other alumni as he is now the director of the Lehigh Saengerbund Chorus.We’re preparing to perform at Allentown Symphony Hall in early June, twenty-five years after I last sat with him in high school concert choir.

As I sit in rehearsals now there’s no wayback back machine required. It’s like re-living a part of all the best days of being in school again. That old feeling of “you can do it” and “new mistakes show progress” are back.

And it’s all good.

Life

Dear Jim Letter

It was a rainy Saturday morning and very apropos if you ask me. I awoke very early to the sound of thunder and could sleep no longer.

As I stumbled down the stairs listening to the rain pound on the rooftop the grumpiness I once had for the Sandman’s lack of personal attention slowly began to subside.

You see, the routine I have every Saturday morning is simple and never changes. I like to sit on my nice comfy couch, drink coffee and read the morning newspaper. My wife and daughter would still be asleep and there’d be no television or phone calls. Just peace and quiet. Caffeine and news print. This was definitely “ME” time.

And the idea that I was awake even earlier than usual only reinforced my joy. I knew that now I’d have even more quiet time alone then usual. So all I could think about was getting the old Keurig fired up, grabbing the newspaper and curling up on the couch. The fact that I could also listen to an early summer rainstorm in the background was a bonus.

The kitchen seemed darker than usual this morning. Natural light had just begun to fill the room and I could see the rain pounding the outside window above the sink. The sound of the refrigerator turning itself on was comforting. But that’s when I noticed something was missing from the nearby family room.

The big comfy couch.

The one that I spend my Saturday mornings reading newspapers and drinking coffee upon was gone. Surprisingly, all of the end tables and lamps were still in their places. Even my beloved 50″ flat screen television that was my portal to Hollywood and grid iron games was still mounted on the wall untouched. Only the couch was gone.

My heart sank as I thought immediately that my home had been robbed overnight. I thought of all the things that would be missing and all of the horrible things that might have been done to my family while we slept.

I reached for the phone to dial the police but noticed a simple white letter lying on the kitchen table. The hand writing on it was one that I didn’t recognize. Too neat to be my daughter and not in the style of my wife.

Something told me to pick it up and read it. The paper was white and crisp and the ink on the page barely dry. I’ll read it to you now verbatim:

Dearest Jim,

I know this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be done. Writing like this. But it’s the only option I have left. I’ve put up with a lot these past few years and I am left with nothing but tears.

Being with you has been wonderful at times. You’ve taught me so much and for that I will always be grateful.

But the time has come to say goodbye. We’re simply not meant to be together.

I’ll always cherish the way you’d leave crumbs from your sandwiches and popcorn lying in my cushions. The long naps we’d take together. The laughs we’d share when you’d “accidentally” break wind on me. But most of all, I’ll remember our Saturdays together.

Sadly though, you have your ways and I have mine. Nothing in the middle seems to make sense.

I do still love you. But the pain that lies beneath the happiness has become more than I can take. We are too good to settle for something that will just never be.

I wish you everything good life has to offer and a happiness that will endure.

Goodbye,

Couch

A tear came to my eye and there was a feeling of emptiness in my heart. I won’t sugar coat it.  I’m the first to admit that I’m not perfect. And I’ve had plenty of relationships end badly before. I can’t remember if I’ve ever received a “Dear Jim” letter before but there is one thing I do know. I’ve never been dumped by a couch. Ever.

As the Keurig finished brewing I took in a deep breath and blew it out. Rain continued to pound on the roof and for a moment I felt like dashing out and finding my beloved. In the end though I realized I had to just let it go and move on.

I dragged a chair from the kitchen table to where the couch used to be and sat down. The coffee didn’t taste as good as it normally does. I only hope this isn’t a sign of the way Saturday mornings were now going to be.

Life

Today Was A Good Day

I took a drive over to the South Side of Easton today. A place where I had spent the first twenty years of my life. An area that no matter where life takes me will always be “home” to me.

It was a beautiful Spring day. The sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Nothing but a deep shade of blue as far as the eye could see. I got off the highway exit and onto South Side proper a man on a mission.

With windows rolled down and the 80’s on 8 station blaring “I Can’t Hold Back” from Survivor it may have seemed a bit apropos but all things considered I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I pulled into the parking lot of the local pizza shop named Pino’s. One of the last true remaining food joints in South Side.

Growing up in the late 70’s and early 80’s we had places like Barney’s and Hucks for cheese steaks, Lucy’s for penny candy and Brother Brights Soul Food Store for the more acquired taste. Sadly, the proprietors of those establishments have long since gone on to their great reward. The only one that still remains a fixture of South Easton is Pino’s Pizza.

The shop has been called “Pino’s” for as long as I can remember and is still the only place in the area where you can get a real pizza that isn’t from one of those faux pizza places like Dominos or Papa Johns.

Pino’s sits as part of strip mall next to a grocery store. A place where as a child you would grab a slice while waiting for your parents to finish grocery shopping, which I did on numerous occasions.

Over the course of my lifetime its gone through several owners and at least three remodels but as far as I’m concerned, as long as it keeps the Pino’s name and location it will forever be associated with me.

As I got out of my car and made my way to the door I could hear off in the distance the sound of lawn mowers humming along at the housing development nearby. The sound of which reminded me of all the spring days I spent as a teenager covered in grass and gasoline mowing lawns while accumulating money to grab a slice and a Coke at Pino’s.

I walked inside and saw two people who, like me are synonymous with South Side. We’ve been friends since elementary school and try to get together every so often just to catch up. And of course, our rendezvous point is Pino’s. Oh sure, we chat regularly via email and the social networks but there’s just something about being face to face in a familiar place that’s nostalgic. Especially a place where you spent your own childhood.

It amazes me just thinking about how the three of us have all grown up and now lead lives of our own and how, as we discuss the current events in each of our busy lives the conversation always turns to how much we love Pino’s. We all have the same common bond with the place that each of us ate lunch and had late night pizza binges at dozens of years ago.

After we had said our goodbyes and made a promise to get together again soon I decided to drive past the old laundromat that stands not too far from Pino’s. It too is a place that I spent plenty of hours in growing up playing video games while waiting for my Mom and Grandmother to finish drying our clothes.

I peered inside and could smell the familiar fragrance of detergent and fabric softener as the clothes were drying. I thought to myself that one day I’m going to have to go in there again just for old times sake.

I suppose it would have to be at a time when it wasn’t so crowded though. I don’t think it would look right if someone were to see a forty-year old man tearing up inside of a laundromat.

Needless to say, a smile came across my face as I turned up the radio and headed for home. “Our House” by Madness blared through the speakers and my smile turned into a laugh. I love the 80’s.

Every day I am constantly reminded how blessed I am to just be alive and still be able to spend days with good friends at Pinos.

1980's, Life

Sick Days

Ever have one of those days where you get up in the morning and just feel like calling in sick? Today is one of those days.

Unfortunately, I don’t get “sick days” at my job. Any time off used must be taken in vacation days so a spur of the moment “I don’t feel like going in” day just isn’t worth it.

Why can’t sick days be like they were when I was in school?

When I got “sick” on a school day (which, strangely seemed to always happen the day of a big test) my grandmother (Nan) was always there to nurse me back to “health”.

The kitchen would be filled with the smell of chicken soup (her cure for what ails ya) and I would always plead with her to give me a dose of St. Joseph’s Cough Medicine. My  “illnesses” almost always came with a cough and luckily the medicine had a grape flavor.

But of the dozen or so sick days I took over the course of my school career there are two things I remember most from spending those days with her.

1. The Cash Line: A local AM radio station that played oldies music ran this promotion for years in the early 1980’s. They would start with $100 and at the top of every hour during the work day would randomly look up someone in the phone book from the local area and call them.

When someone answered the phone they would ask that person if they knew the amount of money in the “Cash Line”. If the person got the amount correctly he or she would win that amount. If they didn’t know the answer, the station would add increments to it and continue the contest until someone won. Then they’d start it all over again.

Nan religiously followed this contest for several years. She kept a little notepad near the radio and methodically keep track of every dollar amount. She was SURE they were going to call her one day and she’d win $150 or some other small amount of money.

So, while I got to listen to Dean Martin and old Motown hits all day long I’d watch Nan come running over every time she heard the little promo that they were about to call someone. “Get off the phone!” she’d yell to anyone who dared make a phone call at the top of the hour. “The Cash Line is on!”

The other thing that was always big in my house on sick days for me was watching “The Price is Right” with her from 11 am – noon. There’s something to be said for lying on the couch under a blanket while Bob Barker had people “Come On Down!” And if by some chance they had a $20,000 sports car and a double showcase winner it was the greatest thing ever.

I almost had Nan give me a high-five the one time someone won them both but thought better of it. Surely the jig would be up and she’d send me back to the confines of Easton Area High School.

Eventually though, usually by the end of the school day, I’d recover from the mysterious malady that had afflicted me and be well enough to go back to school. And while I sat in the classroom the next day I’d often wonder if Nan had won the Cash Line (she never did) and if she’d tell me someone had won both showcases when I got home.

You know the old saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got until its gone?” This is one of those moments. I miss them.

Sure I could stay home and still watch the Price is Right (albeit without Bob Barker). And I could make myself some chicken soup. But there’s no Cash Line anymore and sadly, my Grandmother has also gone on to better things.

<Sigh!> Looking up at the clock and it’s time to hit the road. Another day of work lies ahead.

Life

My Weekend At Best Buy

The day finally arrived. My wife and I had been so good at paying our bills in a timely manner and living within our means for years that the opportunity finally presented itself.

The chance to make the last mortgage or car payment you ask?

I wish.

No, because of our hard work we were finally able to upgrade the 32″ gigantic tube television that has been sitting in our living room for ten years with a new state of the art high-definition model. Strangely, the television we were looking at (a 51″ plasma) was actually $200 cheaper than what we had paid for the now ancient 32″ model we currently own. You’ve gotta love technology.

An excursion to our local Best Buy was in order and so Saturday night, off we went.

Upon arriving at the store we stared in awe at the enormity and clarity of the televisions that adorned the back wall. LCD, LED, Plasma, Smart TV’s, man this place had them all. I even saw a 75″ unit mounted on the wall with deluxe surround sound. “Wow, Ultraman would sure look good on THAT”, I thought to myself.

The model we were looking at was a 51″ Samsung plasma unit that would not only be an excellent replacement for the old tube model we had but would also look awesome mounted above our fireplace. It seems like hanging a television above the mantel is all the rage these days and who am I to argue?

As is almost always the case when I purchase a big ticketed item, when the Best Buy employee checked his inventory he quickly determined that the model we wanted was not in stock. Fortunately though, there was one available at another store 20 miles away that we could go pick up. Although the hour was late we decided to make the purchase anyway with the intention of going to the other store first thing in the morning.

The next day I got a late start, as is typical for a Sunday, and didn’t get moving until well into the afternoon. I drove the twenty miles to retrieve our new television. It was all boxed up and fit perfectly in my car. The sales associate had informed me to travel with it in an upright position and not flat so I took the necessary steps to ensure this was done.

After arriving home we quickly began dismantling the old beast of a television that had sat there since the turn of the century. Cables and dust flew everywhere but I didn’t mind. The thrill of actually seeing something in high-definition made any mess made well worth it.

Having cleaned up the area we began to un-box the 51″ Samsung Plasma. I started peeling off all of the sticky plastic stuff surrounding the unit and that’s when I noticed something…..

Uh oh.

There seemed to be a scratch on the screen. At first I thought it might have been the way the plastic covering was stretching but as we pulled the television out of the box more my worst fear was confirmed. It wasn’t a scratch at all. Half of the screen was cracked. It looked as if it had been hit by a baseball.

So in addition to having a 51″ television that’s useless I also now have a 32″ disassembled boulder sitting on my living room floor with DVD’s and cables lying all over the place. But come hell or high water there was no way I was putting the old TV system back together. This busted plasma was going back for something else… TODAY!

I packed up the unit as best (haha “best”, get it?) I could, made my way out into the cold winter’s night and took it back to the store nearest my home. The salesman sure got a good laugh at my expense. Apparently, he had never seen a plasma busted like that. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

Ironically, it was at this point that fate stepped in.

There happened to be an LG plasma television sitting boxed up right next to the counter where the sales guy had been chuckling at my misfortune. This model by coincidence had just gone on sale and was actually $20 cheaper than the one that had originally given me angina.

Much to the chagrin of the store clerk, before purchasing it I made certain we opened the box first and took a peek inside. I just wanted to make sure that Babe Ruth didn’t use this one for target practice too. No cracks….SOLD!

This morning, in addition to having a new 50″ plasma television sitting in my living room there’s an extra $20 in my wallet for about ten Grande Starbucks. And Ultraman never looked so good. Thanks Best Buy!

So… anyone interested in a humongous 32″ tee-vee?

Childhood Memories, Life

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

I remember a song we used to sing in kindergarten at Porter Elementary School. It was in my afternoon class and every so often Mrs. Rapp would gather a gaggle of us five-year olds together around this lime green, out of tune upright piano.

We had just finished eating our vanilla wafer cookies and half pint cartons of milk and were settling in to a nice sugar coma when she would begin to play a little diddy that went something like this:

“♫ What do you want to be when you grow up? What do you want to beeeeeeeee?”♫…

Then she’d go around the class and ask us to yell out what we wanted to be. I was confused. To a five-year old being a grown up felt like a million years away and even then I knew that I’d probably change my mind about it at least a million times before it actually arrived.

But as my turn approached my confusion turned into stress. I always wanted to say something cool that wasn’t the typical fireman, doctor or astronaut that everyone else in the gaggle was saying. And it certainly wouldn’t look right to be a copy-cat of someone else. But in the end I chose the fireman and to this day still don’t really know why (maybe it was the cool red truck).

What do I want to be?

One of the earliest things I remember was wanting to be Spiderman when I grew up. I wasn’t too keen on getting bit by a radioactive spider mind you, but a kid’s gotta do what a kid’s gotta do.

You can even ask my brother if you don’t believe me. He caught me many a time climbing the walls in my sleep yelling out that I was indeed the wall crawler. And on warm summer mornings after a rain storm I remember walking past spider webs shimmering  in the sunlight off of my front porch and saying to myself: “someday…..someday”.

I think the superhero theme was something I always aspired to be. I was very introverted growing up and some how could relate with those guys having a “secret”. Maybe it was the feeling of being able to put a mask on and suddenly become someone larger than life. Someone people admired.

That’s who I wanted to be…then.

Over the years I’ve gone through phases of who I want to be. A fireman, a doctor, a rock star, an electrician, an actor. Strangely, I wound up being a Clinical Systems Analyst (something that looking back would have floored Mrs. Rapp if I had told her) but in many ways I’ve been all of the other occupations at one point or another:

– I was a fireman who put out the ultimate pierogie fire that you can read about in a previous blog.

– I’m a physician whenever my daughter trips and falls on the sidewalk.

– I’ve been a rock star (albeit not professional, yet) for perish the thought, 25 years now.

– I can change a light bulb and swap out a light fixture with the best of them.

– I’m a great actor. Just ask me when a user calls me at work because they keep locking themselves out of their computer.  I play the role of “Happy, Helpful Jim” to a tee.

I may not have become Spiderman but I think it’s safe to say that in some ways I’ve even achieved being a superhero too. I can see it in my daughter’s eyes with simple things like when I’m helping her with her homework or when she watches me teach the dog how to sit and shake hands.

But I don’t think I’m finished. I’ve been wanting to be a writer for quite a while too. Oh sure, I’ve gotten a letter written to a fictional vampire published in Dynamite magazine at age eleven. And I’ve also been featured in the Letters to the Editor in a Conan the Barbarian comic book. But I want more. And I think everyone feels that way because there’s just an endless amount of things to experience. There’s nothing we can’t do. The sky is the limit as they say and there’s always some thing else to “be”.

So if Mrs. Rapp gathered me around that lime green out of tune piano right now and asked me the question again, I’d probably still be confused. But this time I think I’d have to tell her the truth –  that I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Childhood Memories, Life, Summer

Young As I Want To Be

A re-post from last Summer. Sort of fits my mood today…

I can now say that I’ve officially heard it and crossed over. Yesterday I metamorphosed into that dreaded three-letter word: OLD.

I have to admit I’ve never thought of myself as that word. THAT word is reserved for people much more advanced in age then I am. People who grew up listening to Peter, Paul and Mary. Ones whose parents used to give them enemas at the slightest fever or notion that the child’s bowel habits weren’t normal. Not for someone as cool, and young, as me.

I still do most of the same stuff I did as a child. I play guitar, love to read the box while eating bowls of Count Chocula and Cap’n Crunch, watch Ultraman and Godzilla movies, mow the grass and take out the garbage. Heck, I’m still fourteen years old if you really want to know. All that’s missing is some more hair on my head and the loss of the forty pounds or so I’ve gained. Ok, so I have to do my own laundry now, go to work every day, make my bed without being told and fix things around the house when they break but that shouldn’t put me in the elderly category should it?

And I confess, when I look in the mirror there’s now some gray in the beard but that’s been there for years and no one has ever said a word about it. Plus I’ve done a pretty good job at covering it up. Just for Men is working just fine thank you very much.

Anyway where was I? Oh yes, the cross over to becoming so-called “old”. I was at my daughter’s softball league end of year celebration yesterday. The girls all enjoyed a final round of ten-year old camaraderie, along with a side of pizza and then walked with their parents over to the local ice cream stand for a sugar rush farewell.

I’ve been good with watching what I eat so I declined the ice cream and just sat down at one of the tables while the other girls and their parents stood in line. For some reason, eating a lot of that stuff now makes me gain weight and I can’t figure out why. It never used to do that. Regardless, I did enjoy watching the girls giggling with each other and discussing the season while vanilla ice cream ran down their arms. Early summer fun at it’s finest.

At one point, I noticed a familiar woman standing in line with her daughter as well. Someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was a girl I went to school with so I went over to say hello.

It was fun catching up with her in the short time we were there. We laughed discussing what all of our classmates were doing now and the lives they were leading. “Wasn’t it just yesterday we were all in science class together?” I thought. “Yes, it must have been”. But then I did the unthinkable. I asked her if she could believe that next year was going to be our 25th class reunion and in retrospect, I think that’s what was the precursor to what happened next.

After sitting back down with my daughter at the table she quickly made a public service announcement. “All team members sit at this table!” she proclaimed. At which point, a gaggle of girls started sitting down at the table with us. It sure felt great to be enjoying a moment with my baby girl and her teammates. Apparently though, one of the girls thought something was out-of-place at the table.

The little whipper snapper pointed to another table where parents were sitting, looked at me and snidley said: “This table is for the girls, THAT table over there is for the OLD people”.  I quickly tried to think of something to say, a witty comeback perhaps. Sadly, all I could muster was “Hey, I’m not old YOU’RE old!!” But all that did was cause the rest of the girls to jump to her defense. You’ve got to love the way teammates stick up for each other.

Eventually, and after much resistance, I slowly got up and walked over to the other men and women who were more close to my height ( I refuse to say “age”).  And do not for a minute think that me leaving the table is an admission that I am actually “old” because I’m not. The fact is, I could have battled those girls all night. I just didn’t want to make them look bad in front of their parents. No, in my mind, I’m still as young as I want to be. No matter what any ten-year old thinks.

On the drive home, and while she was looking out the window, I got even with my daughter for the comment about team members sitting at the table. I stuck my index finger in my mouth, moistened it and then reached over and gave her the wet willy. “DAD!! KNOCK IT OFF!”, she screamed as I laughed out loud.

There I go again, being childish.

Childhood Memories, Life

Go Fishing

Good weekend. Have you ever gotten lucky enough to spend time on the water? Yeah, fishing. Sometimes it’s not about the fishing it’s about that talk and the people. When it’s deep enough it is life long. Go fishing.

~ Frankie Sullivan

I read that post today and it conjured up memories of a time long past for me.  Carefree days of youth that up until this very moment I had recessed deeply in my mind. Fishing was never something I was very into doing. Quite frankly, it’s something I haven’t done in a quite a long time and after today, I’m beginning to wonder why that’s been the case.

Not too far from my home runs the Bushkill Creek, once a popular water way for local fishermen and one that was also well-loved by most children who grew up during the early 1980’s. The coolness factor of the creek for kids was actually two-fold: for not only did the flowing waters of the creek run adjacent to the Crayola Crayon factory but its waters also ran next to a hundred year old amusement park, now long since closed, but one that my family visited religiously every summer while I was growing up.

On many weekends during those same warm summer days, days when “back to school” was not even a blip on the radar, my father would gather the rod and tackle box, hustle me into our ’77 Malibu and take me fishing at the Bushkill Creek.

Making our way down the hillside towards the creek with my pole dangling back and forth was exhilarating. The challenge that awaited: casting a piece of string with bait attached into the water and waiting. Waiting for a strike.

To a ten-year old boy there simply was nothing that compared to the opportunity of catching a trout in front of your father. It was better than coming home with an “A” on a test or hitting a home-run in Little League. I surmise it’s the same feeling you get while watching the announcement of Power Ball numbers on television. The build-up of excitement you get as each number called matches the one on your ticket. The opportunity you sometimes get of only needing one more number to win the jackpot. In reality though, fish or no fish, just being there with my father was like winning the lottery.

If I think back hard enough I can still picture the mist rising off of the creek and feel the warm breeze on my face. There really is something to be said for being next to a body of water. Most of the time, if we were lucky, there would not be another soul around either. It would just be me and my father alone. Not far from our house but still one with nature.

Silence was golden during our trips to the creek too. The fish required it and we were happy to oblige. But there’s also a certain “language” used between fishermen that only they can understand. Anticipating what each one is doing and assisting as necessary. So while I quietly opened the tackle box, my father, without saying a word, would begin adjusting our poles for proper casting. The only sounds made was the squeal of the reel and the “plop” of bait into sea. At this point, we’d both sit on the ground and then…silence.

Silence.

At a certain point during our time together I’d find myself shuffling closer to my father with my legs dangling over the edge of the creek. I wasn’t really sure why I did it. As a child, perhaps it was because I assumed that by doing so some of his “grown-up” fishing magic would rub off on me. But in retrospect and with my own wisdom of years I now know that it was simply the need to just to be closer to him.

After a few unsuccessful hours we’d begin packing up our gear. My father would pat me on the back and we’d make our way empty-handed back up the hill and steer off towards home. On the drive home, and with the sun beginning to set on another perfect day, we’d make a pact with each other to try again the following weekend. Only this time with success.

You know, in all of the fishing expeditions my father and I took together to the Bushkill Creek I don’t ever recall getting anything more than a single bite or two. And I don’t think I personally ever actually caught a single fish either.

Instead, I caught something even better.

Thanks Frankie.