Nevertheless

There are a couple of stories I've told over and over again to the point that I can't remember who I told or when. Usually, it's my kids who tell me that it's the third time I've repeated it. Anyway, this is one I tell frequently.

 

At one of the radio stations I worked at in Vermont, I was given the task of cleaning out some old shelves of records in a hallway you had to walk through between the business offices and the recording studio where we produced commercials off air. The contents of the shelves was to become trash, but there were a couple of old albums I saved -- one was a Nat King Cole collection, the other was the Mills Brothers.

 

I read someplace recently that the Mills Brothers records were the kind of thing that young people listen to when they're high and then say, "Wow, those guys really knew what they were doing," or something like that. Anyway, I used to do that... a lot.

 

From Ohio, originally, there were four in the group Herbert, Harry, Donald, and John Jr., along with their father John Sr., who played the guitar. John Sr. owned a barber shop where the group was formed, and I remember seeing them on TV when I was young.

 

It's made me sad to see to see them pass on one by one. Harry always seemed the most gregarious of the bunch and was usually the spokes person when they appeared on TV variety shows. I remember seeing him gain weight and eventually perform seated in a chair while the others stood around him. In the "Nevertheless" video linked below of their live performance on stage in 1981, he's on the far right and, by then, blind from diabetes. One of the things that touches me about that video is how the other brothers step away from the microphone letting him sing alone when he had to be lead on stage due to his inability to see.

 

When I really like something, I'm sometimes moved to tears. I've thought about that a lot, and I've come to the conclusion that it's greatness that makes me cry. I think the Mills brothers are great, and in particular, their interpretation of "Nevertheless."

 

It's playing right now, and tears are running down my cheeks.

 

Father's Day 2014

I'll never be nominated for the Father of the Year Award.  And, I'm continually amazed that there are still people willing to recognize me as their father and grandfather. How could I be deserving?

I always wanted to be a dad, but I feared the responsibility.  I also worried that I'd disappoint others as well as myself.  Funny thing about concerns like that, they have a way of coming true. 

The wise would counsel someone like me to pick myself up and try again but, how do you do that?  Of all the aspects of living, fatherhood seems like the one area where second chances don't apply.  People don't forget.

Anyone who has had the privilege will tell you that the title doesn't automatically grant you status, it has to be earned.  The honest ones will also explain that there is no greater feeling than the thought a person, or people, calling you "Dad." It's a challenge worth pursuing.  If you're lucky, those around you make you a better father, and on Father's Day, you'll receive either a card, a phone call, or a visit from family members.  If you're really lucky, like me, you'll receive all three.

I'm grateful for the children and grandchildren I've been blessed with, but most of all, I'm grateful to the woman who made me a father.

Bald Eagles In Pittsburgh, So What.

A pair of Bald Eagles had unexpectedly built a nest in Pittsburgh, PA, and produced three eggs... yeah, yeah... so what?  What’s the big deal?

I'd watch the Pittsburgh Bald Eagle Webcam a little in the morning before sunrise, and it was just a bird sitting there on the nest.  Most of the time, she had her head tucked under her wing or something and it was kinda boring.

By then, two eggs had hatched, the third egg was expected to hatch at any time.

I would watch as the male (which is smaller) would fly in with a fish, and both parents fed the hatched chicks. The female would then take off and the male would take his turn sitting on the nest. He was a fussy parent, and he didn’t always seem to know what to do, but I’ve never seen another bird or animal more attentive.

I've watched nature programs about Bald Eagles before, but to watch them in real time is a different experience. Once you started, it was hard to stop. In a chat window, people would talk about staying up watching all night. Bald Eagles haven't nested here for 250 years.  And, their ability to lay three eggs and raise them to the time when they would leave the nest was a testament to our ability to restore the rivers of Pittsburgh to their preindustrial condition.

People from all over the world came to watch and talk about the event.  It was a wonderful journey and I'll always fondly remember the spring that we shared with the Bald Eagles of Pittsburgh.

Jazz Is a Beautiful Woman...

Music has been a big part of my life, and for much of it, jazz was the theme playing in the background. But, saying that you like jazz is something akin to saying you like food. There are different kinds of jazz, and not all of it is for everyone. And, like various kinds of food, some kinds of jazz are an acquired taste.

 

I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California, when I noticed a barracks mate who frequently sat reading magazines while wearing head phones attached to a reel-to-reel tape recorder. One day, I summoned the courage to ask what he was listening to, and as he handed me the stereo head phones, I was instantly transformed. He had been listening to a guitar player named Wes Montgomery. My music world consisted of rock and roll, but this grabbed my barely-out-of-high school senses. I began asking about the music and he introduced me to other jazz artists like Antonio Carlos Jobim, Paul Desmond, and Herbie Mann.

 

I didn't earn much as a PFC in the Marine Corps, but I'd save as much as I could all week, avoiding impulse spending on base, and then on Friday night, I'd purchase a two-way bus ticket up to Anaheim and Disneyland. Because I was always short on funds, I found an all night bowling alley where I could sleep intermittently until Saturday morning, when I'd find a motel room. No one would bother me at the bowling alley, and no one bowled all night, either.

 

Radio music constantly played over the PA system, and every Friday night, when most of the people had left, a tall, thin older black man would change the station to one that played jazz, and he'd begin the long, arduous task of walking the one hundred bowling lanes as he pushed a wide dust mop in front of him. Occasionally, I'd sit up from where I'd hidden myself on the seats near the end of the building, and watch him as he floated from lane to lane, almost dancing to the music. He knew I was there, and could have easily asked me to leave, or even called the police to have me removed, but he never said a word.

 

The music was our connection. I waited one night until he was finished with the lanes, and gathered the courage to approach him to ask about jazz. I can't remember the entire conversation, but I recall that he had said it was when you get into the lives of the musicians -- who they were and what they did, that you started getting into jazz. I followed his advice, and soon I was reading about anyone else who played a style or a song that I liked.

 

After I was discharged, I came home vowing to never purchase another rock and roll record again. I bought the vinyl recordings of Dave Brubeck, George Shearing, and Stan Getz. I'd invite friends over, or I'd go visit them with my new record collection, and they thought I'd gone crazy for turning my back on rock and roll. But then, I met a girl with long red hair that I wanted to impress. So, for our first date, I took her to a small local bar where a handful of jazz musicians were crammed into the corner. She liked the trumpet player, but I liked the sax player, and I teased her all night that the trumpet player was too reserved. Of course, I had no idea what the musicians even looked like, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. When she returned from the ladies room, she was surprised that I'd noticed how she had literally let her hair down. That was the longest relationship I've had with a woman with the exception of my marriage. And through much of it, jazz was playing someplace.

 

Today, I've settled in on something loosely called smooth jazz, which is actually a radio format. But, the light style and frequently familiar pop songs suit me. I can have it playing in the other room as I'm making salads for dinner, or I can listen to it in the car without driving someone to the point of asking me to, "Please change that gawd awful music."

 

I don't know how to describe jazz to someone who doesn't find it enjoyable or entertaining, and especially the kind that contains lots of improvisation. But, I think comedian Sid Caesar summed it up best when he said, "Jazz is a beautiful woman whose older brother is a policeman."

Naming Christine

What's in a name? If it's naming your first born, it's everything. It's all about the parents and their values. It's about how they feel about life, it's about how they see their future. At some point, it's also about the child, and how they want that child to be thought of, remembered, and loved by others. You want the name of your first born to be perfect, and you fret and fuss over it more than the names of any additional children you may have somewhere down the road.

We didn't yet know (nor did we want to know) our first baby's gender. But, we knew that we didn't want our children to have crazy names, or something associated with a disgraced rock star, or someone with a bad reputation. We vowed not to make up a name, but to stick to established lists of names that were already acceptable to civilized people. Names that were hard to pronounce or easily mistaken for something kept in the medicine cabinet were out. It also shouldn't remind either of us of people from past relationships, in-law outlaws, or some fifth grade bully. It couldn't have already been used within the family, and yet, we wanted the family to approve of our selection. Having a good start, putting the child's best foot forward, giving our first born every opportunity to be initially welcomed through future doors, meant more to us than any decision we'd ever make as a couple.

We can no longer remember all of the names considered and then rejected, nor do we recall what we'd have selected had our first born been a boy instead of a girl. But we do remember where the name came from. My wife was a secretary at an insurance company where we lived at the time in Rutland, Vermont, and a coworker there often spoke of his wife, Christine. We also no longer recall the content of those stories, or whether they made us laugh or cringe. However, what I know is that I associated the name, Christine, with families that were above mine socially. For me, a girl named Christine would have been the smartest girl in the class. When I was growing up, someone named Christine would have been a girl that boys knew from summers at the pool -- a girl that they could only admire from a distance because she was so pretty that none had the courage to go and speak with her. A girl named Christine was a prize any boy would treasure and respect because she was above all others in every way.

Our family life didn't always seem like a heavenly picnic, and there were the usual teenage skirmishes. To say that I wasn't the best father I could have been, or wanted to be, is a gross understatement. I'm unable to count the hours that I reflect on how poorly I performed, or how badly I failed to meet the promises I made to my precious, beloved daughter the first time I held her in my arms. My hope is that time heals all wounds, and that with understanding, there might be a degree of forgiveness on her part. I'm grateful for the opportunity.

Today, our lovely daughter is 35-years-old, and the mother of a combined family with two children of her own, and two children from her husband's former marriage, a dog, and three cats. Add to the mix all of the things a busy, modern, overextended, self-sacrificing mom does for her kids, including dance classes, cheerleading practice, and visits to the gym while managing two of her own businesses. How she makes it all work is one of those Unsolved Mysteries. She's everything we always hoped she would be, and so much more. I'd like to think that she's become the woman she is because we named her Christine. But, in my heart, I know she did it all on her own.

Naming Robert

I had an uncle I'd never met because he died in an industrial accident before I was born.  It's a horror story. He had just purchased a new pair of gloves with elastic around the wrists.  He was tossing metal parts into a wire basked that would be lifted by a crane and then dipped into a pickling vat of boiling acid.  His glove caught on the wire and the crane operator couldn't see him.  The story goes that other men wouldn't help him for fear of being pulled in themselves.  But, he was athletic and a good swimmer and he got himself to the edge and pulled himself out.  He lingered a few days in the hospital and then died.  His name was Robert, and the one thing I constantly heard about him was that he was loved by everyone.

My stepfather had twin brothers, Robert and Vince.  They were identical twins but as different as night and day.  I was closer with Robert and for a time I worked with him at a salvage company.  Once a week we'd drive to Cleveland and spend two days there picking up every thing from cases of toilet paper to refrigerators that had been damaged in boxcars.  We spent lots of time in Altoona, PA where there would be damage to things like a car load of lumber, or those large cans of soup used by restaurants called "70 cans."  Uncle Robert was very sociable, unlike his twin.  He was known in every bar in town, and about half of them everyplace else I went with him.  Eventually, he died of cirrhosis of the liver.  I was so tore up I couldn't bring myself to go to his funeral, but I was told that it was one of the biggest ones around.  He, too was loved by everyone.

After I came out of the Marine Corps, I found a job at H.J Heinz.  I worked one day with a guy named Robert, and we became good friends.  He's our daughter's godfather, but after his mother died he sort of drifted away.  I haven't seen him in years, but we used to drive around together, picking up girls.  That was back when you could still do that.  Everyone liked him, but the girls always took advantage of him.  He never really had a girlfriend that I can recall and never married.  His mother was blind and he had an older retarded brother.  He was the youngest of three boys and the middle brother left him with their mother and brother and went to become a dealer in Las Vegas.  Robert was the rock of the family.

When our son was born, I told my wife that I wanted to name him Robert, because everyone I ever knew by that name was loved by everyone, and I wanted everyone to love our son.  He's a grown man now, and while I'm 5'8" he's 6'2".  In my wife's family the men are all tall.  He still kisses me every time I see him, and he's everything I could hope he would become, and more.  But, it's not because of the name we wanted him to have, but because of the man he's worked to become, that everyone loves him.