My 40th Year

Author's note: I have decided to chronicle this day, periodically, as things of note occur. I don't intend to take away from my main responsibility; namely, my job. I thought it might be a good idea to end this blog in such a fashion. I also don't intend to make this last all day. I will stop, probably just before dinner. We all have lives to live and I don't think anyone who will be reading this will spend hours reading it. I wouldn't.

So grab a glass of wine, or a bottle of beer, or the beverage of your choice, and spend a few moments with me as I have reached, "My 40th Year..."

4:45am: Just woke up and can't get back to sleep. I remember it was like that for me when I was a kid. Excited. Anticipation of the calls, the cards, the gifts. I can't go back to sleep because of excitement, but because I am hungry. Weird. I'm not ready to eat yet. I still have to workout. I'm also uncomfortable because I pulled something in my back/shoulder blade. When I sleep, I toss and turn, so the crick in my neck makes sleeping a PITA. Here it comes. I've crossed the path where now all I am concerned about is my health. Oh, my aches and pains...that kind of thing. Not really. With the exception of a couple of issues, I'm probably in the best health/shape of my life. 40 and fit. Nice.

5:30am: Today is supposed to be "Lean Intervals" which is part of the ChaLEAN Extreme program Cyndi and I have been doing since March 2009. Since I cannot turn my neck to the right, I think it's best to just hop on the elliptical machine. I've been thinking about my athletic abilities. Or as my friends would say, my athletic "inabilities." I stink at sports. Scratch that. I SUCK at sports. Basketball, baseball (I'm pretty much afraid of the ball), football, soccer, racquetball, tennis. Any sport with a ball, really. One thing I have always been good at is lifting weights. I've been doing it, pretty consistently, for 26 years. It's a part of my life. I was once an afternoon lifter, but when I started working full time, I realized that exercising in the morning works best for me. I have to get up early, but if I leave it to later in the day, after work, I make excuses or find other priorities. I love starting my day with the weights or some cardio, or both.

7:00am: Cyndi's up. The kids are up. They have all wished me well and have offered to make me breakfast. On the menu: egg white omelet with goat cheese and soy sausage (Morningstar Patties crumbled into the omelet) and a bowl of oatmeal with dried cherries. Cyndi even stopped at Starbuck's yesterday to pick up a pound of decaf. Not a bad way to start the day.

7:55am: I have several conference calls today. I love technology. The fact that I can work from home, participate actively with customers and prospects, and sell a software product I truly believe helps people, is great. My work-life balance is the best it's been in a long time. Even though I don't get the chance to commiserate with my colleagues everyday, I feel part of the team. It's great to enjoy your job, to appreciate the people you work with, to be appreciated. My father hated his job for 35 years. He never gave up and never stopped working for his family. There's a lot to learn from all of that.

8:59 am: When I was working out this morning, I had the news on the TV. Scrolling across the screen were the following words: "...doomsday clock has been adjusted to today at 9:00am." Why today, of all days? I may not be able to finish my

9:01am: Okay...I'm still here. I think.

9:04am: I've been getting emails, texts, and written well wishes this morning, which are always nice and appreciated. I received my first call of the day; my cousin Greg. He's exactly three months younger than me. We've remained pretty close with each other over the years. We have similar interests and I honestly enjoy his company. We used to hang out more than we do now, but with family and work obligations, the time is fewer and farther between. One thing we that ensures that we get together at least five times a year is that we have Steppenwolf Theatre ticket subscriptions on the same day, with seats next to one another. Greg is a trained chef (and a great one at that), but he no longer "works" in the industry. We get to reap the benefits of his restaurant knowledge when we go out to dinner before the theater. We've been able to experience some great places over the years, and Greg's interest in cooking always inspires me. I'm glad he took the time to call me today. It was an unexpected treat.

9:30am: Just heard that Leslie fell on the ice and hit her head and face, and bruised some ribs. Leslie is married to my college friend/former post-college roommate, Javier. As the extremely talented Tony Danza would say (or at least Anthony Cumia from the "Opie and Anthony Show" doing an impression of Tona Danza), "Thoughts and prayers...thoughts and prayers..." I hope she's okay and that the recovery period is quick. Jav and Leslie are great people and fantastic parents. They are an inspiring couple with their dedication to each other and their daughter. I compliment Jav, even though he constantly busts my balls...or should I say ball??

10:43am: Jason Cooper, a friend of mine from work just called. He's the second person to ask me this question today, "Do you feel any older?" In truth, I don't. I remember being asked this question when I was a kid, and I'm sure I almost always answered a resounding, "yes." I really don't feel any older than I was 20 years ago. I mentioned this to Jason. He's almost exactly two years my junior. His birthday is Sunday. Jason remembers his dad turning 40. He thought that was old. When my parents hit their 40's I thought they were old too. Jason's dad is 62 years old. "He looks great," Jason said. "Time has caught up with him." I hope it doesn't pass me.

10:48am: It's official, according to my birth certificate, and the fact that my mother called and sang to me. My name is Cory Fosco, and I am 40 years old today.

2:07pm: I just received a pretty damn cool delivery: A dozen cupcakes from http://mollyscupcakes.com/. This was totally unexpected, but very welcomed. When the delivery guy rang the bell, I was talking on the phone with a friend of mine from work, BJ. Cyndi and the kids are at the eye doctor, so even though I was engrossed in a work relation conversation, I had to interrupt and answer the door. Rex was going crazy barking his head off too. When I saw the top of the box being delivered, I noticed the "Molly's Cupcakes" logo on a sticker. The following words were on a card, in colorful marker, "Happy 40th...from BJ." Perfect timing. Unexpected gifts are great. Molly's Cupcakes are great. And to be quite honest with you, BJ is great too. Cupcakes or not, I've grown to appreciate our relationship over the past nearly two years. We've had the opportunity to travel a lot together, we've hung out together, we've gambled together, and I've learned a whole hell of a lot from him. Sometimes I forget BJ is only 31 years old himself. I'm not one to think this way, but I'd call him an "old soul." He's wise beyond his years, and he has more talent in his right pinkie than I may ever have. If you need a visual of what the man, himself, looks like. Just know that sometimes I call BJ, "McLovin." Maybe I have a man crush on him. Thanks for the Molly's, my man. It is much appreciated!

4:06pm: I was on a conference call an hour ago with Nicole Fink and Steve Hammer. Steve was the first one to welcome me to "the club" today. He said I am really older than 40. I thought I understood what he meant when he said it, but I don't. Either I am not that smart (probably), I am actually older (possibly), or I just didn't really follow the reasoning (exactly). I am hopeful he will read this and explain...please...

4:15pm: Done with work for the day (I work East Coast hours) and ready to hang out with the family. On the menu tonight: Fillet Mignon (we had leftover beef tenderloin from the cold table that we froze for tonight) wrapped in turkey bacon (I know, it should be regular bacon, but we have this in the house); grilled asparagus; and homemade baked french fries (by request). I will be opening the bottle of Opus One I mentioned here http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/12/how-to-enjoy-some-opis-one.html#comments. I probably should have gone out to get a back-up cigar because one has not arrived from the cigar smoking strangers I met in Asheville. I didn't really think it would arrive, but hoped. Not a major disappointment because I am not a huge cigar smoker. It would have been nice, but not necessary. Cyndi and the kids were going to make me a Pineapple Upside Down Cake, but with 12 cupcakes on my mind, I'm not making them go to the trouble. I've never had a PUDC. Cyndi suggested it because it has a nice memory attached to it for her. Cyndi's grandmother used to make PUDC when she was a kid. I appreciate the gesture, but Molly came and took over the fridge...everyone wins.

4:51pm: We just had a toast; Cyndi, Frederic, Lily and me. I toasted with Carlsberg (we still have half a case left), Cyndi had a Magners Cider, Frederic raised an A&W Root Beer, and Lily had a Ginger Ale. During the toast, Cyndi began tearing up, telling me how proud she was that I made it to 40 and that I completed my quest. We met when she was 22 and I was 25. We were kids back then. We've been through a lot. After the toast, I was given a "gift." Although I am anxiously awaiting a present I have already "received"--a Nook (which will not be shipped until Feb. 1), and I am enjoying the iPod speaker dock I opened on Sunday--I was told that I will be getting "40 surprises" throughout the year. They have a list, and they now have a quest. I am a lucky man.

5:25pm: The wine has been decanted.

5:33pm: This is it. I am getting ready to start cooking and enjoy the evening with the family. The meat is resting, the potatoes are being washed and cut, the asparagus is clipped. Today has been a much different day than a year ago. For one, I am not alone. I wasn't "alone" then either, but I was away. I think this project has really helped me. It's helped me look inside. It's helped me practice my passion. It's helped me process my feelings. It's helped me live my life and appreciate what I have. Some days have been better than others. Some days, I wrote and wrote and wrote. Some days, I phoned or dialed them in (I still can't remember which one is right, Jason). I've enjoyed the process. I've accomplished a goal.

I appreciate everyone who read my blog. I appreciate the comments, the encouragement, and the following. This quest has actually taken a lot out of me, as well. Writing is not easy. Writing every day is a bitch. I have a lot of respect for people who do "this" for a living. I'm not as talented, but maybe someday I will be. Writing for me has always been a labor of love. I may not be as published as the next guy, but I have a passion for all of the aspects related to the craft. I hope I've demonstrated that, and I hope I continue to do so for years to come (if not, the students at Harper College who will be taking my class this March will be very unhappy). Thank you, everyone. All seven of you.

I guess I have one final thing to write, and that is:

The End

Napoleon complex

I spent 15 minutes standing on a balance beam. While I was only watching nine nine year old boys practicing basketball in an elementary school gymnasium, I felt different. Dare I consider I felt special, brave, maybe even a little happier. You see, I lament about my gray hair. I feel cheated that my eyes are so bad. I wish I were smarter, better looking, more athletic. But one thing I realized--spending time at a height nearly a foot higher than I've consistently experienced most of my life--is that life may be more rewarding from up there. Tall people, they say statistically, are more successful than short people. Not that I don't consider myself successful. I do. Tall people have a great many more advantages than short people. I mean, they can see things we can't. They can see things. I've been the same height, 5'4 3/4" tall since I was 14 years old. I doubt that my teenage smoking or steroid use, or the fact that my mother smoked or maybe even enjoyed a glass a wine or two while I was in the womb, had anything to do with my height challenged self. I come from a long line of short people. My father was closer to 5' than not. My mother is short. My grandparents were short; all four of them. I'm afraid I may be missing aspects of life because of this deficiency. I don't feel inferior, as some may conclude after reading this. I don't feel as if my life is any less spectacular.

I'd just like to see more.

See more.

You know what I mean?

Ready to move on

I keep telling everyone that I'm looking forward to my birthday. The countdown began a long time ago for some, but it really began today for me. A year ago, I wasn't excited about birthdays. A year ago, I was in a state of self loathing. I had a one person pity party; lonesome, maybe, because I was on the road. I had the notion that I would begin this blog and get excited about entering a new stage in life. It worked.

But, boy oh boy, am I sick of myself. I cannot wait to move on to a new project. Maybe I'll write a short story. Maybe I'll write a play. Maybe I'll pull out the screenplay I wrote and work on that. I'm sure I'll go back to some of these posts and see what I can make out of them. But I want to focus on something else.

I need some distance. Sometimes distance is good. What do they say, "absence makes the heart grow fonder"? I need to be absent from the daily focus which has been me.

Don't you need a break from me too?

Movies from the past

I love watching these old tapes. Everyone looks so young, so free, so ready to experience life. We watched our proposal video. Cyndi was barely 22 years old, and had no clue that only after three months of dating, I was about to pop the question. In front of her parents, her sisters, my parents, my brother, her (at the time; now our) brother-in-law, my (at the time; now our) sister-in-law and niece, and our friends. Our skin was so tight, clean, and worry free. It was a nice reminder of from where our love grew.

We also watched the kids from when they were five and two. You forget how little they once were. You forget how innocent they once were. You forget how impressionable they once were, how sweet they always were, how protective a big brother can be, how funny children are, how focused they can be.

There's a downside to watching old tapes too. That downside: it reminds you of what life once was. Adults tend to be nostalgic about the past. Children, as we learned last night, might get critical. When she went to bed last nigh, after watching her "former self" on the screen for an hour, Lily was inconsolable. Through tears, she told me how she's not the sweet little girl she was when she was three. The movies from her past may have jarred her more than anyone expected. She was sad because she felt she's not following the same path she may have once taken. She was hard on herself, but aren't we all?

And here's the thing: I don't think anyone would ever describe my child as anything other than a sweet, innocent, caring, loving being. I know I am biased, but she has the benefit of learning from her parent's mistakes. We try to teach our children the value of relationships, and I think we've done a good job thus far. We used this as a learning opportunity. I'm sure she's not scarred for life from this.

Speaking of the value of relationships, we also caught a short glimpse of my 30th birthday party. We were living on Waveland Avenue in Chicago, made some simple appetizers, bought a keg of beer, and a cake, and invited our friends to enjoy in a celebration. The most spectacular thing I cherish, is the fact that most of the people in the tape are still in my life. These are the people with whom we will celebrate on Saturday. People I met when I was 18. People I've laughed with, lived with, cried with, got drunk with, worked with. People who I've watched graduate from college, get married, have babies, lose parents. My mother was there. My brother, Ira, was there. My dad was there.

I'm glad these people are still in my life. I'm glad they will be with me 10 years later, where there won't be any keg stands, shots of Jack, or cake thrown in my wife. We're much too mature and civilized for that nonsense now...right?

:)

Yep, I threw in a :)...

Memories stuffed in a closet

Here is a list of things we "found" as we were cleaning out the closet in my office:

• Cyndi's first pair of glasses - she got them when she was one!


• Lily's first curls


• A gold cross my mother gave to Frederic when he was baptized


• Used pregnancy tests - with an emphasis on "tests." When Cyndi was pregnant with Frederic, we didn't believe the first three tests she took. We wanted to "confirm" the results so my aunt suggested we go to Planned Parenthood (I need to mention we were on vacation in Arizona). When the fourth test confirmed that, "Yes" were were indeed parents, Cyndi began to cry. The nursing assistant at Planned Parenthood must not have been used to tears of joy when she said, "oh...it's not the result you wanted, huh?"


• Letters to and from Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny


• Many cards from Frederic's 3rd birthday


• A cassette tape the kids made for me when Frederic was five and Lily was three


• My father's complete medical record from when he was in two hospitals and a rehab center before he passed away


• A Thurman Munson baseball card I got when I was in third grade. It's the only baseball card I ever collected


• A "Great Show" certificate I received for performing in the talent show as Elwood Blues on March 11, 1982 from Donald Litchfield who was the principal at Stevenson Elementary School


• A Mead Mustang Award I received on December 17, 1982 for "superior effort and achievement"...1982 must have been a great year for me...


• A big box of old VHS tapes from various points in my life including my High School Graduation Ceremony, my College Graduation Ceremony, the 1987 Teenage Mr. Illinois Bodybuilding competition I was in, videos people made for me when I turned 30, and the original tapes from our Wedding Video


• A cassette tape my dad made for me of three songs I sang at Stratford Mall at "Sound Tracks," which was basically a precursor to karaoke. On the tape, I sing "All My Rowdy Friends," "The Power of Love," and a duet of "California Girls" with an old friend, Dave Silvestri


• Many old 8mm tapes of the kids' lives before we got way too lazy and stopped the effort

Memories stuffed in a closet. Sometimes it makes sense to just clean...

I Want to be Mad as Hell and not Take it Anymore...I'll be a Parent, Instead: Rambling Thoughts on an Emotional Response

It started with a sound. Or maybe it would be classified as a word. It was more like a garble of words than anything really comprehensible. If you recorded the words on one of those mini tape recorders--the ones reporters use--and played them back at 1.2 speed versus 2.4, you might have be able to make them out. I mean, listening to the words in slow motion. It sounded like he was saying, "I'm sorry for doing what I was just doing...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." That's as close to a translation as I can remember. This was nearly five years ago, and we've lived through the progression of the disease ever since.

It probably started with a cough, or the clearing of his throat; misdiagnosed as asthma. Cyndi's had asthma since she was a kid, so we were not shocked when they proclaimed this to be true. We were on our first family road trip; the Midwest to East Coast and back. Cyndi had it all planned out: we would drive to our destination at night (besides the first leg), and hang out at cool, fun, and educational places during the day. We went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, we went to a Space Museum, we visited an outdoor zoo where we were bused to the animals and viewed them from the safety of our vehicle, we went to Hershey, Pa, Independence Hall in Philly (with a brief stop at our old apartment in Blue Bell), toured the White House, went to Bob and Lisa Porter's wedding, had BBQ in Cincinnati.

It was a whirlwind vacation, peppered by what we no know were constant vocal tics. If there were sounds coming from his mouth--the noises, the words, the clearing--and we there were 30 minutes, he'd do them for 20-25. We were worried, we were scared, we were parents.

Frederic was diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome in 2005. The medical experts we consulted knew what it was before the test results came back. He had all of the symptoms. It was clear to everyone, including us.

And it's progressively getting worse, in my opinion. The noises get louder, the sounds are unique. It's exhausting, mostly for our little boy.

For the most part, people are understanding. There was this one time when a little girl--at Bee Camp--called him names and said he should stop making those stupid noises. It was the summer after the diagnosis, so we were very ill equipped with how to react, and not over-react. He didn't want to go back the next day. He held his head down low, ran under the covers on his bed. He was too young to understand his neurological disorder was nothing he could control, and nothing to be sorry or embarrassed about. Over the years, we've learned how to cope. We've given him the confidence and tools (words) to handle people's curious reactions. And I'm proud of how he responds. Simply telling the inquiring person that he has Tourette's.

But sometimes, it's not that simple. Sometimes negative reactions happen. Like today, at Religious Ed. And maybe it's our fault. Maybe we didn't tell the teacher about his situation. Maybe we didn't take the five minutes we typically do to explain what might happen in a quiet classroom setting. Maybe we should have stood Frederic up in front of the entire class and talk with them. Maybe, but I'm sure we at least let his teacher know. It wasn't her that made Frederic feel bad. It was the classroom helper--her son. He "punished" Frederic for "making those noises." Punished him by making him read aloud; something that doesn't make the tics any less prevalent. "I was so embarrassed," Frederic said. "I almost cried."

Which is what I felt like doing.

This has been sitting with me since this morning. Normally, I would have gotten mad. Normally, I would have wanted to rush to this person, and put him in his place. Normally, but not this time. I explained to Frederic--tried to make it extremely clear--that he should never be embarrassed by what his brain and body need to do. I told him to hold his head up high, and never apologize for having a disorder. I told him to take the high road; to educate those who might not have the tools and knowledge themselves.

It made all of the difference in the world when he looked at me and smiled. When he knew his father would protect and defend him. I stood by his side and gave him the tools he needed. This will be a constant struggle, I am sure.

Parenting is hard. But when you can turn a negative into a life affirming positive, it makes it all worthwhile.

Death thoughts running through my head

One of the reasons I started this blog was to ensure that I wouldn't get depressed about turning 40. Many people keep saying, "40 is the new 30," and for the most part, I agree. I really do not feel like I'm turning 40. I keep pretty active, my health is good (thankfully), and aside from a few wrinkles, sags in various places, and some gray hair, I feel much younger than the years indicate.

I used to obsess a lot about death. It's one of my greatest fears in life. My faith tells me to believe there is life after this, but I have a hard time believing because I'm an evidence kind of guy. Ever since I was a kid, probably from the time I was around Lily's age, I used to get sick to my stomach thinking about death. The blackness, then end of conscious existence, the end of family, and friends, and food, shelter; the end of life. I vividly remember walking in circles thinking about it. Over the years, the fear would creep up on me, sometimes out of nowhere. My heart would beat faster, I'd begin sweating, I'd be on the verge of tears.

I honestly believe this blog--the exploration, celebration, and revealing nature of confessional writing--has helped me get through the year. I have not spent much time thinking about "the end." Maybe I've just been too wrapped up in the past and present to think about the future.

Until last night.

I'm currently reading the new Raymond Carver biography. It's a mammoth book, 592 pages, and really digs deep into the life of one of my favorite writers. As I was reading last night, it dawned on me that Carver was just a few months younger than my father. Carver died of lung cancer in 1988. He was only 50 years old. My father outlasted Carver by 19 years. From there, I began thinking about dying young. A friend of mine from work lost his father this week in a tragic accident. His father was only 53 years old.

I couldn't shake the death thoughts running through my head. 50. 53. 69. That's 10 years, 13 years, and 29 years from now. 40 years has gone by in a blip, I thought to myself. I need to figure out how to slow these years down.

I know that's not possible. I know it's best to live in the moment. I know it's best to live each day to its fullest; to live every day like it is actually my last. But that's easier said than done. Life, itself, gets in the way.

I didn't get up and walk around in circles. I didn't let my heart begin to race. I wasn't sweating. I was scared, but I took a couple of breaths and thought. I thought about the things I have done in these 40 years. I thought about my wife and kids. I thought about the life I've spent writing about and the life I'll spend living and writing about for the rest of my life. No matter how long that will be.

How Does a Duck Know or No Celebrations Today

I've never been a big fan of "celebrating" birthdays after a person dies. I'm keen on remembering the celebrant, but not so much on making it a joyous occasion. As a society, we continue acknowledging the birthdays of famous or notable people long after they are gone. There's MLK Day, George Washington's Birthday, Lincoln's Birthday, Casimir Pulaski Day.

Today would have been my father's 71st birthday. I can't believe it has been three years. We're not singing songs today. We're not opening presents. We ate leftovers for dinner, and had to blow a half foot of snow from our driveway. It's been a gray day, an average day, a sad day.

I don't feel like I have to go to the cemetery to acknowledge my father's existence. I'm like him that way. I'm not sure he ever visited his father's grave after he died. At least, not that I know of anyway.

I've thought of my dad often today; probably not any less than I do any other. I refuse to say "Happy Birthday, Dad," so I'll just say, "we miss you."

20 Things I DID and 20 Things I DIDN'T do before I turned 40

DID:

1. Met and married my true love
2. Had two wonderful children
3. Earned a BA and an MA
4. Got out of debt
5. Began building a nest egg
6. Lost 20 pounds
7. Had a colonoscopy
8. Repaired relationships
9. Went to Denmark, Italy, Ireland, and England
10. Lost a parent
11. Converted to Catholicism
12. Quit chewing tobacco
13. Bought a home
14. Lived near Wrigley Field
15. Lived in two other states (Arizona and Pennsylvania)
16. Wet the bed as an adult...twice
17. Became a man
18. Took responsibility for my actions
19. Appreciated my relationships
20. Documented my life

.DIDN'T Do..and don't plan on doing within the next week:

1. Skydive
2. Parachute out of an airplane
3. Climb Mt. Everest
4. Visit all 50 states
5. Go to Japan
6. Have a mid-life crisis
7. Become a vegetarian (although I tried for 100 days before I turned 35)
8. Learn a foreign language
9. Learn how to play the guitar
10. Publish a book
11. Win an Academy Award
12. Write a play
13. Become a lawyer
14. Own a sports car
15. Open a Rita's Water Ice
16. Backpack across Europe
17. Star in a movie
18. Become a professional movie critic
19. Get plastic surgery
20. Stop trying

Not so Trivial Pursuit

Several years ago, Secret Santa started leaving new games for the Fosco Family. One year we got Disney Scene It II, Electronic Catch Phrase, and Uno Spin. One year we got Elefun (not so fun), and another card game I've since forgotten. This year, we received Pictureka, Boggle, and Guesstures. Secret Santa buys these for us so we can continue the tradition of Game Night. We've been intermediately doing game night in our house for years; ever since the kids were much younger.

I like Game Night. We laugh, we cheer each other on, we look forward to winning and sharing the time together. Sometimes feelings get hurt, but those times typically coincide with a child being tired. We are not a very competitive family, per se. I mean, we each like to win, but feel good for those who do when we each don't.

We played games once in a while when I was growing up. Nothing too consistent, but there were times when games helped occupy our time. Especially when my grandmother stayed over. Poker, Rummy 500, Rummikub; most any card or game of skill, really.

I do have a confession to make. It's something I've held in probably since I was about 13 years old. It's not anything I've stewed over much, but whenever we play a trivia type game, I often remember the occasion. Here it goes...I cheated on a question during an intense game of Trivial Pursuit.

Like I wrote, I was about 13. Trivial Pursuit was a relatively new game. It was the Genius edition. I don't remember the question, but I do recall that my father suspected I cheated. I had taken a phone call during the game. My co-conspirator (who had no idea she was in on a cheat) was my oldest friend, Shay. We were talking about a school project, and my turn came up. Shay heard the question, knew the answer and said it aloud. I repeated what I heard, claiming the question was very simple. My father looked at me, straight in the eyes and said, "You're cheating." I continued the rouse and replied, "No I'm not." Looking away as I said the words; the true tell. With that correct answer, I completed my pie and won the game.

I don't believe I ever played Trivial Pursuit with my father again after that.

What a shame. Shame on me, that is.

Unwanted Titles

*

Just because I don't like cats doesn't mean I didn't have to feel bad when I killed one.

**

There seems to be a wild raccoon that has taken up residence in my garbage dumpster.

*

I was in college when it happened; home for the weekend just after summer break. I was driving west down Bode Road in Schaumburg. I wasn't alone. I was 19 and dating a 16 year-old high school junior. Dating would probably be the wrong term. We were messing around, really. And not that kind of messing around. Sure, we kissed and stuff, but the girl wasn't of age. Her parents had met me, her dad gave his blessing to our "relationship," but it was just a casual thing. It had to be a casual thing.

**

I'm scared shitless of wild animals. It literally gives me the creeps; shivers run through my body thinking about the raccoon sleeping in my dumpster. I refuse to go out there and look at it. Cyndi discovered the intruder late last night. She needed to rummage through the dumpster to look for two missing forks. Not just any kind of forks; imported Danish forks. Little ones that have been in my mother-in-law's possession for years. Someone may have accidentally tossed them in the garbage when cleaning up the Cold Table. This isn't something that just happened the other night. These forks get lost, Cyndi tells me. They always get lost.

*

My traveling companion and I were heading to a park. Why we were going all the way to a park on Bode Road when we had several of them in our neighborhood is beyond my recollection. It was night and the cat was black. I saw it running toward my car in the corner of my eye. I thought I could avoid the inevitable, but I hit it. I felt the thing roll under my tire and hit the underside of my car. I mean, not only did it make a thud, but I felt the sound itself. It's like the time I saw a teenage couple arguing outside my bedroom when I was a kid. I think her name was Marcy McCann, or it was Marcy McCann's older sister. I remember it was a McCann. The girl and her boyfriend were arguing, and the guy pushed her. I was scared. Scared for her, but mostly scared for me. I was watching them from my window. They woke me up; woke my dad up too. When she fell down, her head hit the sidewalk. From 20 yards away, I felt the sound of her head hitting the hard pavement. I felt the sound. I still remember the sound.

**

When Cyndi came into the house to tell me about the raccoon, I panicked. I felt invaded. I felt violated. By a wild animal. I was glad Cyndi wasn't attacked by this thing. I wanted it gone. Cyndi has a soft spot in her heart for animals. She wanted to get a closer look. She wanted me to get a closer look. I refused. She didn't. Sure enough the animal was nestled underneath an empty Domino's pizza box. Sound asleep. No more rummaging through the trash for her, I thought. How do we get this damn thing out of our dumpster, I asked. Cyndi wanted to let it sleep. She wanted it to be warm. He'll be gone in the morning, she assured me. And she was right.

*

I knew the cat was a goner. It managed to run back toward the side of the road, and disappear in the dark green grass. I pulled the car over, and ran toward the cat. It was lying on its side, stiff. I didn't have the guts to touch it. I should have checked to see if it had tags, but I was afraid it would jump out at me; attack me for taking away its nine lives. My companion didn't seem too upset. She wanted to get to the park and play on the swing set. I was out of my league with it all. The cat, the girl, me. I became a cat killer that night, and I wasn't even in the market for the title.

**

The damn thing came back tonight, too. It's sleeping under the pizza box again. We should have moved the dumpster inside the garage. We should have put a rock on top of it. We should have, but we didn't. I wanted to call animal control. Isn't that what they are for, I asked. It's not a free service, Cyndi said, knowing her husband all too well. I want it out of my life. I don't want to harm it, I just want it gone. I'm not in the market for another new title.

I don't want to be like Mike

There are many things I want to be when I grow up. Tonight, I add David Mamet to that list. When I grow up, I want to be David Mamet. The guy is a writing genius and I want to be him. Or like him. Or write like him. Or know characters like him. Or know language like him. Yep, I want to be David Mamet.
That is all...

Celebration #1 - The Cold Table

The Danes really know how to do things. My wife and mother-in-law have been working their asses off to help me celebrate my 40th. Here is the menu for tonight's smorgasbord:

First Course (Fish)

• Herring in wine sauce w/onion rings


• Herring in curry sauce w/dill


• Matjes Herring w/chopped onion


• Shrimps w/mayo & lemons


• Crabmeat w/mayo and lemons


• Lox w/Lox sauce


• Mackerel w/mayo


• Cod Roe w/Remoulade & lemons


• Eel w/eggs


• Fillet of Sole w/Remoulade


• Fried Herring Fillets

That's right...11 different types of fish. Each of these selections are put on a small slice of bread (rye, pumpernickel, wheat, or french) with a spread of margarine/butter.

Second Course (meat)

• Beef Tenderloin w/Remoulade & mushrooms


• Flæskesteg w/red cabbage (Danish Pork Roast)


• Frikadeller w/red cabbage (Danish Meatballs)


• Medisterpølse w/red cabbage (Danish pork sausage)


• Leverpate w/bacon & mushrooms (liver)
  

As if 12 different types of fish were not enough, we have five different selections of fine Danish meats (the tenderloin is not Danish, itself, but an integral part of the Cold Table, according to my mother-in-law...or maybe she just likes it, and damn it, she's in charge here).

Third Course (Fruit Salad)
While it sounds healthy, it isn't. This is a cream based, sugar and chocolate chip filled treat. There is three cans of mixed fruit in it (at the store, I went with the "lite" syrup kind to be healthy - ha!). My niece, Carlee, has also been asked to bake some of her delicious brownies to go with this course. We will probably be serving the Danish licorice my wife bought during this course too.

Fourth Course (cheese)

• Havarti


• Danish Blue


• Brie


• Esrom

The Danes like their cheese. The stinky the better. I remember the first time I went to a Cold Table with Cyndi. It was for her uncle's 60th birthday. We had only been dating a short time and it was my first time meeting most of the group. I tried the cheese and almost threw up. If you can't get past the smell, you will not get through the taste. Think sweaty, smelly gym socks that have been in the bottom of the hamper for a week. Take that and multiply it by 10. However, I LOVE it now. I guess time makes any palate more sophisticated, or cultured, or maybe I just can't taste anything anymore. By the time we get to the cheese course, everyone is so stuffed, but the cheese is just that good you cannot pass it up.

Of course, all night long we will be drinking the case and a half of Carlsberg Beer and two bottles of authentic, not being imported anymore AALBORG JUBILÆUMS Akvavit (42% Alc./Vol. and 84 Proof).

There are many reasons I love my wife. Her being Danish is certainly one of them. Here's to turning 40 and finally getting my very own Cold Table...

Skol!

Switching Teams

(surprised this little nugget never made an appearance over the year)


As a child I wondered what it would be like to be a girl. My desire was strange because I grew up in a mostly male house. I knew what women looked like naked because I had older brothers who constantly had sex on their minds. If they weren’t picking the lock on our father’s armoire of porno tapes—which included training films such as Deep Throat, Behind the Green Door, and Meatball—they brought me along to pick through the garbage in the dumpsters behind the fire station on Meacham Road. It seemed like every time we would try to find something it was always what they wanted: discarded Playboy, Hustler and Penthouse magazines. The women who pouted their bright red lips at the camera had seductive eyes, telling me that it was nice to be wanted, it was better to be them than me.

The montage of pictures would start with women fully clothed, hair up in a bun, black plastic rimmed glasses: the shy by day slut by night women. As the paper slide show continued, clothing would slowly be removed to reveal curvy, flawless bodies, breasts that were large and seemed to always flop to either side. They were never shaved down there like the women who grace the pages of the magazines today. The magazines were quality teaching of a quality subject.

I pretended to be a woman many times, mostly while I sat on the toilet or in the bathroom before taking a hot bath. I would push my penis between my legs. It was just after I grew hair down there. My balls would fit nicely pressed against my ass. I’d bat my eyes, smile at myself in the mirror trying not to walk or move too quickly for fear that my package would fall apart and I would return to being a nine year-old boy. Dirty, in need of a shower.

Angel Food Cake Do-Over

I've already done a lot of reflecting this year. I'm also not a big fan of resolutions. They most often fall to the wayside. If there is one thing I would like to achieve this coming year--aside from being a better husband, father, son, brother, friend, writer, sales guy, teacher--is to be a better baker because...wait for it...wait for it...I suck at baking!

While I did pull off some pretty damn good biscotti last month for Cyndi's birthday dinner, I really have a tough time with getting baking down. I made a crappy pound cake for Christmas last week. It tasted and looked like crap. We even bought a new KitchenAid mixer. The good one. The 6 quart one.

I'm convinced that if you have the right tools, you can improve your chances. This morning proved that theory wrong. Take a look for yourself.

I'm just glad there's such things as do-overs. There certainly was no angel on my side the first time around.

Happy New Year!

Giving Up

I claim to be a "fiction" writer too. At least the expensive degree I got from Loyola University Chicago indicates that. I'm not sure how good of a fiction writer I am, but I've shifted my focus away from it so long that I think my chops have suffered. I've written maybe three short stories since 2005, and I wrote a screenplay that can be considered fiction since none of it is based on truth. Or my truth at least. It was created from my imagination.


That's what I like about fiction. You can just come up with an idea and run with it. If you want your character to wake up and begin to have a metamorphosis, as long as your story line is believable, it can happen. If you want a character to be dead, yet narrate your story, it can happen. Nonfiction doesn't work like that.


I hope to get back to some more fiction and poetry in 2010. They are genres I enjoy and miss. Below is a short story I wrote earlier this year called, "Giving Up." I'm sure it's not finished, but it felt damn good to write it.

"Giving Up"

I wake up shaking. I sit up at the edge of the bed and look over at my wife. She stirs from my movement, but is lost in a dream. My heart races and hurts. “Wake up,” I say. Nothing. I shake my wife. She keeps sleeping. “Hey, I think I’m dying. Something’s wrong with me.”
For almost a year, I wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. My heart races, I feel anxious and scared, and I am convinced that I am going to die. Early on, my wife used to wake up with me; talk me off of the ledge, make sure I calmed down before I went back to sleep. She used to get me water, rub my back, tell me about her dreams. After a while, she stopped. She grew immune to my middle of the night outbursts. She complained about being tired at work, unable to focus, miserable.

I take a few deep breaths and let out an audible moan.

I get up from the bed and walk down the hall. My feet are cold against the hardwood floor. It sends a chill causing me to shiver, like most guys do after their morning pee. I like carpeting, but my wife insisted on hardwood. She said it added character to our house. We live in a square box, built a year after I was born. The houses in our neighborhood are plain. These were starter houses; small ranch-style homes, built without basements, without character. She’d prefer living in an old Victorian mansion. I’m happy here.

I tiptoe down the hallway, but then I remember that the kids are at my in-laws for the night. Ever since our daughter was five and our son was two, my mother-in-law insisted on taking the kids to an annual trip to the circus. We had no problem with the offer. It allowed us to go out for the night—Circus Date Night, we called it, where we would go out for dinner, maybe see a movie or go to a bar—and allowed us to be as loud as we wanted before bed. We’ve skipped Circus Date Night for the past two years. It just doesn’t occur to us anymore. I’m not sure how much longer this annual event will continue. The kids are older now, 12 and 9, and they’ve started to complain about having to go every year; especially our daughter. My mother-in-law usually bribes her with the promise of baked goods or special meals. This year she promised that a friend could come along. It worked.


I walk into my office and check my email. It’s two thirty in the morning. I feel like I have to check since I am awake. I work from home and have a Blackberry. I’m always checking my email. It’s like a tic or something. I get uncomfortable if I don’t check it, like I know it’s all piling up. There’s nothing but junk, which I delete out of habit or necessity. I liked life better before email.


I walk into our living room, and see a car parked in front of the house. I’m not good at identifying makes or models of cars. This one is white and looks like a police car. “A Chevy Impala,” I announce, as if I asked myself the question.

I can see two people sitting in the front seat, but only as shapes. The passenger side window faces my house. I notice that the window is rolled about a quarter of the way down. The person in the passenger seat is smoking. I can tell because every few seconds there is an orange flare at the spot where the person’s lips would be if I could see the face. There is also a faint trace of smoke coming out, slowly, through the cracked window.

I don’t want the people to see me, so I get down on my stomach and do an Army crawl toward the front windows. My new position offers nothing better. My wife got into the habit of keeping the outside lights on all night, and the glare disrupts the clarity. She heard from our overly intrusive and very protective neighbor that keeping the lights on at night was a suggestion made by the local police department. There had been a sudden outbreak in mid-day house burglaries. The police knew it was a couple—a man and woman—performing the crimes. They knew the type and color of car the couple drove in. The town was on high alert.


If the outside lights were off, I could see inside the car better; get a good look at who is—as I perceive—invading my space. I think about going over to the dining room for a better vantage point. We have a bay window area in the dining room, where it is very dark. I start to crawl in that direction, but remember that our oversized pine tree would further obstruct my view. I could turn the outside lights off, but I don’t want to let the people know I am watching.


I see the smoker flick the cigarette out the window, onto my parkway. The butt is still lit, and I could see smoke billow from the area. “Sonofabitch,” I say, “That bastard. I ought to go out there.”


Over the years I’ve grown indifferent to our landscaping. I have no interest in keeping my lawn green and healthy, mostly because my neighbor across the street is constantly working on his. He is out there every day, watering and cutting, pruning and preening, fertilizing and planting. He doesn’t have any kids; my excuse as to why I don’t have time to keep the lawn so perfect.
I had resolved to make this season better. I wanted to give it a try. I wanted to show the kids that hard work can pay off. They know the yard looks bad. They know I really don’t care about it, and I wanted to change that perception. The older they get, the more important it is to stay connected with them.


In the spring, I enrolled in a lawn maintenance program. I follow every step the company commands. I water the grass as instructed, and I cut it at the suggested frequency and at the proposed height. I alternate the direction I mow, and keep the kids off the lawn for three days after the company fertilizes.


Things have not really improved. My neighbor even mentioned it. “You sure are working hard on that lawn,” he said, slowly looking at it as he spoke, mentally commenting on the sorry shape of things. “I hope all that work you are doing will help.” I worry that the flicked butt would damage my precious commodity.




After a minute of no real movement or activity, the passenger door opens up. A young girl—no one I recognize—gets out and closes the door. She is wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of dark shorts. I could see her legs from my position on the floor. They look thin, as does, from what I can tell, the rest of her body. The girl walks over to the butt and steps on it.


“Thoughtful,” I say. The girl leaves the butt on my parkway which, while irritating, is fine since she killed the heat.


The girl can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Her hair is pulled back in a pony tail. I can’t tell what color her hair is, but I imagine brown, like my wife’s. She walks over to the hood of the car and takes a small backwards jump on top of it. She looks up at the sky and points with her right hand, saying something to her friend. I assume the friend replies because the girl seems to be laughing. At least her body shakes that way.


The girl’s friend opens the driver’s side door and closes it hard. It makes a loud thud, breaking the silence. I begin making the figure out as the driver walks toward the girl. The companion is another girl who looks a bit older, in her twenties, I conclude. The companion girl is similarly dressed, except I could clearly see that her shirt is a plain white tee. Neither of them looks familiar to me. I wonder if the younger girl goes to school with my niece, who lives down the road. I remind myself to call her up in the morning. I will try to describe the couple and see what she can tell me.


The companion girl eases herself onto the hood next to her friend. I can see that they are looking at each other, talking. Occasionally, one of the girls place a hand on the other’s leg or arm. They are both very animated as they speak. I wish I could hear what they are saying. It’s like watching a silent movie, or a show on TV with the sound off. I don’t even get the courtesy of closed captions.


I conclude that the girls are not the local thieves, and begin to lose interest in peeping at their interaction. I start to crawl back away from the window when I notice the older girl lean over and kiss the younger one on the lips. It is a full blown open mouth kiss with heads turning in opposite directions. I ease myself back toward the window to watch the show to which they are not selling tickets.


“They’re doing it in front of my house,” I say. “I have every right to watch.”


The older girl breaks away from the kiss, jumps off of the car and moves in between the legs of her friend. They begin kissing again, with the same intensity as before. I feel dirty for eavesdropping, but I cannot pull myself away from the free live show.


“The younger one,” I say, “she’s got to be at least eighteen,” This helps to ease my guilt. “I’m not a dirty old man. They’re both consenting adults.”


I watch the older girl reach her right hand under the younger girl’s shirt. Her arm moves left and right and around the girl’s back. After a second, her hand comes back out from beneath the shirt. She is holding the girl’s bra and dangles it in, teasingly.


The girls both begin laughing, but do not release their embrace. I am getting a bit uncomfortable from my angle on the floor, so I slowly shift and lay on my left side close to the bottom of the window. They continue kissing. I cannot look away.


I think about all of the times my wife and I did this as teenagers. Late night conversations in the car, talking about life after high school, making fun of our parents, kissing. We used to love those times together in the car. We’d sing along to all of the popular songs on the radio: Abracadabra, Eye of the Tiger, Rosanna, Jack and Diane. We were them, once upon a time, I think to myself. My wife and I don’t sing to songs on the radio anymore. She can’t stand the popular music our kids like. “It makes my ears bleed,” she says. My wife prefers to listen to public radio. I’m fine with that. I like keeping up with the news, and I like Ira Glass. I think we’d be good friends.
I decide that I am in this for the duration. I am getting extremely excited by their actions and hope they go beyond kissing. As if on cue, the older girl removes her friend’s black t-shirt and starts kissing and cupping her breasts. Their bodies are more animated. I pretend that I can hear their sounds.


“This is not happening,” I say, almost too loudly. I am a kid in a candy store. I have won the lottery. I am suddenly pleased at my crappy sleep pattern.


I think about pulling my boxers down to join them remotely, but consider my sleeping wife. She’s not a big fan of DVD porn, think about the reaction I’d get if she walked in on me, masturbating to two young girls parked in front of our house.


I suddenly see headlights from a car off in the distance. As it slowly approaches, the girl’s movements ease up. They stop kissing and hold each other close. The black t-shirt gets draped around the back of the younger girl to conceal her naked body. The car passes. I wonder if it’s the neighborhood thieves, casing out our street at night. Maybe they will decide to skip our house because of all of the activity. Maybe the girls have scared them away from our street, altogether.


The older girl tries to reignite the flame of passion that has been extinguished, but the younger girl has lost her spark. She puts on her shirt, picks up her bra off of the hood of the car, and drapes it on her arm.


The moment is over, for all of us, but they have business to finish later. I hear my wife in our bedroom, call my name. I wonder if the girls will still be together in several years from now, or even in a month. I wonder if this is just girls being experimental. “Love is one thing,” I say. “Life is another.”


My wife calls my name again. I get up from the floor, look down at myself, and think about cancelling my lawn service.

A decade of truth

I was thinking about how fast time passes. Not just the year, but the decade. As they say, it was just like yesterday that Cyndi was pregnant with our first born. We hadn't decided on a name right away, so we called our pending baby boy, "Hank." I remember New Year's Eve 1999. Everyone was fearful of Y2K, especially my dad. We were told to fill up our gas tanks, store bottled water, pull cash from our bank accounts, stock up on food, candles, batteries, blankets, flashlights. He, and many others, were convinced the world was going into mass hysteria. We celebrated the New Year at Duggan's Pub on Clark Street, enjoying all you can drink beverages, appetizers, and the company of our friends. Midnight came and went, and nothing different really happened.

So much has changed in the last 10 years. So much.

And then I was thinking about the game of Truth or Dare. Who hasn't played this fun game of our youth? I certainly did, many times with many people. I remember playing with Paula Klokashar, Sharon Harmon, Michelle Wyrack, a girl named Tracy whose last name escapes me, Shay. Kisses were exchanged, truths were told; sometimes a naked body part or two was exposed. It was all such pure and innocent fun. We explored boundaries, and enjoyed simple pleasures.

I thought about the game because of my kids. I was washing the dishes and I heard, "Let's play Truth or Dare," come out of the mouth of my daughter. Boy has the game changed. I mean, I understand she was playing with her brother and all, but the truths were even harmless and humorous.

"Who do you love?" she asked, "I mean, like, in the family."

"Go in my room," Frederic said on a dare to Lily, "and sit in the dark for ten seconds."

I even attempted to help liven the game up. "You need to dare each other to kiss someone or ask something you've always wanted to know."

But who would they kiss? Me? Cyndi? Each other?

And then the smartest thing was uttered in the room:

"We already tell each other the truth. We are a truthful family."

Whew...for now...but the next 10 years may be different, as they fly by like the last.

How to do the opposite of Dale Carnegie or Thanks for allowing me to vent

As I get older, and some might claim, wiser, I try to improve upon the mistakes I have made. This year marks some growth in many areas for me; namely the reparation of broken relationships. Time, distance, and maturity have a lot to do with this area of life, and I'm glad that the people with whom we've reconnected are back. It's a new relationship, kind of, but one that includes mutual respect for differing opinions; something that wasn't present previously.

I've also read some good sales/self-improvement books this year that helps highlight many of the personality traits that make for positive relationships. Earlier, it was the "7 Habits of Highly Effective People." This book is a little harder for me to embrace. I read it 10+ years ago, and still struggle with some of what Covey stresses. Not because of anything he writes, but mostly because I find it difficult to transition his Habits into my daily routine.

The book I'm reading now, "How to Win Friends & Influence People" by Dale Carnegie, is a bit more approachable for me. It was originally published in 1936, so when my manager suggested our sales team read the book together, I have to admit, I rolled my eyes.

"What can I learn from a book that was written so long ago," I thought to myself. I tend to put up barriers when I know nothing about the reality of certain things.

I have not finished the book yet--almost done with Part III--but I can tell you that if you apply much of what Carnegie suggests, life can and does improve. For example, when I had to deal with a customer service issue a few weeks ago, one that would have normally had me over the top and arguing with the agent, I tried an approach that Carnegie suggests. I calmly praised the agent, who was about to pass me on to someone else, told her that I appreciated everything she was doing for me and that I realized my problem (the new cell phone we got for Cyndi was not working) was a bit complicated, but I needed her help. Instead, she spent the next 30 minutes resolving my issue. It was genius. I relaxed my natural instinct to demand service and got what I wanted anyway. Cyndi even noticed the situation when I was on the phone and praised me for my effort. I could not wait to try another concept.

However, there seems to be an exception to every rule. Earlier today, Cyndi had some minor surgery (she's resting comfortably). While I was waiting, I began reading Part III of the book. This section deals with winning people to your way of thinking. Carnegie stresses that you cannot win an argument (you win no points; you actually lose when you win), so it is pointless to engage in the verbal diarrhea.

I contemplated this concept when the pager I had in my possession buzzed, informing me that I could join Cyndi in recovery. Next July, Cyndi and I will be together 15 years. I think it's safe to say we know each other. Every time she's put under anesthesia it's a nightmare. She gets totally zonked out, is nauseous, and can't wait for things to get back to normal. We tell the doctors this, we tell the nurses this, we'd shout it from a chair if it helped people actually hear what we are saying.

When I entered the recovery room, Cyndi was as I expected. Her eyes were red and glassy, she was drinking a cup of juice, and she could barely carry on a conversation. I took my spot in the chair next to her, and proceeded to wait it out with my wife. She'd eventually come around, and we'd be on our way.

I've worked in Health Care since 1992. I'm not a doctor or a medical expert, but I've been in enough in-patient situations that I know that people are always within earshot. I'm also a people watcher. So as my wife attempted to "sleep it off," I watched the nursing staff. More specifically, I listened. They began complaining about needing to get the patients out of Phase II Recovery (where Cyndi was) because they "needed the beds." They complained about being short staffed. They just complained.

Frustrated and overworked, Cyndi's nursed rushed into the room carrying my wife's belongings, and proceeded to tell us it was time to go. I took a deep breath and thought about Carnegie. I knew the right thing to do was not to argue with this woman. I reminded her about Cyndi's reactions, and she immediately went into defensive mode, telling me, "everyone is like this."

As I said, every rule, no matter how hard you try to adopt it, has exceptions. In my mind, I apologized to Carnegie, and defended my wife. I was not going to lose to the hospital's need to empty a bed. Cyndi needed more time, and I was going to make sure she got it.

The nurse wasn't budging. She rattled off the discharge instructions and continued to attempt to hurry us out. I hurried her out of the room by placating her, shut off the lights, and let my wife sleep another hour. Nausea set in, as expected, and we were there another hour while that passed.

In the end, like Carnegie suggests, no one won, really. I got what I wanted, but left with a bad impression of the day's events. This was supposed to be about Cyndi, and maybe my reaction continued to make it so, but I also feel like my need to protect/defend my wife got in the way; kind of like I did during the broken relationship I mentioned earlier.

People change their ways as they get older. I like to think I am making steps toward improvement. Today was both positive and negative. I like the positive changes better.

No, I am your father

I was seven and ten, respectively, when I first saw "Star Wars" and "The Empire Strikes Back." George Lucas changed the face of movies back then, but I don't think I appreciated his creative gift until now. I've almost always been uninterested in the "Star Wars" movies since I was a kid. I didn't really get much of what was happening on the screen. The light saber scenes, the laser shots in space, cool characters like Yoda, R2-D2, C-3PO, that was what kept my attention. My ability to follow the plot, and understand the message of good vs. evil was overshadowed by my immaturity and lack of interest.

Frederic, on the other hand, is all about "Star Wars." Life, lately, has been "Star Wars Legos" this and "Star Wars" movies that. He's been begging us to let him see the movies, and I've been unmotivated because of my past history. We've had some "down time" over the past two days; the kids playing with their new toys, Cyndi and I packing up the holiday decorations, shoveling snow (three times), and a trip to Byrd School to go sledding. We also snuck in the first two chapters of the original "Star Wars Trilogy." I didn't even know that "Star Wars IV" (the theatrically released first movie) was also subtitled "A New Hope." Frederic did, of course.

Well, I've been schooled. You can teach an old dog new tricks, I guess. Frederic's insistence that I would enjoy myself has proved to be true. The action, the story, even the late 70's/early 80's graphics are all extremely impressive. It's been so long since I've seen the movies that it's almost like watching them new; like Frederic. I'm excited to see "Return of the Jedi" and really anxious to see the latest of the three movies. I don't think I will be disappointed.

I guess I have to continue to keep an open mind, and appreciate the lessons my nine year old son can teach me. Who would have thunk?

Lollipop

Sadness surrounds me like a comfortable cloak.
It is in this state
I think of life
as it should be.

People don’t use words like that anymore.
Cloak. Icebox. Milkman. Going Steady.
Musicians are not as jovial
when they sang songs like
Lollipop, Mr. Sandman, The Name Game.
The tenderness of an era.
The realities of advances
further confusion and guilt.

Sinister maladies tell
lessons to be learned
while girls playing hopscotch
on city streets prevail.

I want to stand on rooftops and smile
drive with the top down and sing
go to confession and be truthful.
I want to eat
without worrying
about
fatty acids, bad cholesterol
carbohydrates.
If only I can trust myself
to remember
reasons why
I refuse to cherish moments
watching seconds pass.

It’s not all that bad.
Children tell us through action;
especially our own.
The weight for them
too much to carry
while picking fresh flowers
and wondering
how great it will be
to be just like their parents.

Music to my ears

You know you are getting old when the music of the times hurts your ears. It's probably like Rock and Roll was to my grandparents; Elvis, The Beatles, it caused a commotion. Here is a list of the Top 10 current singles on iTunes:

1. TiK ToK by someone named Ke$ha (that' right, there is a $ in her name)
2. Bad Romance by Lady GaGa (she wants to be a "Lady" yet has baby gibberish in her name and I've seen her have a Zipper on her eye)
3. Fireflies by Owl City
4. Replay by Iyaz
5. Empire State of Mind by JayZ (featuring Alicia Keyes)
6. Down (featuring Lil' Wayne) by Jay Sean
7. Watcha Say by Jason Derulo
8. Do You Remember (featuring Sean Paul and Lil' Wayne) by Jay Sean (I'm wondering if this guy can sing alone. It took me four times to get these names right)
9. Party in the U.S.A by Miley Cyrus
10. Meet Me Halfway by the Black Eyed Peas (the people who brought us such greats as Ring-a-Ling, Boom Boom Pow and My Humps)

Lily got a CD this morning from Santa Claus: "60's Jukebox". We are listening to it right now, and the innocence of it all makes me smile. Here are the 11 tracks on this CD:

1. These Oldies But Goodies (Remind Me of You) by Little Caesar
2. Needles & Pins by the Clovers
3. Sea Cruise by Frankie Ford
4. Keep A Knockin by Little Richard
5. Poetry in Motion by Johnny Tillotson
6. Teen Beat by Sandy Nelson
7. The Great Pretender by the Platters
8. Yakety Yak by The Coasters
9. Sheila by Tommy Roe
10. More Than Words Can Say by Bobby Vee
11. Sugar Shack by Jimmy Gilmer

I love to hear songs from my parent's era. Maybe it's the simplicity of it all. I love the fact that men wore hats whenever they went out. They also wore slacks, and collared shirts. They paid attention to their cars, courted their girls, some wore suits to baseball games. And I'm not naive enough to think there weren't problems. What with the drugs and all.

But it still seems like a era I would have loved.

21 more days, Dad

Now that Christmas is here, the kids, apparently, need a new event to count down toward. They've skipped New Year's and have gone right to my birthday.

"21 more days, Dad!" I was excitedly informed. We have a couple of parties coming up to celebrate the occasion, so I am excited too.

In Denmark, people help mark momentous occasions with what is called a "Cold Table." I LOVE cold tables. It's a lot of work, a several course meal consisting of various herrings, meats, cheeses, and of course, alcohol. Carlsberg Beer and Akvavit (snaps), to be more specific. Danes have a saying, that "the herring needs the snaps to be able to swim!" And "you can't have just one snaps, you need two; one for each leg." It's a three hour meal, with lots of conversation, plenty of laughs, and singing.

Cyndi and my mother-in-law are throwing me a Cold Table on January 2. We have about 20 people coming, and I am really looking forward to it.

We are also getting together with friends and family in the city on January 16. Cyndi's planning the day/night's events. She was thinking of an early arrival at our hotel, a couple of frames of bowling (and beer, of course) at a local alley (bowling is something we don't often, and with a group of friends, can be a lot of fun), dinner at a place TBD, drinks at one of my best friend's bar (The Pepper Canister), and possibly a visit to Howl at the Moon. It's a whirlwind day/night, but one that will be great.

I am glad it's only 21 more days left. I'm running out of things to write!

Searching for Ghosts of Christmas Past

I'm probably doing what a lot of people are probably doing all over the country--all over the world, I'd bet: trying to keep the spirit and tradition alive. I wrote a lot about tradition during Thanksgiving, but I'd bet that Christmas traditions (insert appropriate religious holiday here) are more sacred. For me, it's trying to recreate Mushroom Soup of Christmas Past. More specifically, trying to make Frederic Grudzien's Mushroom Soup.

While I knew Cyndi's grandfather before he died, I never got the opportunity to eat his food. By the time I entered the family, Dziadek (pronounced Jah-jah, as the kids know him by), had already passed on his traditions to his children. Legend has it, the man could cook. And eat. He made his own pickles, he made his own wine, and with his wife by his side, he hand rolled Pierogies. And of course, he made Mushroom Soup.

The recipe is actually pretty simple. At least the one that has passed from Cyndi's cousin to us:

• 48 oz of Chicken Broth


• 1/2 teaspoon of nutmeg


• 1/4 teaspoon of Cheyenne pepper


• 22 oz of Coffeemate


• 4 pounds of mushrooms

Mix all of the ingredients in order and boil for five minutes.

That's it. A child can follow that recipe. I've done it every year for the past five or six. And I've done a pretty good job, considering. I am told Dziadek used to pick wild mushrooms for his soup, and he used to hand slice every one of them. I just spent $20 on store bought mushrooms, and I used an electric salad shooter to slice them. It's the same thing I've done every year, without major fail. This year, however, I thought I'd try something different. I used liquid creamer in place of the powdered kind. My thinking: it will be creamier. Ha!

Just as I was mixing the ingredients in the pot, Cyndi said, jokingly, "My grandfather is probably rolling over in his grave." The joke is on me, I guess, because he's not only rolling, he's shouting, "Stop the world, I want to get off!"

When Cyndi and I first started dating, she tried making my grandmother's chocolate chip cookies. She wanted to please me, because I lamented about missing the treat. My mother gave her the recipe, and Cyndi insisted on specifically following it. She even went so far as to use the "Baubie Spoon," which was left behind in my mother's cabinet after my grandmother passed away. The result of the effort was an exact duplicate. I thought my grandmother was actually in the room as I enjoyed the crunchy and chocolaty goodness. I was pleased. Cyndi was pleased. A tradition lived on. So we thought. It's been almost 15 years and Cyndi has never been able to duplicate the effort. She tries and tries and tries, but they either come out too thin or too soft. I appreciate the attempts, but they are not my grandmother's cookie.

Friday, we will not be enjoying Frederic Grudzien's Mushroom Soup. Cyndi is trying to fix my mess. She's adding powered cream to the concoction, and may try adding some flour, as well. I can't stomach paying another $20 for mushrooms, and I am left wondering what happened to the four pounds I sliced, because they don't appear to be in the pot anymore. I didn't know you could boil mushrooms into nothing.

Some traditions should be left to the experts. I've found one...

Driving by the old apartment

I wonder if it is sometimes better to not go back. That it's better to keep the image alive in our memories only because the reality is, things change. And I'm not suggesting that change is bad, but maybe that change can be sad. Sometimes, going back can be great. Like when people you haven't seen in a while are truly happy to see you. It's even better when they didn't expect to see you, and the joy you watch before your eyes unfolds. But, the things that are sad, like when a building, which used to be your old apartment--your first apartment--is gone. Demolished. Knocked down. Replaced by trees and probably a parking lot. I gasped when I saw that tonight. Gasped.

No longer can those walls do any talking. Forever gone is the green shag carpeting, the black and white square linoleum kitchen tile, and the window ledge where we'd sit and watch the traffic and the people go by on Sheridan Road. There won't be any more parties there, either, where it's best to be the "cup guy," and the girls downstairs--twin sisters--commingle amongst strangers. And maybe the hookers are gone too. They've found another corner to hawk their wares.

Goodbye carpet. Goodbye tile. Goodbye window ledge. Goodbye parties, and sisters, and cups. Goodbye ladies.

I'm not the only one getting older.

I'm glad...

I wrote the following on March 15, 2002 (before I considered going to Northwestern for my graduate degree in writing):


It’s time to understand that the stress I put on myself regarding my writing is unnecessary and unwarranted. I need to spend less energy on the thought of writing or not writing and more energy on the action of my craft. What I should do is not be fearful of myself or doubt the words I choose to put down on paper or the screen. As soon as I start to doubt myself that is the moment I give up and get frustrated. Remember the days when all you could think of was writing or getting your creative thoughts down on paper. Those are the days you need to bring yourself back to and mimic. Don’t be afraid of what you write down or how much gets written. Concentrate on making the energy true again and bringing back the spirit that you once had.


I'm glad a lot of that stress is gone. I'm glad I rediscovered my love of the craft. I'm glad I have a supportive wife, who never once complained about her husband spending money and time on a degree that didn't really further his professional career. I'm glad I have friends who support my writing (THAT MEANS YOU, EVERYONE WHO READS, COMMENTS, CONSIDERS, ENJOYS, OR DISLIKES MY BLOG). I'm glad I have a friend like Shay, who continued to push me in the direction of a blog. I'm glad for Lakeside Ink. I'm glad that Harper College allows me to teach classes in creative writing. I'm glad I feel the confidence to cross genres. I'm glad I like to read. I'm glad I have a great job that supports creativity in the world. I'm glad for my lifelong friends from college, who like to poke fun at me about writing (THAT MEANS YOU JAV...STILL WORKING ON YOUR SCREENPLAY AND MEMOIR?). I'm glad my kids always ask me, "when are you going to get your next degree?" I'm glad my wife is dedicated to this family and the education of our children. I'm glad for reunions, reconciliations, and lasting relationships. I'm glad I am healthy. I'm glad I have a job. I'm glad I have a wife. I'm glad I have children. I'm glad my brothers and I have grown closer over the years. I'm glad my mother is helping others. I'm glad for my church. I'm glad for my house, and the welcoming atmosphere--the hospitality--we have created. I'm glad I am less afraid.

I'm glad.

Belly Dancer Surprise

Having a birthday so soon after the holidays was sometimes a drag. People can get "partied" out by the end of December, so the prospect of another celebration just two weeks later never seemed very exciting to those around me. It's not that people didn't attend, or that parties were not planned, but there always seemed to be this feel of "ugh" wrapped around the time.

I'm sure it was even worse for my father. His birthday was exactly a week before mine; January 7. I'm sure sometimes, his birthday was overshadowed by not only the holidays, but by his son: me. My father was 32 years older than me. I turned eight the year he turned 40. I have no recollection of what we did to help him celebrate this milestone. I wonder if Frederic and Lily will remember mine when it happens.

I do, however, remember his 45th birthday. I've never been one to understand celebrating the "5" birthdays past 25. 75 might make sense, but having a monumental celebration on 35, 45, 55, etc., doesn't make sense to me.

I can remember my father's 45th birthday for two reasons: 1)It was also my 13th birthday; the day I "became a man"; and 2)my mother had a belly dancer attend my Bar Mitzvah celebration as a surprise present for my father. I'm sure I have the converted VHS tape DVD tucked away in a box somewhere, but I have somewhat vivid memories of the strange "lap dance" my father received. The woman wasn't very pretty, I remember. Maybe belly dancers are not, by design. I remember she was thin, had very wavy permed brown hair, and wore this big plastic rimmed glasses. She was draped in silk linens and had tiny symbols attached to the index finger and thumb on both her hands.

At the time, my father looked much older than I today feel 40 really is. I mean, he looked old, with a full salt and pepper beard and thinning light brown and pepper hair. I remember the dancer put a chair in the middle of our dance floor, and instructed my father to sit. He had a big smile on his face, both from excitement and, I assume, from embarrassment. He didn't like to be the center of attention, but I think he appreciated my mother's gesture. He set aside his uncomfortable emotion to please her and the invited guests in his basement, who watched--also with excitement--as the dance routine unfolded before their eyes. It was a treat for everyone, but boy was it really a product of the 70's.

My father is gone now--almost three years--so we will not be sharing the celebration together. When I turn 40 next month, I don't think I will be surprised with a visit by a belly dancer. Thank God it will be 2010 and not 1978...

Two months added

If I was 40 in 1970, the year I was born, my life expectancy would have been 65.5 years; much lower than the recently published increase of 77.9 years. The Centers for Disease Control updated the average life expectancy this week by two months since 2006-2007. Two months doesn't seem like a lot, but I'll take what I can get.

As I get closer to reaching this significant milestone, I think back to the day I sat in Ft. Smith, Arkansas 339 days ago. I wasn't very excited about much, feeling sorry for myself, really. My goal was to reflect over my life, and see if I could find the spark that I would feel when I was a kid.


I used to get so giddy as my birthday approached. I looked forward to a special birthday meal my parents would prepare for me, the gifts I would receive, and the well wishes I would get. When my grandparents were still alive--Lillian and Louis, my mother's parents--they always called and performed the same routine.

"Howdy, partner," they would simultaneously say, in their best southern/cowboy voice. Momentarily, I would believe. I imagined they were Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, or maybe even The Lone Ranger and Tonto. I wish I could remember more specifically what they said and how they sounded. It was always one of the best parts of my special day.

Things are starting to come together for me. I am excited about turning 40. I am excited about the events that are being planned. I look forward to it all.

Mission almost accomplished.

Hold the Mayo

After the nubbin was removed, I continued to have pain on my right testicle. I started to see a series of physicians who were baffled by my situation. They prescribed antibiotics, injected numbing medications directly into my testicle with very large needles, told me to take warm baths and wear a jock strap all the time. It got to the point where my frustration became theirs so, in typical pass the buck fashion, my internist suggested a trip to the Mayo Clinic.
Although my father worked as a fleet service clerk for American Airlines and had an unlimited supply of stand-by plane tickets, we drove to Rochester, Minnesota. My parent’s had been divorced for a little less than two years and were casually dating each other. The three of us endured the six-hour trip together in my father’s Ford Probe. We shared a single room and dined in the hotel restaurant for each meal of the two-day trip. We were together in cramped quarters. The closest we had been with one another in a very long time.
At the Clinic, I was able to undergo my examinations without my parents hovering over me. I was relieved to get a few moments of time to myself when a nurse came into the room to examine me.
“My name is Nurse Johnson. You can call me Betty.” Betty looked like she was in her mid-fifties. She had short brown hair and was very thin and athletic looking. “Doctor will be here in a few minutes, but I have to examine you first.”
Back home, male physicians conducted all of my examinations. Whenever a nurse was with me, it was always just to ask questions, never to actually touch me.
“Lie back down on the table and raise your gown for me if you will,” Betty instructed.
I did as I was told and she began checking me for where I was in pain.
“Does it hurt here?” she asked.
“Uh-huh,” I replied.
“How about here?”
“Yep!”
The procedure continued for several minutes. My responses where short and grunted for two reasons: one was because I was in pain from all of the manipulation of my testicles and the other was because I was trying to concentrate on something else other than what was actually going on. Although I didn’t find Betty very sexually appealing, she was a woman and she was fondling my package. Don’t get hard . . . don’t get hard . . . think about something else . . .
It was torture and just before she told me she was done, I couldn’t take it anymore. My mind slipped and I started to get an erection. I didn’t know what to do.
The immature nine year-old in me, who spent all that time watching porn, expected Nurse Johnson to tell me not to worry about it, that she was flattered by my gesture. She would tell me that many of her patients reacted the same way but that there was something about me she liked. She would start to undress and cue the porn music.
The embarrassed 20 year-old apologized and turned red.
Betty stopped what she was doing, jotted a few notes down on her clipboard and looked at me. “You can sit up now,” she said. She gathered all of her things and opened the door. Before she closed it, she looked directly at me, paused and smiled. “Doctor will be right in,” she said, “and you won’t have anything to worry about.” Her eyes looked down toward my penis and she closed the door. I was sure I heard Nurse Betty Johnson laughing when the doctor came in and instructed me to bend over, for my first and very thorough, prostate exam.

Four Score and Seven Years Ago

There was a time when I used to shoot steroids, affectionately known as, “the juice,” in my ass. There were times when I would shoot it in my stomach, my back and my shoulders. The worst was when I shot it in my legs. I sat on the toilet seat with my pants and underwear around my ankles, and stabbed myself with a ½ inch diabetic needle. I raised my arm high into the air and brought it down hard on my leg. I had to do it repeatedly because the needle would just pop back out as quickly as it went in. I had very little fat for the needle to absorb. My legs were my best feature. They were where I had the most muscle. After the stabbing incident, I woke up the next morning with black and yellow bruises on the inside of each of my thighs. They were matching in color and were both bigger than my hands.

My experience with steroids began with pills four weeks before my first bodybuilding competition. I purchased a bottle of Anavar and my dealer, Ed, suggested I start with 10: five in the morning and five at night. The paper insert in the box that contained the bottle indicated that the proper dosage for someone taking Anavar—under a doctor’s supervision—was one to two pills a day. I listened to Ed. I was sixteen; he was 43. I was in high school; he had a job working construction. I lived with my parents; he had his own apartment. I was a novice; he was taking and selling steroids for the better part of fifteen years. I listened to Ed.
The shift from oral steroids to injectable was done without thought. I had placed seventh out of eight in the 1986 Teenage Mr. Chicagoland contest, which was a huge disappointment. I wanted to do better. My lifting partner Chuck, who was in his mid-twenties with several cycles of steroid use behind him, suggested that the only way to place higher the next time was to take the leap.
I purchased an eight-week cycle of Deca-Durabolin and a supply of hypodermic needles for my friend, Gregg and myself. He was over 250 pounds and was muscle, without the steroids, but he wanted to go on them with me to see what would happen. He was living with me in my parents’ house after he graduated high school in Florida. His parents were divorced and his alcoholic/bartender father lived on the other side of town with his sister, so he didn’t have enough room for Gregg.

Our cycle consisted of a 1cc shot of Deca each week for eight weeks. At first, I wasn’t very comfortable with the whole extracting liquid from a vial and stabbing a very sharp needle in the ass of another person, but I eventually overcame my concern. The biggest issue we always had was making sure there were no air holes in the syringe. When Ed gave me our first round of supplies, he handed everything to me in a brown paper lunch bag. I handed him $150 in cash and after he counted it, he grabbed my shoulder and firmly pressed his fingers inward. “Tap those fucking air bubbles good before you shoot yourself. I don’t need to be no accessory to a fucking crime when the cops find you dead from a heart attack because you shot yourself with air.” Ed freaked me out so much that I paid his paranoia forward and passed it along to Gregg. Sometimes we would spend hours tapping and tapping.

We used to get up early in the morning and cook breakfast for each other: eggs (hard boiled, whites, beaters) and oatmeal. Gregg made the best oatmeal with just enough water and salt. I liked how quiet it was in the house when we cooked and ate our breakfast. In the mornings, we didn’t have much to say to one another and would listen to the sound of the crickets and clock, which often sounded the same. We were friends and were engaged in illegal and harmful activity. The absence of words encouraged contemplation of our actions.

I took various forms of steroids for two years. When I was 18, just before I received my high school diploma, I felt a lump on my testicle. It was only on one of the balls, the right one. I worked out on my legs that day and I had squatted 540 pounds for six reps and leg pressed 1250 for 12 reps. I figured the pain I was experiencing had something to do with my workout. My father thought the pain was a hernia, so he sent me to his doctor.

At the doctor’s office, the conversation was quick:

ME: I have been taking steroids on an off for two years and if you tell my father, I will sue you. I know my rights. I am legally able to tell you not to say anything, right?

HIM: You have a nubbin on your testicle and that nubbin needs to be removed. The nubbin is a direct result of the steroids you said you took. I cannot say anything to your parents.

I have a scar right below my navel that looks like the profile of Abraham Lincoln. The doctor removed my nubbin. There is not much use for a nubbin and the scar is not that bad. Sometimes I draw a top hat on the scar with a black felt tip pen and use the hole on the tip of my penis to recite the Gettysburg Address.

Finger Puppet

I don't know if this is actually true, but when I was a kid, my grandfather wanted to take me to audition for the part of Danny Torrance in Stanley Kubrick's "The Shining." I guess there was an open casting call in Chicago and he really wanted me to be in the movie. My parents didn't agree. Maybe they knew the background on the movie and didn't want to further warp my mind (let's not forget the http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/03/childhood-movie-memories.html incident). The boy who eventually got the part, Danny Lloyd, is three years--almost to the day--younger than me. He was chosen by Kubrick because of his ability to concentrate for extended periods of time. One would think that because of the graphic nature of the film that Lloyd would have possibly grown up with many troubles. Just the opposite. He made one more movie, "Will: The Autobiography of G. Gordon Liddy," and left acting. He became a science professor in the Midwest.

Who knows what my life would have turned out to be had I auditioned and received the role. Maybe, instead of sitting in my hotel room, alone, with the TV on as company, I would be standing in front of a mirror with my index finger raised, saying, "Redrum! Redrum!"

How to enjoy some Opis One

I am in Asheville, North Carolina. I have never been in this area, but if I were to describe it in two words, I would use hilly and friendly. Last night, we went to a restaurant called the "Fiddlin' Pig." It is, of course, a BBQ place that features live Bluegrass Music each night. We stumbled across it as we drove up and down Tunnel Road, trying to make a selection between all of the various chain restaurants. When I travel, I like to stay away from the chains. I can get a mediocre pasta special at the Olive Garden in Chicago any time I want. I don't need to travel 600+ miles to get the same meal. So when we settled on the Fiddlin' Pig, we had high expectations; which were pleasantly met.

My first experience with Asheville was not as pleasant. US Air lost my luggage and had no ETA on when it would arrive. Traveling on business and losing your luggage is not fun. I had no idea if I was going to be able to make it to the appointment we had the next day or not. When we arrived at the restaurant, I just wanted to fill my belly and move on. It's hard to have that tough attitude when you walk into a place and there are little kids dancing on the dance floor to a group of musicians enjoying the hell out of themselves.

Bear with me, there's a relevant point.

Our extremely friendly waitress wanted nothing less than to make sure our visit to her establishment was perfect. She made food suggestions, presented everything with a smile and an anecdote, and made the insignificant stop (in the grand scheme of travel related activities), very memorable.

Tonight, we had the same experience, and then some. We went "downtown" where the tallest building is 18 floors, and the equivalent to the Magnificent Mile includes a General Store. You can't expect too much when many of the restaurants are empty. When we arrived at the highly suggested Doc Chey's, we were, once again, pleasantly surprised. We happened to enter the place that everyone in downtown Asheville wanted to be. There was an actual wait for a table. We enjoyed a glass of wine at the bar, interacted with the bartender to get her suggestions for dinner, were seated within a short 10 minute wait, where we interacted with our waitress, Deana, who actually took the time to talk with us and make sure our needs were beyond met. The food was very good (Japanese noodle shop), and additional suggestions were made to enjoy the rest of the night.

Bear with me, there's a relevant point.

When we arrived at Tressa's, a Blues club, where the bartender was fruitier than the lemon and limes he used to mix in his drinks (his admission), the patrons can smoke (until January 2), and the live Blues band played Jazz, I immediately began conversing with a couple next to our table. What caught my eye about them was the compact humidor they donned. It contained four cigars, each of high caliber, and they were full of cigar knowledge. We talked a lot about cigars and I asked them about drinking wine with cigars. The couple were obviously very into their favorite pastime. She kept a couple of humidors at home, filled with 30-40 cigars, and he had a couple of his own at her house, with another 3o.

They offered one of their stock to me, but I wasn't in the mood. I explained to them that I enjoyed smoking a cigar every now and then. They assumed that my traveling companion, Nicole, was my wife, and that I wasn't smoking because she was with me. I corrected their mistake, and told them how Cyndi actually enjoyed the smell of cigar smoke. We also talked about the mixture of wine and cigars.

This is where there's a relevant point.

I told them that I was going to uncork the bottle of Opus One I received a a gift on my 40th birthday. As an incredibly nice gesture, they offered to send me a cigar that goes with the drinking of this fine bottle of wine. I gave them my personal information, and I truly believe that at some point in the next 29 days, a cigar will arrive at the house.

Asheville is filled with hills and friendly people. I've seen nothing less, and I think, in 29 days, I will feel nothing less.

These are just my random thoughts on dogs

My dog, Rex, sometimes jumps our fence. It's a six foot fence surrounding our back yard. He's been doing it since we got him four years ago. We even got an Invisible Fence to contain him, but we don't always use it, so he jumps. Cyndi has started to bribe him with treats. She will give him half of a biscuit when she lets him out, and then promise him the other half when he returns. Sometimes it works, but if he's left out there too long, he gets bored and jumps. He doesn't go very far usually, and most often comes when we call or whistle for him. It's still frustrating because he's a good dog, so I am afraid if someone finds him, they may keep him.

Rex is a mixed breed; mostly German Shepherd, but also part Boxer. When we adopted him from the rescue, they told us he was a German Shepherd/Mastiff. They said he was going to be over 100 pounds. That was my criteria for a dog. I've always wanted to have a big dog. I've had dogs all my life. Medium and small dogs. Never the gigantic, lovable goof. We didn't know Rex didn't have any Mastiff in him until last year. Thanks to science and genius marketing, we purchased a home pet genetics kit. When the kit arrived, it contained two swab sticks. I had to swab Rex's cheek for five seconds and place the samples in the return envelope. I considered swabbing my own cheek, just to see what they said, but also considered the $45 we were already spending. Two weeks later, we received our results. I, in fact, was not our doggy's daddy.

Rex sometimes seems human; like he understands our conversations and wants to interact with us. Cyndi and the kids take him with them on outings all of the time. He comes with us on mini-vacations, and is a very hospitable guest. When we had Friday and Leinie (our dogs P.R.), we never travelled with them. Friday was extremely car sick, to the point we had to give her Dramamine before we had to take her anywhere. Leinie wasn't too bad on the road. In fact, we travelled 1800 miles together when we moved from Scottsdale to Chicago. But, Leinie wasn't very house trained.

We have a lot of fun with Rex. He shares a lot of emotion with us. He's been happy, scared, depressed, sick, maybe even a little jealous. I think they know every human emotion and are aware of how their owner's feel.

Can I be a witness?

Fate is a funny thing. Or maybe it's serendipity. As many people know, Cyndi and I grew up 1/4 mile away from each other. We went to the same grammar school, the same junior high, and the same high school. We played in the same areas, knew many of the same people, and quite possibly interacted with each other. But it wasn't until we met as young adults, that the magic, or the chemistry, or the timing, or whatever the proper phrase, was right for us.

Consider the couple who eye each other from afar. Maybe his name is Murray and her name is Crystal. Maybe he is from Scotland and is a soccer instructor, and maybe she is from Indiana and is a registered nurse. Maybe they both live in a big city--like Chicago--happy with the paths their lives have taken, but still searching. Searching for that person to fill an empty space. Searching for someone to share a beer with on a Saturday afternoon; someone to split the Sunday paper with over coffee. Maybe Murray and Crystal have crossed paths many times in the big city, but one day the magic or the chemistry, or the timing, or whatever the phrase, makes it right for them.

I could be wrong, but I think this happened to a young couple I met last night at Elephant & Castle on Adams Street. I feel that, during my brief interaction with them, I was witnessing something special. I saw it in their eyes. It's always in the eyes. And the way her leg rested in between his, and the way they playfully touched one another. This was their first date, and I am probably projecting more of what I hope might happen for them than really what I know. Love can be filled with many things, including pressure. They certainly don't need to hear it from a strange 39 and 334 day year old stranger.

I hope fate. I hope serendipity. I hope cupid. I hope.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

The holidays are about many things. It's a time when you consider those less fortunate than you. It's a time when--if you have kids--you can use a simple phrase to keep your kids in check (Thanks, good old St. Nick!). It's a time for giving, a time for receiving, a time for prayer, and a time for gathering. The holidays are also a time for something else.

Crawling...


I'm proud of my friend, Jeff Burd. He's a giver. He thinks of others before he considers himself. He tries very hard--every year for the past 10--to gather people together; in remembrance.

So this year, today even, when you are considering which organization to support, consider The James Francis Ryan Memorial Pub Crawl (http://www.cubsfan1.com/Pubcrawl/).

We will be taking participants and more importantly DONATIONS all day at the following locations:

1
12:00 PM
Arrive Billy Goat Tavern
330 S Wells St
312.554.0297


2
1:30 PM
Arrive Elephant & Castle
111 W Adams St
312.236.6656


3
2:30 PM
Arrive Berghoff
17 W Adams St
312.427.3170


4
3:30 PM
Arrive Elephant & Castle
185 N Wabash Ave
312.345.1710


5
5:00 PM
Arrive Rossi''s
412 N State St.
312.644.5775



6
6:00 PM
Arrive The Pepper Canister
509 N Wells St.
312.467.3300



7
7:00 PM
Arrive Garret Ripley''s
712 N Clark St.
312.642.2900


8
08:00 PM
Arrive Elephant & Castle
160 East Huron St
312.440.1180

9
9:00 PM
Arrive Pippin''s
806 N Rush St.
312.787.5435

10
??:00 PM
Arrive Bootleggers
21 W Division St.
312.266.0944

Feel free to make your pledge in person, or if that is not possible, call in your generosity. Just tell the friendly establishment's phone operator your order ("drinks are on me for the spirited folks on the pub crawl" is the easiest thing to say...have your credit card handy, including the three digit code on the back!).


Won't you support a worthy cause and make someone's holiday season that much more special?

Thank you...

My very own A Christmas Story

While mine wasn't an official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle, I once lived like Ralphie Parker. I was around the same age as the movie's main character when I got my Daisy Air Rifle from my parents. I too, heeded warnings similar to the classic, "You'll shoot your eye out."

While my eye was never in much danger, my brother, Ira, did injure me. When our parents were away, the rifle always found its way out of our parent's bedroom, where it was held for "safe keeping." When shooting targets or invading property rodents got boring, Ira decided to chase me around the house with the rifle. While he often threatened to shoot, he never did. Until one fateful day, when his finger pulled too far.

The Daisy model shot both pellets and BB's, but we were not big fans of the former. Pellets didn't ricochet off the wall like a BB did. Ricochet is exactly what the BB did that day. It bounced off several of our walls, leading me to believe that I was safe, until I felt the stinging pain in my left calf. The BB lodged itself in my leg, leaving a perfect circle in its place. Blood trickled down and onto the brown linoleum kitchen floor. The sudden shift in situation stopped us both in our tracks.

I shrieked in pain, while Ira dropped the rifle and ran to my side. He examined my wound and declared that I was overreacting.

"Stop being a sissy," he insisted, "don't be a baby about this."

"It hurts, you big jerk," I countered. "I'm injured for life."

He wiped the blood off of my leg with his dirty fingers and quickly popped the BB out of my leg. The shock quickly wore and we both started laughing.

It's what we did. One of us (mostly me) would get hurt during a scuffle, it would stop our shenanigans, and we'd bust out laughing (don't deny it, Ira...remember the pulled thumb incident).

We never mentioned the BB incident to our parents. They would have taken the rifle away from me. And when Frederic asks me if he can have an air rifle, I am certain my response will be, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid."

All I want for Christmas is a little bit of magic

Earlier this year, I wrote about how Frederic learned the truth about Santa Claus. I made him promise me that he wouldn't ruin anything for Lily, and he's really been great about it. Too great, actually. He's expressing his excitement about the pending visit, he wrote a letter, he's not even giving me a knowing nod. It's making me wonder if he deserves either an Academy Award, he's convinced himself to forget what he knows, or he actually forgot.

I'm guessing he's just being a good sport about it, but his convincing attitude reminds of myself when I was about his age. Even though we did not "technically" celebrate Christmas, I convinced myself that Santa was real. Or I tried real hard at the charade. Like Frederic, I remained on my best behavior during the holiday season, I wrote and sent a letter to the North Pole, and as the day/night approached, I was optimistic. My brother, Ira, played along. He invited me to sleep in his room with him on Christmas Eve, and he stood at his bedroom window with me pointing out lights in the night sky, wondering if any of them were Santa and his sleigh.

This may be our last year enjoying the full flavor of excitement. I'm fearful that Lily will learn the truth. The joy I felt that holiday season when I was ten was probably the most excited I've ever been about the occasion. Frederic may be hanging on, but I can tell the magic is fading. I wish it were that easy to bottle the magic or preserve the excitement.

Kind of like birthdays, I guess.

Transportation Trepidation - Part 2

And so, the flight was, indeed, very bumpy last night. I have no idea how pilots maintain composure during constant pockets of air, tossing our metal tube every which way. But, I'm glad they do.

The flight from Nashville to Chicago is a quick hour. In my experience, when the pilot lets the passengers know that the crew will not be offering the beverage service, and that they will remain in their seats throughout the entire duration, it's not a good sign. I hear that and I quickly brace myself for the ride. Those were the exact words out of the captain's mouth last night. Although he did promise some possible smooth air, which we got for all of about three minutes.

But we made it. Thankfully.

As promised, to my faithful seven readers, what follows is a poem I wrote in the early 90's. My dad, my brother, Ira, and I had gone to Vegas. My brother, Darrell and his wife, Cindy, were living in Henderson, NV, and my grandparents and aunt, who all lived in Tucson, drove six hours. It was a family reunion, of sorts.

On our way back to Chicago, the generator went out on the plane. I could tell something was wrong when the engines kept running high and low in a pattern that nearly made me sick. The pilot came on the overhead and informed us of the situation. He gave us the news, telling us we were in no danger, but I was convinced we would meet our demise. In an effort to ease my mind, I smoked several cigarettes, and wrote a poem.

I think it still holds up, minus the smoking part.



Transportation Trepidation

I know someday I’ll die
in a plane crash. People
will read about it in the newspapers and say
oh, my, what a shame. He was always afraid
of dying in a plane.

They tell me it’s nothing to worry about;
flying is safer than driving.
I draw upon my cigarette,
watching the smoke linger
toward the non-smoking section.
An elderly woman with too much red lipstick
and too little grey hair
coughs my way.
I take another drag.

My father sleeps as we taxi down the runway.
Earlier complaining about overcrowded airports
and limbs falling asleep.
If I sleep we will die.

The engines scream,
reminding me of my mother
hearing about my cousin’s death.
She died in a car.
Going down my thoughts will be of sex
or God, wanting to satisfy both.

My brother is no help.
He sits, contemplating,
Jack Daniels and Coke,
unaware of razor blade burns
on his neck and cheeks.

I remember the first time I saw these clouds;
asking my father why we were in Alaska.
I see no angels in these clouds.
Angels live in heaven. Flying, I’m in hell.

Transportation Trepidation- Part 1

I have always been afraid of flying. Deathly afraid. That's a bad thing when part of your job--a large part--involves flying, many times a month. I've probably flown several hundred times in the past few years, and even though I'm still not a fan of the activity, I've grown used to it. Especially if the weather is clear. I usually have no issues.

I have a routine when I fly. I check the various weather sites several days in advance, I check http://www.turbulenceforecast.com/, I have to touch the plane before I get on it, I pray the same prayer before we take off, I prefer a window seat so I can see what's going on, I constantly look out the window, fidget in my seat, keep my seat belt fastened, and say the same prayer when we land.

I don't mind taking off or landing. It's the turbulence that gets me. Bumpy flights are my worst nightmare. I just can't get settled down. I just got into Nashville from Tampa. As most people know, the weather sucks all over the country. I'm one of those people who would rather have ATC cancel flights than brave the bumpy skies. I still have another leg to go. We leave in about 40 minutes.

This bumpy flight reminded me of a poem I wrote when I was a senior in college. It was my second published poem, and the first one I actually made money on. $3. I didn't really make the money because I still have the check in my possession. At home in a scrapbook of old writings.

I was about to include the poem in this entry, but I convinced myself otherwise. Tune in tomorrow for Part II of TRANSPORTATION TREPIDATION!!! (hear the words loud and echoing)...

Lost Luggage

Whenever I tell someone about my father, I almost always tell the person about my dad's job. He was one of the hardest working people I knew. He woke up every weekday at 3:00am and drove to a job he really didn't like. Maybe it was the actual "work" he didn't like so much; the monotony of manual labor. He enjoyed many of the people with whom he shared his day; a fact that was verified at his wake.

What follows is the very first nonfiction essay I wrote in 2004. It's been modified and updated since its original first draft, but the overall theme/tone remains. This version was the one I turned in for my Thesis project for my MA degree. Even it is almost two years old.

You can agree of disagree, but I consider this one of the best pieces of work I have written.



Lost Luggage

Every morning at 7:30, I see four men sitting at a small table in the lower level of the building where I work. They appear to be pleasant men who wear casual clothes: jeans and non-designer golf shirts. They drink coffee from mugs they have brought from home. The mugs have slogans on them like #1 Dad or I ♥ My Attitude Problem. When they meet with each other, they are on an early morning break. I am on my way to the gym; work, my second priority for the day. The men talk about sports, passionately. They talk about events in the news they heard the night before, sparking mini debates. I don't talk, I listen. I don't hear everything they say. I am not in their inner circle. I am a spectator of sorts, a fly on the wall. They pay little attention to the men and women in trendy suits that drink their coffee from Starbucks cups—the ones who talk about sales pending or the new car they just bought. They pay little attention to me.

The men remind me of my father. In 1982, when I was 12, my sixth grade teacher told our class about Take Your Son or Daughter to Work Day.

"It's a special day," she said, "one where you can learn about what your parents do at their job."
While other kids talked about going with their parents to desk jobs to copy their faces on the Xerox machine, I hoped I could spend the day with my dad in the underbelly of Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. My father was a fleet service clerk for American Airlines. A fancy name for, as I would later joke, “the guy at the airport who lost your luggage.”

My father took this job in the late 60’s when he was 29 years old. The job was going to be temporary; a six-month stint while waiting for something bigger or better to come along—which never did. Before he knew it, it was 15 years later and this became the job he would keep until he retired at 65.

Getting my dad to agree to take me to work with him was going to be a challenge. He seemed like he never wanted to be around me. He wasn’t the type to play baseball or teach me how to change the oil in the car. My father was short and stocky—he looked exactly like Robert Blake from Baretta (minus the white cockatoo), one of his favorite shows on TV. He loved to watch TV. Each night, after dinner, my father would fall asleep watching shows like Dynasty, The A Team, Cheers and The Cosby Show. My mother would have to yell at him from the foot of the steps to come to bed.

There were certain things my father was passionate about. He was a hard-core Republican, teaching his children the value of free speech and the right to bear arms. My father was a union man. I still have vivid memories of going with him to participate in a labor strike. My father grabbed a sign that read, "Going to Phoenix"? Your bags aren't!" and he let me walk behind him in a circle a couple of times before situating me on a curb to watch.

My father wasn’t a big fan of sports. He never encouraged any of his three sons to play on organized teams. I tried asking him to play football with me one time. He was tinkering around with his car. He took the ball, threw it back to me and told me to go find my brothers.
My father preferred conducting household tasks alone. If he did ask for help, it was often to be his go-fer. He would send me for another cup of coffee or ask me to get the Phillips head screwdriver that was on the third shelf down from the ratchet set. I could never find the tools he needed. I was lucky if I even knew what the tool looked like. When he had to get up to get it himself, he would stomp his feet shaking the floor and knickknacks on the wall.

“Here it is,” he would announce, satisfied. “You have to move things around once in a while. They won’t jump out for you.”

***

I did not want to go with my mother to work that day. She worked at a local currency exchange and I had been there many times. This was where my brothers and I always went if there was a pre-planned school reprieve or if one of us were sick and my mother could not find a replacement. The currency exchange was where I went on summer mornings while my brothers lifted weights at the local Nautilus health club. The currency exchange was where I figured out I could steal a roll of quarters without getting caught. It was where the old, heavy-set ladies came and cashed their monthly Social Security checks; the place where my mother introduced me to John Belushi’s sister, Miriam, who cashed checks there and bought postage stamps.
My mother was not offended when I told her my desire to go with my father. She was always trying to encourage us kids to be closer to Dad.

“I don't think he will take me.” I said. “We can’t even call him on the phone when he is working like we can with you.” Given my doubt, I had already filled out the permission slip with all of my mother’s work information. All it needed was her signature.

“He’ll take you,” she said. “I’ll bet you’d both enjoy the experience.” My mother lit a cigarette and took a deep breath. “Miiiike!” she shouted. My father was in the other room, watching the news. “Can you take Cory to work with you next Monday? It’s for a school project.”

My father did not respond. I took it as a sign of rejection.

“Miiiike!” my mother repeated.

“Yes, goddamn it! I’m trying to watch the goddamn news! I’ll double check with my supervisor, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Okay!”

With that, it was decided that I would go to work with my dad. I grabbed the permission slip from my mother's hands and began erasing.

***

It was three in the morning when my father woke me up. It was dark and quiet outside. It seemed as if we were the only people alive. Since this was a special occasion, my dad treated me to a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts. I ordered a glazed donut and chocolate milk. My father ordered a black coffee. Normally, we were never allowed to eat in the car, but we had to get moving. I had to eat very slowly in the back seat surrounded by napkins. My father opened the white paper bag and put it on my lap like a towel. I kept the carton of milk on the floor between my legs. It was very uncomfortable. I knew I was breaking his strict routine, but my father didn’t let on that my presence was an intrusion. He put the radio on, as I imagined he typically did every morning. It was tuned to a news call-in show, the last thing he listened to the day before.

"You want me to change this to another station?" he asked, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

I nodded. My father changed the station and whistled haphazardly with the tune.
When we got to the airport, we had to park in a remote lot that was for employees only. We boarded a bus filled with people. The pilots had on blue suits with crisp shirts, blue ties and fancy hats. The flight attendants—all women—wore pantyhose and blazers. The mechanics looked comfortable in long overalls and baseball caps. My father wore blue work slacks and a blue short sleeve button shirt. He had an American Airlines logo patch on one pocket and his name—Mike—in red stitching on a patch on the other. There were people from American, United, Delta, and TWA. They wore different company logos, but their work lives were basically the same. I was the youngest person on the bus. People looked at me with confusion. My father sensed my uneasiness and pulled me closer to him. Physical contact from my father usually came in the form of heavy-handed punishments. His subtle gesture made me feel safe.

When we got to the actual airport, we entered what appeared to be a holding cell for prisoners—The Ready Room—with long benches, tables and chairs, and a hanging television set tuned to a local early morning news program. The volume on the TV was so loud that people had to shout to talk with one another. Many fleet service clerks and mechanics, I would later learn, had trouble with their hearing from years of working with the planes. The volume on the television was a nuisance to the new guys, but a necessity for those with more than five years on the job.
Most people did nothing but talk and wait. They talked about a show they saw on television the night before, waited for a shift to end or begin, talked about dates they went on or were going to go on, waited for a flight to come in, talked about who would make the next pot of coffee and waited for that pot to finish brewing. Everyone was doing something, but nobody seemed to be working. These times, I imagined, were a welcome respite to a demanding job: manual labor.

***

I was very curious about the people my father worked with and was anxious to meet them. My dad would come home and talk about them every day after work. He came home before my mom and, while I had no idea it was called this at the time, he would vent. I would listen to stories about how weather delays backed up the flights. Or my father would tell me about "pick time," which was when the employees had to choose their days off for the following eight weeks. My dad had a lot of seniority so he almost always got his picks—Saturdays and Sundays—approved. My favorite was when my dad told me about seeing celebrities walking through the airport. He saw Muhamad Ali, Kenny Rogers, and Wilt Chamberlain. I always imagined that my dad hung out with these people and was really disappointed to hear that his brushes with fame were merely distant sightings.

Vent sessions are where I also learned the word "fuck." My father successfully used the word in every way possible. His use of the word became so repetitive that it made me giggle.
"Fucking Tommy's at it again, Cory" he would say. "The fucking government is after him to pay his fucking taxes. But he won't, the stupid fuck. He refuses to fucking pay them." I had no idea what my dad was talking about and I don't think he cared either way. He just wanted to tell someone.

Tommy Thompson was a major focus of my father's attention. My dad, I believe, envied Tommy because he stood up for himself. Tommy did not agree with paying taxes so, he didn't. This fact excited my father. Although he agreed with the cause, my father saw it as a risk he would never take. Tommy didn't have children to support. He had the luxury of rebellion.

When my mother came home from work, my dad would continue venting. My parents developed a habit of going into the bathroom after dinner. They did it practically every night. My dad would sit on the toilet (lid up, pants and underwear at his ankles) and my mother would sit on the bathroom counter. They smoked cigarettes and kept the fan on to dilute the stench. As strange of a custom it was, this was their time; time away from the responsibilities of parenthood, if just for a few minutes. Time for a husband to share his day with his wife, and time for her to do the same. I would often sit at the dinner table and listen. It didn't matter to me what they discussed, I simply enjoyed listening.

***

As nighttime faded, and life outside the airport began, my father introduced me to the people with whom he shared his day. I felt like I knew some of them already. I met Mike Chin, whose third wife owned a Chinese restaurant, which years later we would visit during a summer break from college. I met Gail Gunderson, who worked harder than the rest of the crew because she never wanted the others to think she was any "less of a man." Gail had deep blue eyes and reminded me of the mother of my friend, Bobby Werner; she was our class lunch lady and worked harder than all of the other lunch mothers. She was always busy opening milk cartons or throwing away trash.

I also met Tommy. I was a bit disappointed. I expected Tommy to be young, tall, and athletic. But he wasn't. I expected Tommy to wear his hair long and have a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his shirtsleeve. But he didn't. He wasn't the rebel I envisioned. Tommy looked like Cookie the Clown, minus the make-up and outlandish outfit. Tommy shook my hand, squeezing a bit too hard.

"You're dad's told us all about you, kid," he said, smiling. "He's real proud of you, this guy." He pointed at my father twice to make sure I knew who he was talking about.
I wanted to ask Tommy what my dad said about me. It would have been nice to hear the accolades.

***

Early morning is one of the busiest times at the airport, so after I met a few people, my father grabbed his bright orange earmuffs and searched a packed luggage bin for an extra pair for me. I couldn’t understand why we needed them. When we walked outside and I heard the screams emitted by the planes, the loudness scared me. My father laughed as he shouted (or mouthed because I couldn’t hear a word he said), “That’s what these are for!”

Shouting was a way of life for fleet service clerks. They shouted in the ready room, they shouted on the runways, they even shouted, to my horror, when they went to the bathroom. I discovered this in the most direct way—watching my father continue to talk with his friend as he walked out of the ready room and into the bathroom stalls.

***

The job my father did was very demanding. We drove in a small wagon-type truck that I had never seen before. It had an empty cart attached to the back. The car only had one seat for the driver. I had to wedge myself on the floorboard next to the open door. My mother would have had a nervous breakdown if she saw me. I didn't care. It was dangerous and fun. My dad winked at me as we drove from one docking station to the next, retrieving the precious cargo which belonged to the hundreds of passengers on each flight.

We drove up to one cart housed inside of the hangar, left the engine running, and quickly tossed suitcase after suitcase onto the empty cart that was attached to the truck. My dad let me grab and throw a couple of the smaller bags. He tossed the bags around, even the big ones, like they weighed less than nothing. I was amazed by his strength. Once the cart was full, we drove the truck to the belly of the airplane, and my father threw the bags onto a conveyor belt. Another clerk pulled the bags off the belt and onto the plane.

I expected my dad to put very little thought into our day. I just assumed that he would stick to his scheduled duties and not veer from what his boss expected him to do. I was wrong. My father took the time to make it an extraordinary day for me. Aside from meeting his co-workers and hauling passenger’s luggage from one area to the next, I got to walk up and down the aisle of an empty 747. I not only saw the cockpit, but got to sit in the pilot’s seat.

My father had to walk away to get something off his truck, so he told me not to touch anything. As soon as he was out of sight, of course, I grabbed hold of the steering wheel. I flew that plane high into the sky. I pretended to fly off to Italy—the place my father I dreamed about going. He and I were the only passengers on this flight. We landed in Rome, ate pizza in the Leaning Tower (because that’s where I heard they had the best food), and I flew us right back to O’Hare in time for bed.

I heard my father coming down the breezeway, so I took my hands off the steering wheel and smiled. My father had gone out to his truck to get his camera. He snapped my picture in black and white. I was a 12 year-old pilot, forever frozen in time.

After exploring on the plane, my father took me to a special hangar: a warehouse for the promotional items flight attendants handed out to deserving passengers. I got to take decks of cards, coloring books, plastic wings, color-form sticker books, balloons and travel magazines—swag for my classmates.

My father also gave me a navy blue American Airlines t-shirt. “Just for you,” he said, winking at me. Getting a free t-shirt was the coolest thing. I planned on wearing it to school the next day.

***

Our day came to an abrupt end soon after we looted the warehouse. We were summoned back to the Ready Room. My father instructed me to sit on a bench, drink a can of vending machine lemonade, and watch TV. He went to the corner of the room to talk with his supervisor. Someone had complained that I was there.

My father was a man of principle. He was a man who followed the rules. He was a man who would show up to a job he utterly despised—thirty minutes early each day so he wouldn’t be late. He was told that when he asked his supervisor for permission to take his kid to work, he should have gotten it in writing. The supervisor was a busy man; how could he be expected to remember every request from all of his employees if they didn’t take the time to write them down?

My father told me our day was over. “You’re gonna have to stay in here for the rest of the day,” he told me. “Some pain in the ass supervisor from another area saw you out here and complained. He was pissed off that I had you on that plane.”

“It’s okay."

“I know how important it is for you to get a good grade in class for this,” he said, looking at his watch to make sure he didn’t miss his next pick-up. “I hope you got enough here to talk about with the class. I wanted you to meet one of the pilots and see some of the other areas where I work.”

“It’s okay, dad, really,” I said, pointing to the bags of goodies I had. “Look at all of this I get to bring back to everyone in class. I’ll bet no one else will have stuff like this.”

My father looked over at the other workers, his friends, who could hear what he was saying. Tommy Thompson smiled and winked at me. For a moment, I felt like one of them. I was a real worker—a fleet service clerk, just like my father. I felt like I had the nerve to stand up for myself, like Tommy Thompson did against the government. I felt like my presence there made everyone happy, especially me, and I wanted to form a mock strike against management.

But I didn't. I sat in the ready room the rest of the day and watched cartoons on TV. In between flights, my dad came back and joined me on a bench. He didn't say much to me, asking if I needed anything and if I was felling okay. A couple of times he feel asleep sitting up, snoring loudly like he did at home, which made me laugh.

On our drive home from the airport, my father changed the radio station back to his afternoon news program. We didn't stop anywhere special and he didn't vent when we got home. We went back to our regular life, as expected.

***

It has been 26 years since I went to work with my father. I am often amazed by the similarities that exist of my former self. The house where my wife and I are raising our children is less than a mile from my childhood home. I pass the Dunkin Donuts my father stopped at that morning every day. The building where I work borders O'Hare Airport. I pass the airline employee parking lot to and from work every day. I have been working for a large healthcare software company as an Area Vice President, for almost nine years. I started there when I was 29.

That is where the similarities end.

Both of my children play baseball on organized teams where I am the head coach on one and assistant coach on the other. My children have never felt the sting of the back of my hand or a whip from my belt. They have never heard me use the word "fuck" listen to my wife talk with me during after dinner bathroom conversations.

I am certain I will not stay at my job another 26 years. I know this, in fact, because I will resign my position there in two days. My father would have never quit his job even if another one came along. It just wasn't in his nature to take risks. He preferred the comfort of predictability.

Bears and Bonobos do Dallas (or Columbus)

I wonder when kids actually become aware...of sex. As I have written, I was introduced to the concept by my brothers, thanks to our parent's porn stash. And when I write "stash," I mean the one VHS tape they owned and we hijacked. I didn't really understand what it was all about, but I became aware that my penis was used for more than going to the bathroom. I don't remember the leap from seeing sex to craving it, but I am sure it wasn't much later than my 10th or 11th year of life.

The kids actually saw and heard sex twice today. More specifically, they saw reproduction in action thanks to a couple of bears and several Bonobos, and were educated on the mating habits of said primates. We were at the Columbus Zoo today, our final stop on our 1,021 mile round trip weekend adventure. The Columbus Zoo is known as one of the best, especially in the winter months because of their annual Wildlights celebration. While we didn't get the chance to be four of the 20,000 people at the zoo last night, we felt compelled to make a stop, even if it was during the day and we would be virtually the only ones on campus. Since the animals are pretty busy entertaining at night, many of them were either sleeping, eating, or--in the case of the bears and Bonobos--mating.

When we walked into the Asia Quest area, home of the tigers, lions, and bears (gratuitous, "oh my"), Cyndi and I immediately spotted the bears "at play." They were tucked into a corner, almost begging for the privacy they both deserved and couldn't get, and appeared to be wrestling. The kids began pointing a laughing, wondering aloud, "what are they doing...are they playing." Toning down our amusement and shock, Cyndi and I agreed that they were, in fact, playing, and shuffled our tour toward the missing Red Panda. Were we brave parents, we may have taken the opportunity to explain the live animal porn we witnessed. But we are not. Yet.

Thinking our sex education encounter was behind us, we sauntered over to the African Forest, where we were entertained by several aging and gigantic gorillas. Moments after we arrived, I began chatting with a woman who seemed to know a lot about the animals. She began telling me about the relationship between the gorillas, who was related, who was a surrogate, where other family members were moved to, etc. The woman was a docent at the zoo. A volunteer who speaks with visitors and attempts to provide education to those interested in receiving more than just visual stimulation at the zoo.

When she realized that I was with my wife and kids, she offered to take us over to the Bonobos for a quick peek and lesson. We were certain we had struck zoo gold and were in for a treat. I've never seen a Bonobo before (or at least a primate that was identified as such). To quote much of what our docent was explaining, via the Columbus Zoo website, "Bonobos and chimpanzees are similar in many ways. Both eat fruit as the largest part of their diet. Both spend a lot of time high in the rainforest canopy but come down to the ground to travel and forage. Both are "knuckle walkers," or walk on all fours, when on the ground, but both will sometimes walk on only their hind legs for short distances. Both use play time when they are young to build up their physical strength and agility and spend lots of time with their mothers to learn about life in the forest. Both have also been seen using tools, such as leaves to sponge up water from trees.However, there are many ways in which chimpanzees and bonobos are quite different. Chimpanzee groups are led by males and tend to be more competitive and aggressive. Chimpanzees will make war on other groups that try to enter their territory and will sometimes try to take over another group's territory. In bonobo communities, females rule! Adult females tend to have very strong bonds, and they hold the highest ranking positions. The sons of female leaders are the highest ranking males. Sons remain in their birth group throughout their lives, while females leave when they become adults. Bonobos tend to be very peaceful. They will groom one another, mate and share food to keep things friendly."

As with the gorillas, our guide explained the familial relationship within the Bonobo cages, pointing out the mother leader and highest ranking male/son. This would have been plenty of information. But the female Bonobo had other plans. You see, they don't wear their heart on their sleeves. They display their "sexual organs" prominently in clear view for everyone, especially a gentleman caller. The more sexually ready a female Bonobo is, the more swelled her "sexual organs." The woman kept saying this, as if her nine and seven year old students had the knowledge and capacity to understand. They didn't. And if that wasn't enough, we were treated to three rounds of Bonobo sexual intercourse. What was strange is how similar the acts were to humans. I know humans and gorillas share 98% of their DNA, but I've never had the pleasure of seeing them "in action." It was just too much to see and hear.

Again, if we were brave parents, our day may have had a different end. Instead, it ended on that note. The kids were none the wiser about sex, we were all chilled to the bone from our three hour tour at the Zoo, and our group overall impression was extremely favorable.

Good times, good times.

Douglas & Connie Firs

Growing up Jewish, we didn't have a Christmas Tree. We had a tree, but my mom called it a Hanukkah "bush." It was of the artificial tree species, with color coded branches to help guide her through the assembly process. Mom hung blue and white lights on the tree, big blue (and red?) ornaments, and candy canes. Old candy canes. We were not allowed to eat from the tree; my mother preferring to re-use the $1 for a box of 12 treats. When we were given the green light to partake in the sugary goodness, the canes were much too old to enjoy. The tree was kept in our basement on the dance floor (yes, we actually had a parquet dance floor, complete with strobe lights), and in true ying and yang fashion, stockings were hung on the fireplace. We also had a Menorah upstairs in the kitchen. My mom tried to remain true to her roots, while sprinkling a little Catholic holiday cheer. And people wonder why I converted.

Given my history, I've never had the opportunity to have a real Christmas Tree. That and the fact that Cyndi is allergic to pine. Our family tradition also includes an artificial blue spruce. No complaints, but after spending an hour with some friends from work at their family Christmas Tree farm, I kind of wish I could experience the way the other half lives. I'd hate for Cyndi to be uncomfortable, sick, near death, or anything bad, but the process--some may say, tradition--of getting a tree seems really cool.

Nick Fink (the heir to the Douglas & Connie Firs Christmas Tree Farm) may argue otherwise. His family has had the farm for years because, as his parents--Douglass and Connie Fink--told me, it was an investment for their kids' college funds. Now that Nick and his brother are adults, the elder Finks have satisfied their goal, but continue to pass on their worthwhile wares to the Zanesville community.

It's a pretty cool process. Excited families pull up to the farm and begin eyeing the tree they feel will fit perfectly in their home. The Fink family happily approach their customers, offering advice and a gas powered chain saw. When the winning tree is selected, it is--within seconds--released from its trunk. Two Finks carefully carry the tree to a cart on the back of a tractor, and the entire family is treated to a brief ride back to base camp. The tree gets a quick ride itself, on a tree shaker, to release any loose needles (and there are plenty). Families are offered hot cider and a few additional helpful items (like a bag for the tree when it is ready to be discarded), while the Finks tie the tree to the roof of the vehicle; just like a deer during hunting season, I would guess.

We really enjoyed hanging out at the farm today. We enjoyed seeing the trees, drinking the cider, meeting the Fink family. The kids got to run through the trees, take a ride (twice) on the tractor), see and experiment with a real rotary dial phone, and enjoy an additional work through the farm with a very patient Nicole Fink (yep, it's Nick and Nicole--husband and wife). Even though we didn't tie a tree to our car, it seems like I got to experience the whole ordeal.

Maybe we've started a new Fosco Family Tradition.

Holiday Road

When I was growing up, we didn't get a chance to go on vacation that much. Many of our friends would go with their parents on an annual road trip, some even got to go to sleepover summer camp, as well. We had friends who went to Disney World every year, friends who attended annual family reunions, or friends who went someplace new every year.

If my memory serves me correctly, we never went on a "road trip," specifically. That special time where siblings annoy one another over seat space and entertainment options, while parents argue over maps and places to eat.

I think the big reason we didn't go on road trips was because my dad worked for American Airlines. We got to fly what is called "non revenue," which meant all my parents had to pay were the taxes on the flight. Flying non-rev has its advantages and disadvantages. We got to fly to London to visit my brother, Darrell, who spent 4 1/2 years there in the Air Force. None of my friends ever went to Europe once, let alone the two times we got to go. We also got to fly there first class. I was only 14 so I didn't get to enjoy all of the perks, but they were a plenty. Ice cream sundaes, caviar, real silverware, hot towels. It was a treat. We also had to wear dress clothes and get to the airport four hours before everyone else, so we could secure seats.

We did go to Arizona a couple of times to visit my aunt and uncle. They were the only family members to leave Chicago and remain gone permanently. I don't remember much about those trips though, which is disappointing. I remember being hot during the day, seeing a snake on the side of the road, learning about and becoming very afraid of tarantulas, and getting sick at night.

Cyndi's life, on the other hand, was completely different. Her parents were (and remain) mobile. They owned a couple of motor homes, and would travel the country throughout her life. She has wonderful memories of time spent seeing different American states; those highlights people always laugh about and mock in Chevy Chase inspired movies. It's important to her to pass this along to the kids.

A couple of years ago, we decided that we would, in fact, plan a family road trip every year. We've done an east coast trip (Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, DC), and we've traveled the Midwest (IL and MO). Cyndi feels that anything within 1,000 miles is fair game. I agree. I plan the route and book the hotels, and Cyndi does all of the research for us to explore along the way.

We've also started to include short trips too; like the one we are on right now. We drove 7 1/2 hours (two stops) through Indianapolis, Dayton, and Columbus, OH. Presently, we are in Zanesville, OH; a place I consider a second home. We are here for my company's holiday party. It's a chance for Cyndi and the kids to meet my co-workers, and enjoy a little quality time.

We've got a small agenda; our primary goal will be accomplished soon. Whatever happens the rest of the weekend is bonus.

I'm of the opinion that we are doing a very good thing here. For us. For the kids. For the family. We are creating good memories. The kids may look fondly on the weekend we spent, driving 7 1/2 hours for a three hour party, playing "Name That Tune" on my iPod, rocking out to Guns n' Roses on I70, and being together.

Old Inner Circle Friends

Sometimes I forget not everyone knows that my dad died. We all have an inner circle of friends that are the people who know just about everything. The ones on the short list, who get the phone call when a baby is born, who you have dinner parties with, who you call first when tragedy hits your life. Then there are the people who surround the inner circle; those who might not get a call directly from the person who has experienced the life changing event; those who find out third person.

When I was in grammar school, my inner circle changed. It grew from one person--Bill Lessnig--to several people--Dean Drozak, Tony James, Jeff Hagen, Tom Bray, Jimmy Vanacora, and Jerry Andrews. Jerry Andrews got me thinking about this today. About how inner circles change. About who, when I was in grammar school, I would have called to tell that my father died. I haven't spoken with Jerry in 20+ years. He reached out to me today on Facebook.

None of the guys from my childhood were in my inner circle when I was 37. For whatever reason, we just grew apart. Lives moved us in different directions; not better, just different.

It's not that I don't consider these people friends anymore. In fact, just the opposite. We have memories--childhood memories--that I don't share with my adult inner circle. Memories like sitting in Jerry's garage, listening to Rush, pretending we were Rush. Memories like riding our bikes to White Hen and 7-11 to buy some candy (I'm not sure I've ever bought candy with my current inner circle...beer, YES, candy, NO). Innocent memories, shaping memories, nostalgic memories.

Jerry has memories about my father. If you asked me, they were probably things I would have preferred to forget. Like the time Jerry and I were prank calling Tony James. His mom got mad and told my dad. I tried to lie my way out of the impending beating I would get if my dad discovered the truth. I tried to insist that we had nothing to do with the irritating calls that the James house received. There was no such thing as caller ID or *69. It wasn't even a thing back then. The truth came out, and Jerry had to witness the wrath of my dad. Not directed toward him, but right at me. When my dad was ready to punish, he didn't care who was present. I remember looking at Jerry when the first slap connected with my face. He appeared more frightened than me.

No matter whether Jerry remembers this specific incident or not, he was nice enough to ask about my dad in his correspondence. He had no idea what I was going to reply. His parents are still alive, so he probably assumed the same was true with me.

When I wrote the words, "my dad died in 2007," I felt bad for Jerry. He was once in my inner circle; he deserved to hear the words directly from me, not written on a screen.

I guess even old inner circle friends understand how life works. He wasn't angry, he didn't hold a grudge. In fact, just the opposite. He wrote:


Today was a good day. I connected with Cory and Jeff once again. I am happy to have had the pleasure to have both as my friends at one time. Now over twenty years we can start again. Funny how much I believe the tech age has hurt and helped us today. Glad to have you here again...feel like going to that foundation behind Jeff's house and looking for tadpoles :)

Getting noticed

When I was in 4th grade, I wore the same clothes to school, three days in a row. It was either during Passover, a rare time when we actually had people over for Seder several days in a row, or one of the other Jewish High Holidays. I remember it revolved around Judaism because when one of my fellow classmates asked me why I had the same clothes on for three days, I lied and told him it was because I was Jewish. I said it with such conviction that it seemed believable; to the boy and to myself.

I have no idea why I felt compelled to do this. It's not like we didn't have money for clothes. It's not that my mother didn't do laundry, and that I didn't have clean clothes in my drawers. I was past the age of having my clothes laid out for me in the morning. That responsibility was left up to me. Each morning before school, I had to get up when my alarm clock (read: my mother) sounded off, wash up, brush my teeth, get dressed, and have breakfast. It was a simple responsibility given to me to teach me self sufficiency. My kids are learning the same thing. They have been for years. And as time goes on, we have to intervene less and less.

When I worked at a nursing home in Phoenix, there was a resident there--Carl--who did the same thing. Carl had a closet full of clothes, but insisted on wearing the same clothes--a polo shirt and pair of blue jeans--every day. Carl wasn't Jewish. Carl wasn't in the 4th grade, although his mind--thanks to a stroke--worked the same way. As the facility social worker, it drove me insane when people didn't notice that Carl attempted to wear the same clothes everyday.

I can't pretend to try and figure out why I did what I did when I was nine. I also can't pretend to understand why this memory came to me today. I think it's always bothered me that only one person noticed what I did. I'm sure it's why Carl's situation brought my sanity level to new heights. I noticed Carl when no one else did. It's good to get noticed.

Habits

One thing I never thought would happen during this year of reflection, contemplation, discovery, change, and anticipation, is that I would start a new habit. Granted, the act of daily writing itself can be viewed as a habit, as well.

It is generally concluded that habits form in 21-28 days. When my daughter, Lily, got into the habit of waking up every night between 11pm and midnight, asking to come and sleep in our room, we challenged her. We told her that it took 21 days to form or break a habit. We promised her that if she was able to stay in her room for 30 days without waking up and requesting to sleep with us, she would win a prize. To make the "game" more worthwhile, we initially gave her small prizes. When she reached a milestone of five consecutive days, she got some gum or a piece of candy. However, if she was in between a milestone and happened to "slip," she was pushed back down to the corresponding fifth day. Wen she slipped and woke up/came out of her room on day 13, she had to go back down to day 10. Simple enough. We also made sure that if she was sick or there was an emergency, she knew she could come get us.

Each day she made it through the night, her self esteem rose. She'd wake up with a big smile on her face and announce what day it was.

"Good morning, daddy." she would say, with her tiny high-pitched voice, "17!"

As the 30th day came near, she wished aloud what her prize would be.

"I hope I can get a whole bag of Tootsie Pops," she said, "And I can eat as many as I want on the first day."

Simple enough. The habit changing exercise began in early September, and concluded just after Halloween. Worked like a charm, albeit in longer than 30 days.

My son, Frederic, has been taking Melatonin for the past several years. He was diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome when he was five, and his pediatric neurologist suggested it as a sleep aid. We wanted to avoid taking any kind of medication to manage the Tourette's, and have been able to keep to this goal. Melatonin is a natural supplement that helps reduce the time it takes a person to get to sleep. Before the diagnosis, before we knew what was really going on, Frederic would lay in bed and think. He would think about math problems, he would think about his day, he would think about the next day. He would think. The doctor suggested a low dosage of Melatonin to help relax him enough to fall asleep. We started with 1mg and worked our way up to 3mg.

Thus the habit began. Which I was fearful of. I didn't want him to have trouble with sleeping the rest of his life. Over the course of four years, Frederic ingested between 1mg-3mg of Melatonin, nightly. He knew that it concerned me; he had concerns himself.

Once he saw the "game" we played with Lily, he asked for the same deal. We were running low on his supply and were discussing running to the GNC to buy another bottle.

"Don't buy any more," he said. "I know it takes 21-28 days to start or stop a habit. I want to stop taking Melatonin."

And so it began. Frederic's quest to stop an old and start a new. He made it 30 days without a slip, and has not asked for Melatonin since. His prize was just as simple as Lily's: a pack of Pokemon cards.

I've had habits before. I chewed tobacco for the better part of 15 years. I used steroids for two. I smoked as a pre-teen, in college, and after. Some how or some way, I broke them all. I used to think I had an addictive personality. But I haven't had a habit in years. I do now.

My name is Cory Fosco, and I chew gum.

It started when I embarked on the ChaLEAN Extreme challenge. In between meals, I'd chew a piece of gum. One piece became two, two became three. Do you know how much gum I have chewed since March? A lot. I crave it. I think about it. I have a routine to it. Just like smoking, and chewing tobacco.

And now it's my turn to take 30 days. I'll follow the same rules as the kids. Not sure what my reward will be. Maybe I'll leave that up to Cyndi and the kids.

Just as soon as these two packs are gone...

Dictionary or dictionary.com

Lud⋅dite 
–noun
a member of any of various bands of workers in England (1811–16) organized to destroy manufacturing machinery, under the belief that its use diminished employment.



Earlier today, as I was getting a glass of water in my kitchen, I noticed Cyndi was instructing Frederic to get his dictionary.

"Why do I need to know how to use a dictionary?" Frederic asked. "All I have to do is go to the Internet to look up a word."

A friend of mine has been blogging lately about his resistance to the "conveniences" of today's technology. Steve is a high school English teacher, on a year-long sabbatical studying at Harvard. He's there getting is second Master's Degree; this time in Education. I've written about Steve before. He's the guy who challenged his class last year to live their lives in simple ways. One month, they could not use the Internet, another month they could not use their cell phones. Steve's the guy that the Oprah Winfrey Show was courting for a while to showcase the simple living project. Producers of the show caught wind of the press he was getting on other media outlets, and considered a show or a segment on the idea. In the end, they passed on Steve and his class, but still did a show on the subject.

Simple living is right up Steve's alley. Until he left for Harvard, he had successfully lived his daily life without a cell phone. He's my age. I don't think I know anyone "our" age that willingly does not have a cell phone (if you take our financial reasons). Since he lives farther away from everyone, he's caved into (or lost) the freedom that came with not having a cell phone, and was added to his sister's plan. Maybe the distance isn't the real reason. He's lived successfully in Africa without a cell phone. And I have seen him borrow other people's phones before, including mine. Whatever the reason, he's now a card carrying member. We even exchanged a text message last weekend. I was shocked and impressed.

When I first read Steve's posts, I kind of rolled my eyes.

"Ah, Steve," I thought to myself, "life is advancing in ways to make us more efficient. Just give into it and embrace the technology."

Cyndi is apprehensive too. Tonight, she is going to take a huge leap. We are going to get rid of our land line, and put her on my cell phone plan. The goal is to get her a SmartPhone. She'll have access to her email, her calendar, her address book, text messaging, the phone will have a GPS, the Internet, a music player, Sprint TV. All of the "conveniences" a land line does not offer.

"I just don't want to be tied to my phone," Cyndi said to me yesterday. She was obviously anxious about the pending transition. Whenever she gets anxious, she goes deep into thought. Her eyebrows curl and she has a look of worry on her face.

"Will we save money," she asked. "If we'll save money, then it makes sense." Cyndi's also worried about the need to charge the phone, the need to make sure the phone is within reach when people call, the ability to turn the thing on and off. I attest that once she's used to the new device, she'll be glad she came aboard the technology train. If I took it away in a couple of weeks, she'd miss it.

But if I really think about it, I kind of agree with Steve and Cyndi. I think what got me moving toward their camp was Frederic's comment this morning. About the dictionary. It's not really just about the dictionary itself. He knows how to look up words. He's a curious kid by nature. He'd just rather take the easier route to get the answer. Or, because he's part of the generation that has not lived without the Internet, he just wants to take the more familiar route.

My sway of opinion is also about books. It's also about pen and paper. About the tactile "life" of things. Since I started writing this blog, I have not really used a notebook to "journal" my thoughts. The only time I use a pen and paper is when I am taking notes at a meeting or during a conference call. My laptop is with me much of my day. It's within reach, at least, if it not directly in front of me. Hell, if I am being honest, I take it almost everywhere I go. Everywhere.

I don't think I would ever retreat back to a more simple time in my life. I don't think I could get rid of my phone or my laptop or the Internet. I enjoy the modern conveniences. I enjoy being connected to people, having access to information, seeing how life can be changed.

Am I a better person because of the advanced technology? In some ways I am. Technology has been my life--my living--for 10+ years. Without it our life would be much different. Much.

And I like the life we live. Much.

Family Classics

On cold, gray Sundays--like today--one of the things I used to enjoy doing was watching a movie with my father. WGN, a local Chicago TV station, had a long-running program, "Family Classics," hosted by Frazier Thomas, which showed movies that can only be described as, well, classics. "Journey To The Center Of The Earth," "The Day the Earth Stood Still," "Gulliver's Travels," "Miracle on 34th Street," and my personal favorite, "Boy's Town," with Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney. These movies were made during a much--what I perceive--simpler time. The characters were faced with a moral or social dilemma, and in the end, almost always concluded with a happy ending. I know life is not always like that, but it's great when it is.

It's days like today, when the kids are stuck inside because the weather is gloomy and their bodies are ill, that I wish my father was still around. I'd call him up on the phone, and invite him to join us, for a good, old fashioned Classic.

Gold's Gym

In reply to my post from yesterday, an old friend of mine, Jeff Hagen, mentioned his fond memories of Gold's Gym. If there was a place in my past that defined who I was, it would be Gold's Gym. More specifically, it would be Gold's Gym in Hoffman Estates, IL. I spent more time there than any other, aside from school or home. I worked out at Gold's for 3+ hours, six days a week. I worked there, ate many of my meals there, socialized with people there. It was my life.

Good things and bad things happened at Gold's Gym. The worst being my brush with steroids. But, as Jeff mentioned, I try to remember the good times most. Like the time I met Bears Quarterback, Mike Tomczak. He had an appearance at a auto parts store nearby, and came in after to look around. The visit was pretty quick. He walked in, shook a couple of hands, looked around the gym, talked with a couple of guys, said hello to me, and tried to leave. A woman from the gym--who had a fond appreciation for Tomczak or celebrity--presented him with a sweatshirt she had purchased from me moments before. It was her way of getting his attention. I think she had fantasized that Tomczak would take the gift, see her, and ask her out on a date. Needless to say, someone left the gym empty handed that night. Meeting Tomczak wasn't the best brush with fame in my lifetime, but it was pretty cool. It was around the time the Bears won the Super Bowl, and Tomczak was part of the Bears' "Shuffling Crew." I knew--and might still know--all of the words to the Super Bowl Shuffle. I'm not sure if there is anyone who lived in this area during that time that didn't/doesn't.

During my tenure at the gym, I also saw Gayle Sayers from a distance, and I met Lance Dreher, one-time Mr. Universe. I actually got to workout with Dreher once, which was definitely a highlight in my bodybuilding "career."

While meeting celebrities was a highlight for me, the thing I remember best about Gold's Gym was the people. Maybe it's because I was so young and impressionable, but I really felt like I was part of a crowd whenever I was at the gym. High school can be so cliquey, and I never found my niche. For me, my clique was the gym. It didn't matter how old I was, it didn't matter what kind of car I drove, what my parents did for a living, how big my house was, what the labels on my clothes read. None of that mattered. The people I associated with there--people like Mike Ostos, Suzi Ostos, Chuck Neiemeier, Doug Ulmer, Nick Mueller, Dominic Pleggi, Tony Laurie--they only cared about one thing: that I was honest and sincere with myself in being their friend. These people, and many others, helped build a foundation for me that was invaluable. They helped me understand what it meant to be a true friend; they helped me build a value system in relationships.

I got a lot more out of the gym than fitness. A lot.

Paths

I think back to when I was a teenager, and I cannot believe some of the things I got away with. I was a pretty good kid, for the most part, but every good kid has the potential of slipping. Some slips became slides, which may be the way I was able to make mistakes and learn from them.

I started smoking when I was 12. Not the, take a drag, pretend to inhale, and blow it out kind of smoking. The real thing. The deep inhale kind of smoking. The addicted to nicotine, tobacco, and the habit itself kind of smoking. I smoked Lucky Strikes first, and then moved to whatever I could get. Mostly it was Marlboro Reds because my dad smoked those, Kool because my mom smoked those, or Parliament because my grandfather smoked those. I wasn't too picky when it came to my cigarettes.

I smoked regularly for about a year, and then one day, I just decided to quit. I had a real bad upper respiratory infection that lasted for a couple of weeks. I tried smoking through the pain initially, but after a while, the habit didn't even taste good. Nothing tasted good, really. I stopped, and never went back until I was in college.

12-13 was around the time I smoked pot for the first time, and drank Jack Daniels and Sloe Gin (not together) for the first time. I started down a destructive path. One that could have possibly taken me to very dark places. One that could have determined the path my life would take; in a bad way. Someone or something helped move me away from that direction. Maybe it was just my conscious. Maybe not.

Family tradition

My mom used to host Thanksgiving. It was something she really enjoyed doing. Even after my parents divorced, the family continued to gather on this day; the one time of the year we'd definitely see my aunt and uncle and our cousins. My mom worked her butt off getting the day together. She'd wake up early, long before any of her sons or husband/ex-husband got up, make herself a cup of coffee, and work non-stop until everyone arrived.

I remember her standing in front of the kitchen sink, preparing the turkey. She'd unwrap it from its plastic mesh and covering, rinse it off with cold water, towel it off, slather a generous amount of butter all around the bird as if she were rubbing suntan oil on it, sprinkle salt and pepper on it, and pop it in the oven to cook. I can't remember if she stuffed it or not, but my memory tells me she did. I think she may have even tried some interesting recipes for the stuffing. One year was a sausage and chestnut concoction. I remember it being very labor intensive for her to make; I just don't know if it was dressing or stuffing. Another thing my mother would do with the turkey is continuously baste it. The process not only helped make the bird brown nicely, but may have contributed to the juiciness of the meat.

My mother also made this yam/sugar inducing coma casserole dish that most people looked forward to every year. She'd pour cans of yams into Pyrex dishes (there were always more than one), bathe them in orange juice and brown sugar, and top it with marshmallows. It was rare when any of that was leftover at the end of the evening.

Several years ago, Cyndi and I took over Thanksgiving duties. My mom's townhouse began getting smaller as her children's families grew. I try to keep up some of the traditions my mother started; it just seems like the thing to do. I also add my own flavor to the meal preparation, learning as I go along. For example, I always cook two turkeys; one in the oven, and then an experimental turkey. The oven roasted turkey follows a similar process to my mom's, but I mess around with turkey rubs. I stick to her basting technique; every 30-45 minutes until the bird is done. The experimental turkeys have included injected, beer can, rotisserie. Today, I will add deep fried to the list.

While I'm not a big fan of the yams, we have dressing, mashed potatoes (this year, sweet), and everyone brings something. It makes the day go much smoother for the hosts. A few years ago, we added another tradition: going to one of my father's favorite places for breakfast, Teddy's Diner. It's our own way of keeping him close to us on this day.

So, thanks, Mom, for passing on some traditions to your kids. It takes all day to prepare, and just a short time to enjoy, but it's all well worth it.

Things change in an instant

When I worried about running out of things to write about on my blog, people suggested I try and look outside of myself and possibly include "others" in my plight. I certainly would have preferred not writing about how Frederic's illness worries me as a parent. That wouldn't be the direction I'd want to go. In fact, I'd rather stay away from the subject of illness; expected or otherwise. But life is like that. For me at least.

Last week, my aunt, Denise, called to tell me she had to have a stent placed in her heart. As I understand it, a stent is a wire mesh stainless steel tube that holds an artery open and keeps it from closing again. A stent opens a blockage in your heart, and keeps it open, which allows blood to flow smoothly. The procedure, she explained, had to be done rather quickly. Today, actually. It was so important that the doctors wanted to get it done before the holiday.

I've known people who have had stent placement. My father had one while he was undergoing treatment for cancer. My brother had one after he had a heart attack. It's supposed to be a simple procedure; outpatient surgery. Matters of the heart, they run in the family. Heart disease, I mean.

When my aunt told me about the procedure, she was anxious. Anxious about the possible complications, but more anxious about the "what if." My aunt is the only surviving child of my 90 year-old grandmother; my father's mother. She has been the primary caregiver of my grandmother for many, many years; even before my father died. While my grandmother lives in a retirement community, she's beginning to need more help. Physically. My aunt bathes her, dresses her, shops for her, cleans for her, sits with her. She does everything for her mother. And, oh yeah, she's also the mother to a 14 year-old high school freshman. Life is busy for her, to say the least. She also lives in Tucson...Arizona.

The big "what if" we talked about Monday night was, what if something happened to her. My aunt has always been very active and very healthy. She had some back problems several years ago, but other than that, I cannot remember a time when she was out of commission. It's not in her nature. One would say it pleases her to help others. When we visited her and the family earlier this year, my aunt cooked for us. And I let her, too. She hasn't cooked for me in years, so I enjoyed every minute of the doting aunt attention.

The conversation we had was superficial, really. We didn't have enough time to fully prepare in the event of an unforeseen emergency.

Earlier today, the reality of that conversation hit. My aunt is currently in surgery, having a triple bypass. When they began the stent procedure, they realized her situation was more serious than originally concluded. They had an opening in surgery and acted quickly. While we cannot all hop on a plane to be there for my aunt, to be there for my uncle, and my cousin, and of course, my grandmother, reinforcements will soon be on their way.

While this may not have much to do with the life of a man on the edge of turning 40, it has to do with my life. It has to do with my aunt's life, and how quickly things can turn. Memories of our times together, how close we have become over the years, keep flooding my head. Prayers keep being tossed up; hopefully being caught. I'm thinking about my father, and my uncle, and my grandfather. I'm thinking about all of my family and friends.

I'm thinking of my aunt.

I hope you will too.

Dedicated to "The Crap Blog Detective"

They say hard work pays off. I hope they are right.

Short enough?

I just don't dig on swine

Vincent: Want some bacon?

Jules: No man, I don't eat pork.

Vincent: Are you Jewish?

Jules: Nah, I ain't Jewish, I just don't dig on swine, that's all.

---"Pulp Fiction" (1994)



When I told Frederic it was time to go, and I saw the fear in his eyes, I doubted my decision. His worry stemmed from two previous experiences. Needles wrongfully inserted into his hands and arms, stabbing, pinching, throbbing pain. No one forgets that sting, least a child who’s been spurned before. It was an IV he was afraid of, it was his possible death that did me in.

The media has done a great job at quietly and assertively inserting fear into the minds of parents worldwide; me included. Swine flu, H1N1, vaccinations, precautions, shortages, waiting on line, crowded doctor’s offices, crowded urgent care and emergency rooms, fevers, chills, body aches, we’re all knowledgeable yet extremely dangerous with that wisdom; me included.

And in our home, the worst word of all: pneumonia. It’s the word associated with death; real and otherwise. It’s what my children know contributed to the death of their only unwillingly absent grandparent. It’s what my children have heard me say was the demise of my older sister, albeit used as an excuse to let children process death on their level. What child can understand the truth when the truth is something called SIDS?

We couldn’t bring the fever down. 101.2 became 101.4 became 102; my boiling point. Rushing to the Internet, the CDC informed me that it was time; time to take the precaution, time to get undressed and dressed, time to drive two miles up the road to confirm or deny what my limited medical education suspected. Time to make time, even if the time spent was wasted.

I made promises I knew I couldn’t keep. Who was I to say what the doctors would or wouldn’t do? But they were promises that got us to move. 10 minutes later, the fever was confirmed. 13 minutes later, dosages of acetaminophen and Motrin were administered and consumed, 16 minutes later we were in a room, reiterating the progression of the aggressive illness to “Julie” our very qualified and very confident nurse (more on that later), who listened to Frederic’s lungs, who detected some wet sounds, who shook her head to herself as she possibly made her own diagnosis and began offering her own treatment plan in her mind, 18 minutes later the physician’s assistant arrived and confirmed what we already knew: The Flu.

“We’re seeing a lot of it,” he said, “if someone presents with all or some of the symptoms, we’re skipping the swabs and going straight to the diagnosis.” He actually said the words, “H1N1” so quickly, and so passively, that Frederic, who was busy into “Home Alone 3” on his bedside TV, missed what was said about him; in front of him with little regard to what the actual words might do to the mind of a child. “Tylenol and Motrin, and plenty of fluids,” the PA continued. “He’s highly contagious. At least until 24 hours after the last fever.”

When asked about antibiotics, I was met with a slight smirk and roll of the eyes, which told me I was being over-protective, which told me I was being petty, which told me I didn’t really know what he knew. Which told me to let him do his job.

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing more than what I’ve already said. We'll just get that fever down and you'll be good to go. I'll get him some juice. He's got to keep drinking. Drinking is good in this case."

Two cups of hospital juice offered and one consumed. We came equipped with an oversized bottle of orange Gatorade, which was met with less resistance to the PA's offering. Moments later, the doctor began a little backtracking:

"Heck, while you are here," he said, "why don't we just do a chest x-ray. Like I said," he looked away, toward the corner of the room, "you're already here. Can't hurt."

I imagined the conversation with Julie. She detected something. She cared about getting it right. She was confident that there was something else going on. She, I assumed, fought for the right of her patient, and won.

Concerned the x-ray might hurt, I walked side by side with Frederic, my arm draped around his hospital gown. "Nothing to worry about," I told him. "You've done these before. It's like taking a picture of your chest."

I had to remain outside the closed door room, but I could hear most of everything that was going on. Frederic, ever so curious, was asking questions. "Should I lay down? My dad said this won't hurt...will it? What's that machine do?"

Moments later, the PA changed his attitude. More seriously, "Well, he's got pneumonia." He was still being nonchalant with his tone, but he did seem a bit more concerned too. Frederic heard the word pneumonia and started to cry.

Julie walked in during this part. I detected, or I hoped for, a little smirk in the corner of her mouth as she walked next to the PA. She looked at Frederic and smiled. "It's a good thing you're mom and dad got you here when they did. We're gonna send you home with some medicine and get you back on your feet. You'll have guests over for Thanksgiving. You've got five whole days to get better." Frederic smiled back at her.

"Tomorrow's going to be filled with TV and doing nothing," I said. "Think of all of the perks."

That's the cool thing about kids. Show them the bright side of a bad situation, and they immediately latch on; most of the time. This time, it worked.

I was scared shitless. Still am. He's had nearly 24 hours worth of medicines, rest, fluids, and sympathy. At about four o'clock this morning, Frederic came charging into our room crying. And sweating. He was a mess. He was obviously still asleep, and he had broken his fever. My lame attempt at humor met on deaf ears. "You broke your fever," I said, "you're in a lot of trouble for that mister." Cue crickets.

We're all still on edge with how this thing's going to shake out. The fever presented itself again tonight; nothing major, but it reared it's little head. And the fear and the tears returned. He's just so worried about Thanksgiving.

I'm just so worried about my little boy.

You're right, you're right...I know you're right

I used to get pretty irritated by my father. Whenever I'd ask him for advice, he most often replied, "I don't care...whatever you want." Or some variation on that theme. "I don't know...whatever you want." "I don't care...whatever you think." "I don't know...whatever you think." It drove me insane. I just wanted guidance. I just wanted direction. I guess, at times, I just wanted him to make the decision for me.

Which, as I understand now, is not always the best thing to do. If I made my decisions for my children all of the time, it would be difficult for them to become independent. It would be hard for them to make right and wrong choices. We learn from our successes and failures by making choices, and maybe, in his own way, that's what my father was trying to do.

I often felt like he just didn't want to get blamed for something. Even if his suggestion turned out right, I think what he feared most was being wrong. Or maybe he just had his own life, as simple or as difficult as it may have been. He had decisions to make everyday, like I did and continue to do. It's not that he was selfish, but maybe it simply made sense for him to figure out his own way, like he had done most of his life. And that's the lesson he was trying to pass on.

I'm beginning to feel like I should simply just "mind my own business" when it comes to helping people and offering advice. I don't mean parenting. I don't mean marital decisions, or times when my wife needs to bounce her life off of me. I've spent a lot of time trying to help someone. I've spent countless hours looking at that person's life, trying to offer sound advice (or advice I thought was sound). But 99% of the time, everything I have suggested gets completely ignored. Completely.

Maybe dear old dad had it right. The sad thing is, I always seem to figure this stuff out when it's way too late.

Shouting the right word

"According to Jewish tradition, forty days before a male baby is born, a heavenly voice shouts out whom he will marry." This sentence is written in Mitch Albom's new book, "Have a Little Faith: A True Story." It's on page 141, more than halfway through the stories of Albert "Reb" Lewis, and Henry Covington; two very dedicated men "of the cloth." Men of different cloths, but men who share a common purpose. Men of many common purposes, but inherently the purpose of living a good life and leading a great flock.


So, of course, the sentiment made me think. And it made me remember.


When I first saw her, Cyndi was standing behind the nurses’ station writing in a patient chart. She was wearing a lime green silk top and a very short black skirt and my first impression led me to believe that she was probably a high school intern.

“She looks young,” I said to Lynn, the facility Activity Director. “Does she volunteer here as part of her high school or something?”



“She is a college graduate, thank you very much,” Lynn said. She seemed put-off by my observation. “She is a nutritionist and she happens to be involved with her high school sweetheart. They have been together for seven years, thank you very much. They even live together.” I would later learn that Cyndi and Lynn were friends and the tone in her voice was just Lynn being Lynn. She was from Minnesota.

As Cyndi and I got to know one another and I played the “if you ever want to get together for drinks—just as friends” guy, I learned from her that the seven year relationship was tainted. One night, after I had just returned from a business trip, Cyndi invited me for drinks at TGI Friday’s.


We drove in separate cars to the restaurant and met at a small table in the back. I ordered a Killian’s Red and she ordered a White Zinfandel. John, our perky Friday’s waiter, asked us both for our ID’s and it was at that point that I realized I didn’t bring enough money with me to pay for anything more than our first round.



“Mike and I broke-up,” Cyndi said quickly and drained the full glass of wine John had placed before her mid-sentence.


I took a sip from my beer, looked around at the empty tables around us and smiled. “I don’t have enough money to buy you dinner,” I said. “I’m not sure I even have enough to pay for these drinks.”



As if on cue, John approached the table and asked if we would be having dinner. It was perfect. Cyndi and I both started laughing hysterically. Neither of us could speak so I shook my head no. John left the check on the table and walked away, without perk.


I did have enough money to pay the bill minus a tip and we moved over to the bar in the middle of the restaurant (as if moving to another section of the bar guaranteed our anonymity from John). My credit card was maxed out and Cyndi had just enough change in her purse for a cup of coffee that the bartender graciously continued filling throughout the night.



That night, I learned that we grew up a quarter mile away from each other, went to the same grammar school, same junior high school and the same high school (she even remembers me from the school talent show when I was 12 and she was nine and I played Elwood Blues from a skit my friend, Derek, and I performed). My older brothers and her older sisters went to school together and after I realized exactly where her parents’ house was, I told her that I as a boy, I was close friends with her next door neighbor, Dave Gerkhe, who got hit by a car just before our freshman year of high school. The car hit Dave so badly that his foot completely turned around his ankle. Dave used to tease Cyndi and steal the admission fees she and her friend’s collected for their staged performances.


In the parking lot, we sat on the trunk of my car and talked about next steps.



“I would love to go out with you again,” I told her, “but the ball is in your court.”


Cyndi smiled. “I’ve never had a ball in my court. I like that.”

The first time we kissed, it was the morning after our second date a few days later. She asked me to help her move some furniture she left behind in an apartment she had at Northern Illinois University. She borrowed a pick-up truck from her friend’s boyfriend, and we drove an hour away to her apartment off campus. She only had a few boxes, a futon mattress and an old dresser. I insisted that the furniture was heavy enough not to have to tie it down. As we were speeding east down I-88 toward her parents’ house, she yelped when she looked into the rear view mirror and watched in horror as her belongings began flying out of the bed of the truck onto the highway. After we quickly pulled over and swerved to miss the speeding cars that honked and yelled at our situation, we were able to laugh about what happened. I was positive that once we dropped her stuff off, she would never want to see me again because I almost caused her to go to jail by my senseless suggestion, but we had dinner at a Chinese restaurant with her newly separated sister, Jeanette. After dinner, since my father was out of town visiting my brother in St. Louis, Cyndi agreed to come back to his place with me to watch a movie. We acted like teenagers, flirting with one another but keeping our distance and even though we would move upstairs to my father’s bed, the night ended in spooning position, fully clothed.


When I walked her to her car the next morning, Cyndi gently pulled herself close to me, tilted her head and kissed me. The kiss tasted like vegetable fried rice. It was the kiss that would make me forget about all others.

Even though I left the faith some 20 years ago, I'd like to think that 40 days before I was born a heavenly voice shouted out the right word. Cyndi.

Faith in humanity

I did something stupid today. Well, yesterday really. Something I don't normally do. Something my wife does occasionally. Well, more than occasionally, really. I lost something. When I travel, I have routines. I often rent a car from the same company. I stay at the Hilton family of hotels. I frequent the same airlines, when possible. I follow the same routine when I am in the airport, park in the same area, pack similarly, work out at about the same time, bring the same things to meetings. I plug my phone and my iPod in at night, and pack the plugs in my suitcase during the day; even if I am on a longer trip. Those kinds of things. I'm not sure if I do them out of habit, because it's a form of OCD, or because I am getting older, and quite possibly getting forgetful.

A lot of things about traveling are the same. The old adage, "same day, different shit" even applies for people who travel. For work and for pleasure. Obviously, pleasure trips involve more exploration and time for personal growth. But, essentially, the travel portion is alike. Which is why I try to stick to my routines no matter what the reason for being on the road.

When I go to meetings, I carry a small notebook holder. Inside the holder contains a small pad of paper for taking notes, business cards, drink coupons for Southwest airlines, various travel program enrollment cards, reminder scraps of paper. And a pen. Most of the other things I can do without. Most of the other things are replaceable. But, the pen, it was a gift. A birthday gift I received from Cyndi and the kids a couple of years ago. A birthday gift that they put a lot of thought into; that they contemplated would make me happy. And it did.

There's a level of routine in the use of pens too, I believe. When I am working at my desk and need a pen, I most often reach for my birthday gift. When I have an idea for a short story, or an essay, and I want to write it down, I don't feel right unless I use my birthday pen. It just feels right.

When I sat down to begin my day today, I reached into my backpack to retrieve the notebook holder. It wasn't there. I pulled everything out, and it still was not present. I looked in my suitcase, in my car, nothing. And then it hit me. I must of left it in Indiana. I must have left it in the activity room at the nursing home where most of my meeting was held. I knew it was gone.

Luckily, Nicole, one of my colleagues, was still at the facility today, for the final day of training. Thanks to technology, I was able to text and email her a request for help. I needed her to do a search. I grew anxious about the missing items, mostly about the pen. I was mad, as well.

Mad that I was careless. Mad that I misplaced important things. Mad that someone was going to get to enjoy my pen. I was certain that whoever found the holder, while might have turned it in, may have taken the pen for a reward. Like someone who finds a wallet and pockets the cash.

My faith, however, was restored today. My faith in humanity, that is. Not only was the holder located, but all of the items were intact. Including the pen. And while it might be as simple as no one even noticed it, I like to think that many people saw it and decided to leave the possession where it was. Someone, these Samaritans knew, is looking for these lost items. They are waiting to be found.

I sell therefore I am

People are often defined by what they do for a living. When you meet someone new, a frequent icebreaker question is, "so what kind of work do you do?" My father was a fleet service clerk. My brother manages a warehouse. My sister-in-law manages a Disney Store. My wife is a mother and a teacher. I have friends who are doctors, and lawyers, and project managers. I know people who own businesses, work on computers, write books, install heating and air conditioning systems.

I've spent the last few days in two nursing homes. Not as a patient, and not as an employee. I was at the facilities because I sold the corporation that owns them, some hardware and some software. That's what I do for a living. I sell. I've been selling for most of my professional career. Whether it was beds in a nursing home when I was an Admission Director. Whether it was social services, or intake services, or teaching services, or Internet based software. I sell.

What I like about selling is the fact that I help people. There are salespeople who are inherently not good people. Like the lady who sold us our first house. She was an outright crook. She convinced Cyndi and I to make her our "dual agent" because we had no idea what that really meant. We had no idea that your signature on a contract cut out the guy who was helping us find a home. A friend. Then there's the used car salesman, who wants to get a car off the lot at all costs. No matter what the condition the car is in. I've been sold some lemons and I know others who have been too.

When you care about the things you sell, in my opinion, it makes all the difference. I spent three days seeing how the labor of love our developers have created truly helps people. It's an eye opener for a guy like me, who previously spent years selling software to companies without seeing the end result first-hand.

I sell something that actually helps improve lives. I sell something that makes people's jobs easier. I sell something that will continue to improve health care. How cool is that?

I'm pretty damn proud of the people I work for, and extremely proud of the people I work with. I've known that since I took this job 18 months ago (today). And seeing the faces of the people we help, hearing the relief we can bring to them, working through their fears and anxieties...that really sweetens the deal.

Pickles and a TV

My parents loved to throw parties. When they had our basement finished, they designed it to resemble a fancy discothèque, complete with a fully stocked bar, dance floor with strobe lights, a professional sized pool table and a state-of-the art entertainment system with a large projection screen TV. It was the envy of all of our neighbors.

When I turned 13, my mother insisted that I have a Bar Mitzvah ceremony. Most boys, when preparing for this pivotal event, study the tenets of the religion. As I now understand the modern day ritual, it is most common for the celebrant to recite that week’s torah portion, including its traditional chant. In some congregations, the celebrant reads the entire weekly torah, or leads part of the service, or leads the congregation in certain important prayers. The celebrant is also generally required to make a speech, which traditionally begins with the phrase "today I am a man."

My preparation for the celebration was to put on a suit and tie. I was required to stand in our basement in front of my guests (some family members, but mostly friends and neighbors) and light a bunch of candles on a makeshift box my father constructed. My mother read from a long letter she wrote, inviting specific people to join me in the lighting of the candles. It was a celebration, in my opinion, for my mother. A way for her to show her friends we were, in fact, Jewish.

I have no idea what parents typically give their children as presents at their Bar Mitzvah. I like to think that the gifts are steeped in tradition. During the gift giving portion of my celebration, friends and neighbors mostly gave me money with religious cards and thoughtful sentiment. I saved my parent’s gift for last because I was excited to see what they bought me. I was curious about the thought and effort they put into my present. Would it be a fancy Torah, pushing me in the proper direction of faith? Would it be a Bar Mitzvah Blessing, inspiring me to attain spiritual fulfillment, strengthening my resolve to understand the law, encouraging me to treat my fellow human being with justice and respect? There were two nicely wrapped presents in blue and white foil paper. When I opened the gifts, I realized at that moment that I would never understand what it truly meant to be a man in the eyes of the Jewish faith. My parent’s presents were meant to both mock me and bring a suitable entertainment to them. On my 13th birthday, from my mother and father, I received a jumbo sized jar of kosher pickles (because “he loves pickles so much”) and my very own 19-inch color TV with remote control.

Something every man needs.

It don't mean nothing (nothing)...not a thing (not a thing)...

It was broken, accidentally, I was told. Frederic is nine, so the act of entertaining himself comes easily to him. Much easier than it does for adults. He still enjoys his imagination. He is still able to live in a fantasy world, where employment, shelter, food, bills are all a thing in his future. Rightfully so.

On this occasion, the entertainment came in the form of throwing a pillow in the air. Or maybe it was a couch cushion. I can't remember, and that part of the story really doesn't matter. I do know that it was either instrument that brought not only momentary joy, but instant fear. At some point, the pillow/cushion came down from the toss, and hit a trinket on our entertainment unit, knocking it down with a crash.

The item was something Frederic wanted and received after my father died. When his three surviving sons were charged with the task of cleaning out his home, I really had no interest in keeping much of anything. To me, the possessions were simply that: stuff. They didn't signify the essence of my father. They were things he collected over the years. Material items that he himself didn't have the heart to get rid of, whether via a gift to his family or to a favorite charity (and he had many...trust me...I still get requests for monetary donations from several of them). I wanted a couple of things, don't get me wrong. Like the inexpensive Swiss Army Swatch watch I found. Like a painting he had hanging in his living room that is now in mine. Like a couple of t-shirts he used to wear. But for the most part, what he accumulated was mostly junk (minus the nice tools and some furniture he had, but I'm not a handy guy like my brother, Darrell, is, and I didn't need any new old furniture).

By the time Frederic is my age, his memories of his grandfather will be faded. I know this because I, too, lost my grandfather when I was seven. I have maybe a half dozen things I remember about my grandfather. I wish there were more.

When he asked if he could have the "golf ball thingy-game" my dad once owned, I didn't think twice. My brothers agreed too. This request was possibly Frederic's way of holding on to the memory of his grandfather in the only way a seven year old knew how. I don't even remember my father ever showing us the promotional item he got from his car dealer. But maybe, I assumed, Frederic did.

It's hard to describe, but the object of Fredric's affection was this skill-type contraption that was kind of like a snow globe. Inside of the item was a golf ball and tee. It was filled with some type of fluid; compass juice or something. The goal was to carefully shake the globe to get the golf ball to rest on top of the tee. Not an easy feat, but Frederic did do it the day he requested the item. A major accomplishment for a child.

He was excited that he was able to take the item home. When it arrived, it got some attention occasionally from curious guests. But for the most part, it wound up, like most trinkets are, moving from spot to spot whenever it was dusted.

Last night, the item met its demise in the whole pillow/cushion incident. It crashed onto the floor and broke. Frederic was devastated, I was told. What bothered me the most was that he was afraid to tell me. Afraid I was going to get mad at him. Afraid, maybe, that I would blame him for ruining something of my father's. Afraid he would get punished. Afraid to tell me.

Growing up, I kept secrets from my father. I think the most damaging one was when I did steroids for two years. He gave me plenty of opportunities to "come clean" but I continued to lie to his face. Like Frederic, I was also afraid. Afraid of being honest and accepting the consequences.

But this is different. When I heard Frederic didn't want to tell me what happened, I became concerned. Was it wrong for him to be careless; freely tossing around a pillow/cushion in our family room? Sure. Ultimately, however, the item may have meant more to him than it did to me. The item, on my shelf or broken and in the garbage, will not bring my father back. I've been trying to instill a sense of honesty in my children that one-ups me. I'd rather they tell me the truth than lie to my face. I'd rather they realize that stuff--most often than not--is just stuff, not the essence of a human being. If something of value is kept out in the open for a child to accidentally break it--in my opinion--it's my fault as much as it is his.

I reiterated that today. We had a conversation about the incident. We talked about being more careful. I explained my theory on possessions.

I didn't see his face in the end, but I heard his sigh of relief.

He was no longer afraid.

Honesty is such a lonely word

The writer, Zadie Smith, in an interview on NPR, said that she could not really write about people who are still alive. She said that writing about the living is a "violent thing to do"; that it seemed like a betrayal of the living relationship. She's recently published a book of nonfiction essays, which include two essays about her relationship with her father, who is no longer living. She called the process of writing about him an act of mourning.

Frank McCourt, the author "Angela's Ashes," probably felt the same way, to a certain extent. McCourt didn't write about his mother until he was much older, long after she had died. Given the manner in which McCourt revealed his family secrets, the way he exposed his mother's true being, as perceived and written by him, this similar theory seems to make sense.

When my father was alive, I often wrote freely about our relationship. Good, bad, or indifferent, we had a history as father and son, and I guess my way of understanding our relationship was through writing; my act of mourning.

Writing has always been my way of figuring things out. Before I was introduced to the nonfiction genre, I would fictionalize my life in short stories. When my cousin and uncle died in separate car accidents two years apart--both involving drinking and driving--I wrote a short story about a group of teenagers who experienced the same issue. When I started chewing tobacco, I wrote a short story about the experience. Knee surgery, girlfriends, steroids, family arguments, divorce. Everything was open season, but I had the freedom/guise of writing "fiction."

This has been a year of reflection, but it's also been a year of forgiving. Two previously strained relationships were rekindled, with overwhelmingly positive results. I'm proud of myself for these things, and happy that these people are back in my life.

A teacher and friend of mine, Sandi Wisenberg uses people's initials when she writes about them. Her blog http://www.cancerbitch.blogspot.com/ began as a way for her to process, vent, expose, understand her life with breast cancer. Instead of fictionalizing things, Sandi kept people pretty much anonymous. "L" did this, or "C," a student of mine did that. It reminded me of novels written long ago.

I never quite understood this practice.

I'm starting to get it.

Because, boy do I need to process things.

If I were smarter

If I were smarter, I would write about all of the questions that seem to have no answer; questions that most often are asked by children when trying to comprehend the world. There are questions I probably asked my parents when I was a child, and most likely received a less than adequate response. I did not have the luxury of logging on to the Internet and typing my question into Google or Yahoo or Ask Jeeves. My knowledge was limited to encyclopedias (my family opted for the less popular version whose name escapes me even though I spent much time browsing through them as a child). I might write about:

• Who is God’s mother


• When is Santa Claus’ birthday


• Why do we die


• Why do bad things happen
• Do aliens really exist

Although all of these questions surely have some philosophical (and possibly historical) answer, I’d rather have the knowledge available deep inside my brain, readily available as if asked what 2+2 equals. I’d prefer not to have to reply, “go look it up.”

The pressure is on, but the wine will be flowing

When we saw "Julie and Julia" a couple of months ago, I was inspired. Inspired to write more, and inspired to cook. The movie is based on a blog project which chronicled writer, Julie Powell's quest to cook through Julia Child's 1961 cookbook, "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in one year. Toward the end of the movie, the Powell's have a dinner party with friends. They live in an apartment in Queens, New York, and the scene is somewhat magical. Magical because by this point in the story, Julie Powell has really become a master chef through real life experience. Magical because you know, by this point, that this is going to be a story that has a happy ending. Magical, also, because of the setting itself. Picture a backyard patio with nice furniture, lights strung in a square hanging above, a clear, crisp night, and good friends.

After the movie, Cyndi and I went for a drink at a local restaurant. As we quietly sipped our drinks (she had a Riesling, and I a Guinness), and digested what we had experienced through conversation and contemplation, I made an offer.

"How would you like it if I threw you a dinner party for your birthday?" I asked. "We can invite your friends, and their husbands. I can prepare a menu of foods you enjoy; the things you like."

Cyndi smiled. She knew what I was offering, and from where the inspiration came. She knew it was a fleeting suggestion, prompted by the good feeling we both received from the movie we had just enjoyed. But she went with it.

"Sure," she said, with enthusiasm and encouragement.

"We'll do this right," I continued. I was planning the evening as I was speaking. "I'll ask your sister to take the kids...overnight. I'll plan the whole thing. I'll do all the cooking." My mouth was working overtime, spewing words before I had time to think them through. "Whatever the menu turns out to be, say Italian, for instance, I'll Google what kinds of wines will be good with everything."

Once I suggested Italian, Cyndi really perked up. She began to get as excited and pumped up about a day of celebration for her as I was. It was going to be her day, so I wanted it all to be about the things she liked.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I got to work. Cyndi didn't want the dinner party to be too big, so we couldn't invite every one of her friends. The list she prepared made sense. Two of her best friends from childhood and their husbands, and the Sasajimas, our friends from Japan. Eight people was plenty for this novice cook. The menu itself was not a problem. I know most of the Italian foods Cyndi likes. She's been a fan since long before we met. Whenever we go out for Italian food, she pretty much sticks to her standards. Even when we were in Rome last year, where she could have tried new things, she remained true to her taste buds--daily.

Today's the day. Today is when I have to "put my money where my mouth is" (or was). The menu has been finalized and shared amongst the guests, who are each bringing the wine/beer I have selected for the various courses. The food has been purchased. Some of what will be served has already been cooked. And I am anxious. Anxious to enjoy the night. Anxious because I don't want to get anything wrong. Anxious because I want this night to be special. For Cyndi and for our friends.

So, while I need you to keep your fingers crossed for me, wish Cyndi a Happy Birthday, if you can. Today, it's about her. No matter what the outcome.

p.s. For those who are interested, here's the menu:

Antipasti (appetizer)
· Bruschetta
· Tomato and Fresh Mozzarella

Wine: Pinot Grigio
Beer: Peroni Nastro Azzuro

The First Course (Primo)
· Angel Hair Pasta with Pomodora Sauce

Wine: Sangiovese
Beer: Peroni Nastro Azzuro

The Second or Main Course (Secondo)
· Chicken Marsalla
· Italian Sausage

Wine: Toscola Vernaccia
Beer: Peroni Nastro Azzuro

The Side Dish (served with the Second/Main Course)
· Grilled Portabella Mushroom

The Dessert Course (Dolce)
· Biscotti
· Lemon Ice

Wine: Port of Utica
Coffee

Superstitions

I used to be superstitious. Especially when I was 17, which was when I had a dream that I would die. On Friday the 13th. My dream not only attempted to predict the date when I would die, but showed me how. I was going to die in a car accident.

Now that 22 years have passed, it's obvious why this dream came to me. It was probably obvious at the time, as well. I actually had the dream twice. On two separate occasions, spaced between a visit from a ghost. Or what I was convinced was a ghost. More specifically, the head of a ghost. Even more exact, the head of my dead cousin. During the visit, my cousin was the one who agreed with the dream; I would die in my car on Friday the 13th.

My cousin had died a year prior to these incidents. Not on the most superstitious day, but on her birthday. On her 20th birthday. It was the first of two accidental deaths my family would face within a two year span. My cousin was living the free life of a college student downstate, celebrating an annual event with her boyfriend and his Air Force buddies. They were drinking, and they made a bad decision. Two actually. The first was to make the trek from U of I back to the Chanute Air Force Base after partying most of the night. The second was when my cousin misjudged the distance she had to make a turn in front of an oncoming truck.

We were all devastated, of course. Losing a family member in such a horrific way is difficult to wrap your mind around. So my mind began playing tricks on me.

The dreams and the visit from the hereafter scared my parents. They thought I was telling them something without saying anything specific. They thought I was suicidal. I was taken to a shrink, and asked a series of questions I've long since willingly forgotten. It was suggested that I attend group counseling. Once a week, I was summoned to a large conference room in an office building. I had to sit in a room for an hour with teens who were actually suicidal. Teens who not only dreamt about death, but acted upon an urge.

I knew I didn't belong there. I knew I wasn't suicidal. It was just the opposite for me. I was afraid of death. The dreams and visit themselves scared the shit out of me. I didn't want to die; on Friday the 13th or any other day. I tried telling everyone this, but the more I made my position known, the more the doctor concluded I needed help. Luckily, the therapy was not mandated. My parents didn't force me to go. The school officials had no idea. It was strictly up to me if I chose to attend or not.

After two visits, I quit. The therapist kept calling me at home to see if I was coming back. I think he even called me at the gym where I worked a couple of times. He kept leaving messages like it was urgent I call him back, or that I'd be sorry in the future if I didn't keep the therapy going. I didn't care. His threats or suggestions or whatever they were didn't scare me. At least not any more than the dreams or my fear of death. I know he was just trying to do his job; trying to save me in some way.

I didn't need to be saved. I just needed a lucky rabbit's foot key chain, or to throw salt over my shoulder before I got in the car.

Riding the L

I spent much of my time at Loyola trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life. There is no way someone can figure anything out at college in between the sleeping and the drinking and the sex and the sleeping and the drinking and the sex and the occasional studying.

When I started school, my intention was to be a “pre-law” student. I had no idea what that meant, specifically. There wasn’t much planning for me when it came to higher education. I was the first one in my family to go to college, so I was sent out into the “real world” without a map, without directions. I had applied to a few other colleges—Purdue University, Northern Illinois University, the University of Arizona—all of which sent me the big fat acceptance letter.
I ultimately chose Loyola because it was located two blocks from my grandmother’s apartment in Roger’s Park on the North side of Chicago. I thought it would be cool to be living so close to her. I figured when I got sick of the dining hall food, I could simply walk two blocks to my grandmother’s apartment and get a home cooked meal. My grandmother was a fantastic cook. Her meals were never a surprise and always came in courses: Chopped liver, chopped turnips or chopped avocado; Matzo Ball soup with big chunks of carrots and celery; gefilte fish; latkes; challah bread with honey and soft butter; kasha and varnishkes; sweet and sour chicken and beef brisket; canned corn; homemade pickles and pickled peppers. She would cook elaborate meals like this whether she was preparing a meal for one person or twenty. The time I spent alone with her was an added bonus to my college experience. My grandmother taught me how to play poker, she taught me how to say cut and go to sleep in Yiddish and she taught me how important laughter was in life. We always laughed together.

Picking Loyola also meant I was somewhat familiar with the area, at least from a Point A to Point B perspective. Roger’s Park was recognizable to me because I had been visiting my grandmother there all of my life. I knew how to get from my parent’s house to my grandmother’s subsidized high-rise apartment. I knew the storefronts on Devon Avenue; Brown’s Chicken, The Bagel Restaurant, the Cover Girl clothing store (my other grandmother worked there as a bra fitter), and Weinstein Brothers Memorial Chapel. I also knew the Thillens Stadium field which was about ten minutes west of campus. I knew the field, not from actually playing baseball there, but from driving by it countless times over the years. The Stadium was marked by an impressive landmark—a giant baseball. As a child, I was convinced that people lived in the big baseball. I’m not sure how that thought was born, but I remember being devastated when I learned that it was simply a sign.

I had a great deal of familiarity with the particular part of the city where Loyola was located. I wasn’t, however, versed on public transportation. Growing up in the suburbs, public transportation was defined as riding your bike on the street or asking your parents for a ride to the mall. I needed to learn how to ride the “L”—Chicago’s subway system—which at the time consisted of A and B trains that were designated by colored lines. The Loyola stop was on the Red Line and was an AB train, which meant both A and B trains stopped there. The Red Line could take you from as far north as Evanston, an affluent suburb where Northwestern University is located to as far south as 95th Street, a lower income section of the city. Whenever we had to get around the city, my friends and I never took the bus. We preferred taking the L because it was fast and it was fun. You were sure to see a half-naked, completely drunk, homeless man sleeping on the train. You were sure to see the man who was tragically burned in an apartment fire, walking up and down the cars asking for handouts. Legend had it that he made over $100,000 a year begging for change. Riding the L, you were sure to sit on someone’s bodily fluid, sure to smell someone’s sour odor, and if the timing was right, sure to be solicited by some street hustler looking to cheat an unsuspecting passenger. These were things and people you’d never see in the suburbs.

It was all so disgusting and exciting all at once.

Mark Coon...Country Companies

Several months before I graduated from Loyola, I began contemplating what I was going to do with the rest of my life. One thought was to become a full-time volunteer with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. Another thought was to get a job. The only problem with option two was I didn't really have any marketable skills. My time at Loyola was spent trying to figure things out. I changed my major at least a half dozen times, and I was about to graduate with a degree in creative writing. It's not like you can become a published writer overnight. I went to career days, filled out applications, took tests, and weighed my options. I was leaning toward going the volunteer route, but I had to have a back-up plan.

During the time I was waiting for my JVC application to be evaluated, I was contacted by Country Companies insurance agency. They told me that I scored one of the highest results scores they had ever seen and asked me to schedule a personal interview with one of their agents.

When I called my father to tell him about the pending interview, he was excited. “That’s a great opportunity!” he said. He whistled with excitement. “You can be set for life if this goes well. You’d be your own boss and everything?” he asked.

“That’s what they said,” I told him. “It could take a couple years but, yeah, they said I’d own an office.”

“You can’t mess this up,” he insisted. “I mean, come on, being your own boss AND making money. Looks like that expensive education is going to pay off.” My father laughed. “We’ve gotta get you a suit,” he said. “You can’t go to this thing without a suit. Or maybe you can wear one of mine.”

I refused to wear one of his suits. He was always insisting that I wear one of his suits. Growing up, when we went to formal family gatherings, I had to wear his clothes. Whenever we flew standby on American Airlines, he made me wear one of his suits.

I agreed to meet my father—at JC Penney—to buy me my own suit. I went with a navy blue pin-stripped three-piece suit with a white collared light blue pin-stripped shirt. I also bought a pair of maroon loafers, a maroon belt and a blue patterned tie. Whether or not I had the passion to be an insurance salesman, I was sure I looked the part.

My father was pleased. So pleased, in fact, he bought me the suit. “Go get ‘em,” he told me. He truly wanted me to succeed, and he was proud of my effort.

I went to my appointment to the Country Companies office in Vernon Hills, Illinois. The office was owned by a guy by the name of Mark Coon. For as long as I live, I will never forget Mark Coon.

When I arrived at his office, even though I was standing in a Country Companies office, meeting with the man who invited me, when I shook his hand, he said, “Mark Coon…Country Companies.” It struck me as being an odd thing to say to someone, but I remembered that it was exactly what he said to me when he called to schedule the appointment: “Mark Coon…Country Companies.”

Mark Coon…Country Companies became a joke amongst me and my friend, Andy Palombo. We would repeat his name over and over and make ourselves laugh. We’d use deep, over exaggerated voices. Mark Coon…Country Companies, we felt, was appropriate to use at any situation.

Question: “Do you want to go to lunch?”
Answer: “Mark Coon…Country Companies.”
Question: “What do you want to watch on TV?”
Answer: “Mark Coon…Country Companies.”

We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at the expense of a man who was prepared to help me start a career in the insurance industry.

He's still around too: http://www.countryfinancial.com/mark.coon/rep/myBioAndTeam

Hebrew School

I never attended Hebrew School, but my oldest brother, Darrell, did. At an early age, Darrell connected with Judaism because it, he has told me, brought him a sense of peace. He enjoyed hearing the stories his teacher would tell and was making friends with children in his class. He loved to go to attend classes at the school and it was the first time I remember being both envious and jealous of my brother.

We went with Darrell whenever he had class and had to wait in the lobby. The school was in its infancy at the time, associated with a new synagogue, so classes were held at a store in a strip mall. I was always very curious about what went on, but was never able to sit with him during a session.

One afternoon when I was four years old, I got my wish. I had to use the bathroom and my mother let me go by myself. She was reading an article in a magazine and the bathroom was just down the hall. After I finished, I could not get my pants snapped. No one was there to help me, so I opened the bathroom door with one hand and held my pants up with the other. I walked out to the lobby so my mother could straighten me out, but she was not there when I returned. I panicked. The only other room I knew in the school was the classroom where my brother went each week. I quickly ran toward his door, hands in the air, pants at my ankles, opened it and shouted, “I need my mommy…I need my mommy…my pants are down…my pants are down…”
This was my first—and only—experience with Hebrew School. The dues the synagogue suggested families pay were being increased. My father complained that he did not have to pay to pray and that he could teach his children what it meant to be Jewish. My brother was devastated and I was sad because I would never be able to see what it was really all about.

Dialing it in

Today, I received an opinion. Since I have been in creative writing programs for the better part of 20 years, criticism is not only acceptable, it is welcomed. Writers have to have thick skin, otherwise, there is little chance for improvement. When I teach workshops, I explain to my students that feedback is an essential part of the writing process. I encourage them not to take the criticism personally, and to look at it as a positive step toward becoming a better writer. I practice what I preach, and believe in the process.

Jason Cooper, whom I've written about in the past, offered the following bit of information to me: "The last two weeks," he said, "I feel like you've been dialing your blog in...I realize," he continued, "that you are what, 300 or so days into this?" This is post 299 to be exact. "So you may be getting a little burned out. But, I'm just not feeling them, man. And I'm a fan, don't get me wrong."

I'm glad Jason said something. I welcome his opinion. He's a good guy, and I appreciate his honesty. And he's right. To a certain extent. While I'm not really getting burned out, I am finding it more and more difficult to keep digging into my life. Maybe I'm just not that interesting of a person. Maybe I've taken much of what I find interesting in my life and have shared it. Sometimes the blog comes to me. Sometimes I struggle. Sometimes, like today and the next couple days, I am at a convention and am mentally drained (and ready to drown myself in adult beverages).

So, I ask you, dear readers, am I dialing these in? Is there something about me you'd like me to explore. I'm not going to stop this until day 365, so the feedback I get can be fuel and inspiration. Something you recommend might trigger a memory. I'm ready to stop dialing and start writing. Won't you join me in the process?

Foul smells, filled with LOVE

My brother, Ira, has this disgusting habit. It's something he may have done when we were kids, but I don't remember it. And when I say it's disgusting, I'm not using the term lightly. This thing clears rooms.

When we were kids, our parents encouraged the complete opposite of what my brother does. A loud one here, an SBD one there; every time we tooted, laughter ensued. It was the kind of parental lesson kids love. Dad farts freely, well, then I can too. Who cares what's socially acceptable or not. Worked for the Fosco Family.

When I was in sixth grade, I was picked as captain of the kickball team during recess. It was an unusually warm fall day, so Mr. Kropp offered an impromptu/unscheduled recess. However, everyone had to play. After teams were picked, we had to come up with a suitable name. Some kid yelled, "How about the Fosco Farts!" Everyone laughed, including me. I was actually proud of the suggestion. Much to our surprise, Mr. Kropp approved the team name. Briefly. It wasn't until everyone on the team, including the girls, were making fart noises. With their mouths, with their hands cupped over their mouths, with their hands and armpits, and yes, some even with their fart instruments. We tested Mr. Kropp's patience, and lost. The only thing that came out of it was that it confirmed my reputation as a farter.

My brother has a reputation too. As a burper. Before our father was in the hospital for six weeks, I didn't get the opportunity to spend a lot of time with Ira. Of course, there were the occasional family dinners, but nothing remotely as close as watching a family member die. To help break the tension/sadness (so I thought), Ira would quietly belch, and then blow. After a moment, the area in which we were sitting would begin to sour. Ira would begin to giggle. Like a teenager. Like a schoolgirl. Like a man barely able to contain himself. It brought so much amusement to him that he proceeded to do it, repeatedly. No matter how many times you would beg him to stop. I honestly thought it was just something to keep his spirits up during the trying time we all faced. And maybe that's what happened here, with this last particular incident. At his mother-in-law's Shiva.

In the Jewish religion, after a person dies, the grieving family "sits Shiva." In many cases, Shiva lasts for several days. In this case, it was two. Since Cyndi and the kids did not attend the funeral with me, and did not get to the chance to express their condolences to our extended family, we attended last night's Shiva.

Toward the end of the evening--more specifically, toward the end of our evening--Ira began his shenanigans again. If I thought the smell was bad 2+ years ago, I was wrong. That was brown sugar and cinnamon compared to what was coming out of his body last night. I'm starting to think he's either got something seriously wrong with him medically, or he's swallowing dead animals. As I wrote, he cleared the room; cleared this side of the Fosco's, at least.

While this may not be the most flattering portrayal of my brother, he's really an admirable guy. He's a giving man. And so is his wife. They often put other people's needs before their own. When someone needs help, Ira and Amy never think twice about offering what they can. Including their home. It began with Merle, Amy's mom, nearly ten years ago. When my mom needed shelter, a permanent place was made. When it was discovered that a man from their synagogue, who has been down on his luck for quite some time, was living in a tent, Ira and Amy made room for them. And it's not like they don't have a busy and active life. They've got three kids to boot. Giving.

At Mass this morning, the pastor talked about giving. He talked about not only giving money, but our talents and our time. Behind every "give" there is love. In Ira's case (Amy too), it's more like LOVE.

While Ira may know how to clear a room, it's very apparent that he also knows how to fill one up.

11 Things a 39 a year old does not want to hear

1. "Oh, my God, your hair is really gray!" Heard yesterday at a funeral
2. "You look like you are shrinking!" Heard yesterday at a funeral
3. "Bend over and cough..." Heard earlier this year
4. "What time would you like to schedule your colonoscopy?" Heard earlier this year
5. "You've really aged..." Heard yesterday at a funeral
6. "...and we've given you the senior discount..." Heard by my 45 year old brother, last week at a restaurant...fearful I will hear it too...
7. (at a bar, after the bouncer has carded everyone else) "You're good, go right in..." Heard earlier this year
8. "You don't look so good...do you need to sit down?" Just waiting for someone to say...
9. (About music from the 80's and 90's)"...oh, so you like 'Classic Rock?'" Positive one of my nieces or nephews will spit out within the next 67 days...
10. "What's 'The Brady Bunch'?" (or any popular sitcom from the 70's or 80's) Heard earlier this year
11. "Are you done yet?!?" Enough said...

Turkey, motorcycles, and swimming pools

While they are sad events, funerals are always interesting. In a good way. I've always learned something new about the person who has died. Even when my father passed away, I learned things about him that I never imagined would be true.

One thing that comes to mind are the comments the people who worked with him made. My father always gave us the impression that he did not like his job. In fact, had someone asked me, I would have responded that he despised his job. He worked his ass off, throwing passenger's luggage on and off airplanes at O'Hare Airport for 35 years. He woke up at 3:00am every day, lugged his tired self to a low paying job. He came home exhausted. That was what I knew, and what I saw.

At his funeral, I learned he was somewhat of a prankster. At work. I never saw that side of him, but his co-workers did. And they proudly shared this fact with me at his funeral. It was a passing comment, made by a guy I've not seen since, but it made me smile. And it softened me to my dad.

Today, I learned something new. Not about my father, but about my sister-in-law's mother, Merle. I've known Merle since my brother, Ira, began dating Amy. I was on their first date with them, which began at my apartment in college. Two weeks later, my brother popped the question. This was in 1992. While I was certainly not as close to Merle as my brother, she was like a member of our extended family. She was always so happy to see us whenever we visited. She was always so interested in hearing about our lives. She was sweet to my wife, and soft with my children, and could carve the best damn turkey on Thanksgiving.

Here's what I learned about Merle today:

Merle's son, Sidney, was born with Cerebral Palsy. When Sidney was a boy, Merle formed a Cub Scout pack for kids with CP. To help with the kids disabilities, Merle and her husband, Shelly, built a pool in their backyard. Their home became a meeting place for everyone, including their other children and their friends. One day, when they were driving down the street, Merle and Shelly saw two hard-core motorcyclists driving down the road. Each of them were riding bikes with sidecars. Merle got an idea. She instructed Shelly to follow the two men, pulling in behind them when they veered toward a bar. Much to her husband's dismay, Merle got out of the car, walked into the bar, and returned moments later. With a promise. A promise that these two men would come to their home the following weekend, bringing their friends who also rode motorcycles with sidecars. The men and their friends showed up, and gave a group of boys, born with Cerebral Palsy, a day they all remembered.

While this was something new I learned about Merle, it did not surprise me. Putting others before herself, seeking pleasure and joy for others, and asking little in return, except maybe a promise of friendship and loyalty.

Merle is surely from whom we can all learn. Two things I know for sure: 1) She will be missed; 2) I'll never be able to carve our turkey on Thanksgiving Day the way Merle did.

A Friend of the Devil

During my sophomore year at Loyola, I converted from Judaism to Catholicism. When I made the decision to convert, it wasn’t as if I was this Orthodox Jew that wore a yarmulke on my head, went to the Synagogue on Friday nights and was part of Hillel, the Jewish ministry on campus. I actually tried to join Hillel my freshman year, but never felt a strong connection with the group. Jewish was really nothing more than a label to me. It was a quick response to the question what my religious identification was. I had a Bar Mitzvah, for example, but it was more like a big party my parents threw for me because I turned 13 (they gave a 19 inch color television and a jumbo sized jar of kosher pickles as my Bar Mitzvah gift). I had always placed my idea of religion in the image of my grandfather on my mother’s side—my Zadie. He was a very religious man, but he died when I was seven. When he died, he pretty much took the tenets of the religion with him. My parents tried to keep up with the traditions, but since my father was not very interested in Judaism, we more or less became nothing.

At Loyola, most of the people I knew were Catholic. Many had been attending Catholic schools all their lives. They found a community with one another when they went to church on Sundays. Loyola offered a 10:00 pm Sunday mass, officiated by one of the more popular, beer drinking, racquetball playing, philosophical priests on campus. The 10:00 mass was the best attended and I always felt left out.

“You coming to mass?” someone would inevitably ask on his way out, stopping quickly before I had the chance to answer. “Oh, shit, I forgot. You’re Jewish. Sorry, man.”

Converting to Catholicism was more meaningful than my desire to be part of a community.
Part of Loyola’s core curriculum requirement, was to take three classes in theology. It was the first time in my life I was being forced, offered—whatever the right term is to describe my participation—to study and understand organized religion. The theology requirement did not insist that people study just Catholicism. There were courses offered on all religions. In fact, the first course I took as a freshman was on the Old Testament. It was the first time I ever opened a Bible and the first time I contemplated spirituality.

Attending a Jesuit university did lend itself more opportunity for me to lean in the Catholic direction. I started regularly reading the Bible, speaking with priests and, although I do not consider myself “found,” for the first time in my life, I began formulating a religious belief. What became very clear to me was that religion—in my case, Catholicism—made me feel very good. I felt cleansed, relieved, excited, important, inclusive. It was those feelings I carried with me when I made the decision to convert.

Before, during and after my conversion, I was very involved with the church on campus. I also spent quite a bit of time at the Ministry Center. At church, I was a Eucharistic Minister, which meant I offered the consecrated body and blood of Christ to the members of the church. Loyola priests used actual fresh baked bread in place of the circular hosts that most churches offered. Each time I held a chunk of Jesus in my hands and offered “the body of Christ” to my fellow congregants, I felt honored to share the moment and make a spiritual connection.

I was also a Lector at mass. I would either recite one of the weekly readings, or occasionally several students and I would act out a passage for affect. One time, a priest asked me to perform a scene from one of the readings. I was supposed to be in a paddle boat unsuccessfully fishing. I called out to Jesus “help me Lord, I am yours” and a school of imaginary fish began jumping from my imaginary lake into my imaginary boat. At the very moment I performed the reading, I truly believed that I was in the middle of a lake and oodles of fish were gracing my boat. My belief was in the expression of emotion on my face. I was told this by several people after mass. I made the connection.

Being involved in the church helped me feel connected to my chosen faith. It brought me a comforting feeling that felt cleansing. Each mass I attended, each discussion I had with a priest, each expression of faith confirmed my conversion. I made the right decision.

Even though I was very involved in student ministry, I was hardly a pious person. In fact, I was a hypocrite when it came to a very basic tenet of the Catholic faith—pre-marital sex. It was a side of my personality that was a struggle, mostly during times of introspection, like when I was at mass. I never looked down upon myself when engaged in a sinful act.

Whenever I was out of the element of the church, in the dining hall, at class, at the gym, and especially at the bars, I was a downright libertine. I wanted to hook-up with the women on campus, and I was relatively non-selective and uncaring in the process. I loved scamming for women. Whenever I got lucky—which was often—I was satisfied.

Loyola was a very small school and the ratio of women to men was 6:1. It made the game of chase so much easier. The pool of women was always so plentiful, and the opposite was the reverse for them. It was almost as if the girls had to take what any of us guys were offering.
There just weren’t that many of us to go around. Great odds when you’re a guy.

During the time I was going through my conversion, I started having doubts about my lifestyle. On one hand, I enjoyed the attention and sexual gratification a hook-up brought. But, I knew what I was doing was counterproductive to my faith. I wanted to be a better person not just religiously, but as a whole. It didn’t matter if I actually had sex with the woman or not. I just needed female physical companionship. The more I could have it the more I wanted it. I was not interested in any long-term relationships with any of the girls I met.

My carelessness was even present immediately after I converted. I was tempted by the devil within hours after my soul was cleansed.

The week before I was baptized, had my first communion and was confirmed into the Catholic faith, my mother had set me up with a girl, Sabrina, who worked at her office. Without even trying very hard, Sabrina and I had sex on our first date. I picked her up at work, drove her back to my dorm room, we flirted with each other and then we had sex. It was passionless, it was quick, and it meant nothing to me. After I dropped her off at home, I decided that was the last time I would see her. She was nothing more than sex. I‘m sure we talked, but the only thing that remains in my memory was how easy it was for me to sleep with her.
Sabrina, however, had a different conclusion to how the night went. She got my phone number from my mother and called me a lot over the course of the next few days.

“I really enjoyed last night,” she had said to me. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Are you thinking about me? Do you miss me?”

I didn’t know what to say. “We just saw each other last night,” I said. I wanted to get off the phone.

“Want to get together?” she asked. Sabrina did not own a car, so getting together meant me driving to the suburbs to pick her up.

“I really have a lot of work to do,” I told her, “I have a pretty important weekend coming up and I really can’t find the time.”

“I know about your weekend,” Sabrina said. She had a smile in her voice; she was giddy. “You’re getting baptized this weekend, right. Your mom invited me to come, isn’t that great!”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want her to be there. I only wanted my family and friends to attend the ceremony. I tried giving her excuses why she shouldn’t come.

“You know, Sabrina,” I said, “the church only issued a certain amount of tickets to each person in the ceremony and all of my tickets were spoken for.” I was lying during Holy Week. “Besides,” I continued, “it would be awkward for you to go since you don’t know anyone there.”

“I know you and I know your mom,” Sabrina countered.

“That’s true,” I said, “but I’ll be so busy involved in the ceremony that we wouldn’t even get the chance to see each other.”

When we got off the phone, I immediately called my mother. “Why the hell would you invite her to come on Saturday night?” I asked.

“I thought you liked her,” my mother said. “Don’t you like her?”

“Mom, I hardly know her. We went out one time.”

“She told me you guys hit it off,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted her to come.” My mother sounded wounded. “I can tell her not to come,” she said.

It was too late. Even though it was one of the most important nights of my life, I didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings so I told her not to un-invite her.

Sabrina attended my conversion ceremony and since she didn’t drive, she brought two of her friends with her as well. My mother invited them to come with us to dinner after. It was all very uncomfortable.

After dinner, Sabrina walked back with me to my dorm as her friends went to get the car. She started rubbing my crotch through my pants and asked if we could go have a quickie. I didn’t feel that having sex on the night I was baptized was all that appropriate, so I politely refused the offer. I did agree, however, to her coming back the next night—Easter Sunday—for an “evening of fun.”

Sabrina’s friend dropped her off the next night, as planned. When we got into my room, she immediately took off her clothes, put a condom on my penis and began having her way with me. I was on top; she was on top; we were upside down and sideways. Nothing was happening. I pretended to enjoy myself. I made grunts and groans. After what seemed like an hour, I knew I wasn’t going to finish. I was getting tired and I could tell that Sabrina was too. I waited a few moments, started moving faster and harder and pretended to be getting close to completion.
To finish the charade, I let out a loud moan as if I came. I pulled out, rolled onto the floor, and tried to catch my breath. Sabrina quickly pulled the condom off my penis and held it close to her face. I could not tell if she was looking at it closely to make sure there were no rips in it or if she wanted to confirm what we both knew—that I had faked it.

Sabrina got up from the floor, tossed the condom in the garbage can, put on her clothes and walked out of my room. She never said goodbye, she never called me again and soon after, she quit working at my mother’s office.

After Sabrina left, I sat on my bed and cried. It was the night after my baptism and I was disappointed in myself. I realized that that night was the moment of my life when I was truly and utterly pure. I was cleansed by the waters of Christ and I would never be given a clean slate like that again. It was the moment of my life when I could have decided to make a conscious decision to not be promiscuous. It was the moment in my life for me to be better. I had made a major decision to do something drastic—be something different—pick one religion over another; abide by its tenets. It was the moment in my life when I failed. The devil knew exactly what he was doing that next night. The devil was a friend of mine before I converted. That night, he achieved “best friend” status.

Beautiful adjustment

There are many different types of adjustments. There are attitude adjustments. There are financial adjustments. You can adjust the time. You can have a major adjustment, or a minor adjustment. In my case, today, had my first chiropractic adjustment.

I've always been very skeptical of chiropractors. I've often thought, "are they really doctors?" To me, they kind of fell in line with holistic medicine and, more specifically, podiatrists (just kidding, Frank). Before we met, Cyndi had been going to a chiropractor for several years. She raved about him saying, his efforts help keep her back pain to a minimum. We called him, "Dr. Motorcycle," because, one time, when Cyndi was still attending Northern, he rode up on his Harley to meet her. She insisted he was a nice guy; he meant nothing by the gesture. Nothing in that way, she meant. He simply enjoyed her company, and wanted to take her for a ride in the country.

Dr. Motorcycle died several years ago. He was too young to die; the aggressive form of cancer he had took him very quickly after the diagnosis. As a result, Cyndi stopped getting adjustments. Her back problems came back, and they continued. More specifically, they became chronic. It got to the point that Cyndi could barely move.

"Go see a chiropractor, already," I would say. Even though I didn't believe in them for myself, a little prodding didn't hurt. Even with all of her faith in this type of medicine, the selection process to replace Dr. Motorcycle was hard. She didn't want to choose just anyone. She wanted to go to someone with a reputation. Someone her friends or family recommended. Someone who she knew had treated or was currently treating a person in her inner circle.

Recently (finally?), Cyndi went to visit a new doctor, at the recommendation of her older sister, Jeanette. For the past few weeks, several times a week, Cyndi has been getting adjusted. Her pain is subsiding, but I have a suspicion that this will be a long-term relationship.

Out of curiosity, I scheduled an appointment. I don't have body pain that would be labeled chronic or anything that severe. I was really just more curious than anything, carrying my full load of skepticism with me. During my evaluation, the doctor had me watch a 10 minute video on what to expect. The video informed me that chiropractic medicine revolves around the premise that the central nervous system controls everything (my translation). The video explained how, after undergraduate work, chiropractic physicians spend thousands of hours learning about the body, and have to continue their coursework yearly.

As the doctor and I spoke about my possible issues, she explained how she could assist in the treatment of my IBS. My ears perked up. As she looked at my posture, as she asked me to stand straight, turn right, bend to the left, raise my arms, walk on my toes, she told me that she: 1) knew I was right handed; 2) could tell I sat at a computer a lot; and felt that the lower back area which controls the bowels needed to be adjusted. I began feeling like I was visiting a fortune teller more than a doctor. But a good fortune teller. One who actually knew things.

As the doctor began making her adjustments on me, cracking my neck, areas in my back, working on the bowel (not gross like it may seem), she kept saying, "Ohhh...you are adjusting beautifully." She said this repeatedly, making me feel like I was doing my part in the relationship. Every crack that emitted a nice sound from my body pleased her.

She kept asking if what she was doing was painful in any way. It wasn't. In fact, it felt pretty good. I didn't want to admit it, but I felt...adjusted.

She didn't perform too much on me today. Maybe it ensures another visit, or maybe it's just the right thing to do. Either way, I guess I'm on my way to getting hooked. I must be getting older...and wiser?

Hugs are not always good

One of the advantages of losing 20 pounds is fitting into old clothes. I don't have that old pair of jeans from high school or anything, but I do have clothes that I have bought, with the thought that I could fit into them; that they would look good on me. Not the case with this shirt, as shown. I didn't look good in it. Especially the day I bought it.

When I worked in an office building, the company I worked for shared space with Wilson. Not just "Wilson" the famous volleyball from the Tom Hanks movie, "Cast Away." But the whole company. Twice a year, Wilson (the company) would hold fantastic sales. The kind of events people line up for. The kind of thing people go crazy at; where they eye an item from afar, run to retrieve it, and find themselves in a tussle. They were "cash only" smorgasbords. And I gladly participated in them; shelling out cash without much thought.

"Hey look," I'd think to myself. "Tennis rackets. There's a court down the street from the house. Cyndi and I can take up tennis." I bought two rackets, two bags, and a couple sleeves of balls. I presented them as gifts. Christmas gifts. In 2006. We've used them once.

I had also bought two boxes of yellow neon colored 12" softballs, in 2005, when Frederic was in PeeWee Baseball. We used some of them for batting practice, but they were not like the balls he was getting used to. They were too big, and threw off his ability to catch and hit the smaller ball. They've been used, but mostly by Rex (our faithful friend).

I did make one good purchase. It was a red batting helmet for Frederic, purchased at the same time as the balls. He's used it every season since. This past season may have been the last time he could use it though, given the fact his head (and everything else) is getting bigger.

One good purchase out of many.

So, what about the shirt? I didn't really understand what a "compression shirt" was when I saw it on sale for $5. I liked the way it looked in the sea of black, red, blue, and white shirts. Back then, in 2006, I hovered between 172-177 pounds. I wore XL shirts mostly, but could get away with L on some shirts. I thought the compression shirt was one I could get away with. Not so much.

I put it on when I got home, after I bought it. It wasn't pretty. Compression shirts hug every part of your midsection. Cyndi was thoughtful, telling me I looked good. But I've always known my eyes are much better than hers. She's the one who has been wearing glasses since she was one. She's the one who is blind in one eye. Looked good, only to my sight challenged wife, of course.

The shirt sat in my drawer for the past three years. Looking good to no one or nothing but the other shirts in my drawer. When I came across it last week, I had a decision to make. Try it on and see if the hugs looked any better, or finally admit that I'm not a compression shirt kind of guy.

While I don't think I'm ready to put it on and model it for the world (or at least my 7 Blogger followers, and several other Facebook readers), the Governor has put in a stay of execution.

Check Yes or No

When I was in 4th grade, I professed my attraction to a girl in my class. Maybe it's common, but I did it in the form of a note. Something motivated me to write the following words on a scrap of paper:

"I hink you are fucking great."

A regular Don Juan. Then, of course, I continued with the standard:

"Do you think I'm fucking great too? Check a box below."

One box was a "Yes," and the other a "No."

The girl wasn't very popular. She was picked on a lot by kids in our class. She sometimes wore the same clothes to school several days in a row. Her hair was often oily from not being washed. I'm sure she thought, correctly it turns out, my intentions were less than pure.

I didn't write the note to offend her. I didn't write it to make fun of her. In fact, no one knew I was writing it. I just did it. I think, in retrospect, I just wanted to be nice to her. I could have been nice in another way. I could have asked her to eat lunch with me. I could have asked her to play during recess. I didn't have to falsely profess an emotion to her.

Maybe I shouldn't feel bad about the incident, but I do. I wonder if she feels bad at all, or if she even thinks about it.

The object of my affection checked the box her heart told her to follow. When the piece of paper found its way into my hands, I thought for sure I knew what the reply was going to be. The last laugh was on me.

Brussel Sprouts and Ice Cream

When I was 15, "We Are the World" was one of the more popular songs and charitable events. It was written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie, and it was performed by a supergroup of popular musicians, calling themselves "USA for Africa." My parents liked the effort so much that they pinned a posted of the group in our basement. It was a statement, of sorts, announcing to our guests that we not only supported the efforts, but were fans of the song. I'm not sure if my parents actually gave money to the charity, but I know I made an effort to "give."

During dinner one night, my mother served us Brussel Sprouts. She may not have been aware that you could actually buy fresh Sprouts, steam, and serve them to your family. Frozen, was her vegetable preference when it came to peas, corn, lima beans, etc. I have yet to find a person who likes frozen (albeit, cooked at some point) Brussel Sprouts. If you know someone, they must be genuinely unique.

When I refused to eat what was on my plate, I was told I could not leave the table until everything was gone. I waited it out. I figured the longer I sat, the more likely my parents would buckle. I knew I wasn't going to. No luck. As they cleared their plates, I was left alone with seven Sprouts staring at me. My parents enjoyed a bowl of ice cream for dessert, figuring the sweet tooth in my would cave. Not so easy.

After nearly an hour, my mother said the following: "Just eat them. There are starving people in Africa..."

I'd heard that sentiment before. Most kids probably have. As I sat and contemplated my situation, a thought came to me. I got up from the table, walked down to our basement, grabbed an envelope from my mother's desk, sauntered over to the "We Are the World" poster, and jotted down an address. Back at the dinner table, I put each of the Brussel Sprouts into the envelope; licking it closed with authority.

I handed the envelope to my mother and said, "Can you mail this for me?"

Taking the envelope and looking down at it, my mother smiled. And then she laughed.

Victory, and a bowl of ice cream, was mine.

The fifth food group

I've felt guilty for the last three years. Seven months before my father died, we got into an argument. It was a silly subject, really. One that I've laughed about with friends for years. Of course, today being Halloween, makes me think about this day. Here's why:

My father never let my brothers and I go trick or treating, in the traditional sense. He was afraid that someone would try to taint the candy they gave out. He insisted, instead, to drive us to the local strip mall and hustle us through the shops in search of candy. I remember one Halloween when my father took my to the Jewel grocery store, and told me to wait in line. I was supposed to say "trick or treat" to the cashier. It was the year when my costume was the worst. I basically had a beach ball tied to my head and my face was painted like a clown. It was the only costume left at the Ben Franklin when we went to get me a costume for school the day before Halloween. When I got to the front of the line, I repeated the words to the cashier and she was stunned. She looked over at the cashier at the register to her right, and shrugged her shoulders. She had nothing for me. It was embarrassing.

We did trick or treat once, in the traditional sense. When I was seven. It was the day after my grandfather died, so my parents made an exception. We had gone to my aunt's house because our parents were discussing the plans. Plans for the funeral. Since my cousins were allowed to go out, our parents buckled. But we didn't have costumes. Our saving grace was the fact that being a Hobo was a relatively easy costume to put together at the last minute. We took a cork, held it over the flame of my aunt's stove, and created a char. Each of us rubbed the black cork on our faces, making them look dirty. We each grabbed a stick or a broom, filled a pillow case with towels, and tied them together; our suitcases. I was excited to go out on my first real hunt for candy; even if it was only going to be for a little while. We went to a few of the neighbor's houses, filled our paper bags with candy, and began heading home. Not before we stopped at one of our cousin's elderly neighbor's house. She wasn't giving out candy. She had homemade caramel apples. Being that the treat consisted of the easiest razor blade subject, and the fact that it was "open candy," we had to politely decline. This offended the old lady, and our cousins, who gladly took the treat. Even with the uncomfortable ending, it was nice to partake in the traditional event. But we were not allowed to repeat it.

This was what my father and I argued about. He didn't remember his strict stance on trick or treating. Insisting that my memory was flawed. We went to a movie that day. It was the last movie we saw together. Watching movies together was something we did together. The movie we saw was, "The Departed." During the movie, after countless ads about turning off your cell phone, my father, to my horror, answered his phone when it rang. I was shocked and appalled, so it added to my negative attitude toward him for the day.

When we got home from the movie, I solicited the help of my brother, Ira, to help my dad refresh his memory of Halloween Night's past; which he did. This put my father on the offensive. He looked at me, at his last straw. Told me to go fuck myself (warranted), and left.

It took me a month to make amends. And, in retrospect, I'm glad I did. It was a silly thing to "call" him on. It is something that sticks with me to this day. On this day. The day kids love to dress up and be someone else. The day kids ring doorbells for candy. The day parents give permission for kids to make candy the fifth food group. The day parents remember their childhood, and the times they got to eat as much candy as allowed. A good day. Not a day to argue.

On her terms

I can't imagine being in this position. Having to make a decision that will affect the rest of your life. Even if that decision means it will end your life; it will end this life.

This is what happened yesterday. To my sister-in-law's mother. She's been in a nursing home since June, slowly deteriorating. She's been ill for quite some time; diabetes, obesity, gangrene, bed sores. And she's been on dialysis. Merle hasn't been out of bed for several months. Therapy is not helping. She is in pain, she is unhappy, and she is tired.

This is the decision she has made: to stop dialysis treatments. Very soon, her kidneys will shut down. Very soon, her body will continue to retain fluids. Very soon she will lose consciousness. Very soon, she will die.

As she's losing control of her body, Merle is in control of her life. To the end. We don't all get this luxury. I have a wave of emotions running through me about this news. I'm sad. Sad for her, sad for my sister-in-law, sad for her sisters, sad that my nieces and nephews are going to lose yet another grandparent. I'm scared. Scared for her, scared for my sister-in-law, scared for my brother, even. Merle has been living with them for nine years. As their lives changed when she became a permanent resident, I imagine it will change again.

I'm also scared for me. Scared that I have officially entered this stage of my life. The stage where parents begin to die. I was the first one in my circle of friends to lose a parent. And then two years ago, my friend Javier's mother passed away. The other day, I found out that another friend of mine is facing a possible loss. Brian's dad, who delivered Lily, has cancer. And it doesn't look good.

There are stages in a life that are great. Being born, becoming a teenager, finishing puberty, graduating from high school and college, getting married, becoming a parent. The stage I've entered sucks.

We don't always get to say goodbye to the people in our lives. Maybe Merle's decision, while sad and scary, is a blessing in disguise, to an extent. She gets to say goodbye.

On her terms.

What if...

Last night, Cyndi and I were talking about brothers and sisters with our friend, Masume. Masume is from Japan. She has a younger sister, who is moving from Japan to Michigan in a few months. Masume is very close with her sister. They speak almost every day on the phone. They are going to save a ton of money very soon. Masume's husband, Shinya, has a younger brother. I've not heard much about him.

One of the things we talked about is how similar our family situations are. Masume and her husband each have one younger sibling. Cyndi has two older sisters, and I have two older brothers. And then it dawned on me: I have a sister.

It's not that I forget I have a sister, when asked about my siblings. It's just that she was born and, sadly, passed away before me. Her name was Michelle. More specifically, her name was Michelle Diane Fosco. When I was a kid, my parents told me about her death. For the longest time, I had thought that Michelle died from pneumonia. It was probably easier to explain to a child this way. Years later, I learned the truth. Michelle died from SIDS.

I've never asked my brothers if they remember our sister. We've never opened the wound to expose the feelings underneath the pain. I cannot forget, however, that they have lost a sister. It may affect their lives in ways no one knows, including themselves.

My mother, on the other hand, relives the pain daily. Growing up, I never understood this. It was selfish of me, but it's true. I resented the fact that she grieved my sister. I was alive, I seem to remember feeling, why wasn't I good enough. That's not how I feel now. I'm not certain I consciously thought or felt that, but it seems plausible. I didn't understand the pain that comes with losing a loved one, a child no less, and it just seemed incomprehensible to me.

Until I became a parent myself.

I've often played the "what if" game in my head. What if Michelle didn't die? What would our lives have been like? It may have softened our house. It would have given my mother that female ally amongst men (even the dog was a male) she always craved. It would have better prepared the boys for lives, as adults, with a member of the opposite sex. I could have watched a young girl grow up into a beautiful woman. I could have been the protective younger brother. I could have been the protected younger brother; spoiled by the doting older sister. I could have snuck into her room to read her secret thoughts in her hidden diary. I could have been a shoulder to cry on when her first boyfriend--the love of her life--broke her heart. I could have watched, with envy, the way she entered a room, dressed for the senior prom. I could have been a groomsman in her wedding, and she a bridesmaid in mine. She could have named her first child after me (wishful thinking, of course). She could have held my hand when I was scared.

This is what we talked about yesterday with Masume. How my life may have been different if my sister was never an afterthought for me. And I don't want that to seem mean. It's just that when people ask me about my siblings, I always unconsciously reply, "I have two older brothers." I shouldn't, but I do.

I've lived by the motto that in life, things happen for a reason. I'm not convinced that the reason Michelle was born was to inflict a lifetime of sadness on my mother.

"However," Cyndi pointed out yesterday, "if things were different, you may have never been born." I've never, ever, thought about it like that before. I've inflicted pain and sadness on my mother occasionally throughout my life. Make me stop and think about the whole situation like Cyndi did; I feel trivial.

Quasi near death experience

As far back as I can remember, I have always been afraid of death. I think about the first time I realized that I would die some day, and I am sad for that little boy. I am sad because he had questions left unanswered. Questions that still exist because that boy was not comforted from scary concepts. As an adult, I have forgiven my parents about this; not that they needed my forgiveness on the subject. They probably did not have the words needed to explain death. I know this all too well.

I was about seven years old when I believe I first heard about death and understood the finality of the experience. In my mind’s eye, I see myself like a character in a movie; pacing the floor in our basement in circles in a panic. I knew that someday I would die. I recall doing this over and over again--walking in circles, hoping the walking would scare the fright out of me. The pit of my stomach felt empty and raw, my heart raced and my mind fixated on darkness. I could not understand why people didn't just live forever. I could not understand why people had to die.
When I was in college, I used to go out drinking quite a bit. Drinking, back then, consisted of buying a case of cheap beer. Or when money was available, buying two fifths of Jack Daniels, and passing them around the group as we listened to a Sam Kinison CD. The beer/JD appetizer was the key to our college drinking experience. It provided the necessary buzz level needed so the overall cost of the evening was kept low.

In college, I had a pretty high tolerance for alcohol. I only blacked out one time in four years; the contemplation of that consequence kept to a minimum. The night I blacked out, the last thing I remembered was walking home with a Resident Assistant from the all girls dorm and taking her back to my room. I woke up alone, in my boxer shorts and t-shirt, wondering how I got there. I was also left wondering what may have happened to the girl. I was in a casual relationship with another Assistant from the same dorm. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done something wrong.

It was the first time I remember being afraid of drinking. Not because of my possible infidelities, but because of the blackness. It was the first time I came to the realization that a drunken blackout may have been the closest reality of death—a somewhat quasi near death experience.
Years later, after about a half dozen black outs from drinking, I've often limited myself to beer and wine. As I get older and realize that each passing day means one step closer to death, I get scared of the reality of a drunken black out. One minute you are consciously aware of your thoughts and actions and the next: DARKNESS. Some people may be comforted by this fact. You know nothing of life before you are born, and may know nothing of life when you are dead. There is no comfort, for me, in a concept so ridiculous as this.

How You Met and Fell in Love

Today, over breakfast, I got to thinking about how people met and fell in love. I was having breakfast at a Hilton Garden Inn in Indianapolis. I was with two of my co-workers, BJ and Nicole. Nicole and her husband, Nick, both work with us at Resource Systems. They met at work. Just like Cyndi and I did.

Nicole and Nick were married last year, and Nicole moved to Zanesville, Ohio after the wedding. She is from Washington State. A far cry from Zanesville. I didn't know the story behind their "getting together," so I asked. Nicole told me that when she interviewed for the job, Nick pretty much knew he was interested.

Our company conducts group interviews, so when Nicole had hers, Nick was included. After the interview, everyone in the room liked her. They wanted her for the job. They also wanted her for Nick. During the training process, Nicole lived in an apartment in Zanesville for three months. She didn't know anyone in town, so Nick would invite her to go out. Before long, they were dating. Shortly thereafter, they were engaged. Then married. They seem perfect for each other, and very happy.

Sometimes it's that simple. Meeting and falling in love. It's kind of like our story; mine and Cyndi's. We met at work. On my first day, I was getting a tour of the nursing facility, and I spotted her behind the nurse's station. I actually thought she was a high school intern, and mentioned this to my tour guide, Lynn Tiffany. Appalled by my accusation, Lynn corrected me by informing me that, "she's a college graduate, and works in our food service department."

A few days after meeting Cyndi, I learned she was not only dating someone, but living with him. I guess you'd call Mike, her former boyfriend, her high school sweetheart. Not to diminish any of their relationship (Cyndi can do that herself), but Mike wasn't the nicest guy in the world. Cyndi kind of made that clear to me right off. We began talking with one another on a very casual basis, but kept our relationship strictly as friends. I knew she wasn't very happy with Mike, but didn't want to be "the reason" they broke up--if she was interested me in that way, anyway.

We had talked about the idea of going out for drinks--again, as friends--after work. When I came back from a week-long business trip, Cyndi asked me again to go out after work. I agreed. We went to TGI Friday's. I ordered a Killian's Red, she ordered a White Zinfandel, and in a matter of seconds after the drinks arrived, Cyndi announced, "I broke up with Mike." She proceeded to down the entire glass of wine.

Four hours later--and only one cup of coffee later (I was dirt broke and didn't bring any cash!)--we learned that we grew up down the street from one another, and attended the same schools. I knew that night this was the person I was supposed to be with the rest of my life.

When Cyndi and I got married, we asked our videographer to go around and ask people--"When Harry Met Sally Style"--how they met and feel in love. We asked them to splice these responses throughout our video. I would say, they are the highlight of our viewing pleasure every year.

Here are most of the selections, verbatim:



Greg Grudzien (Cyndi's father): "I met my wife in Denmark, I was being Godfather to an American Indian boy, in Denmark, and Ina was the Godmother. Well...here we are...that's about it."
Ina Grudzien (Cyndi's mother): "I moved to the United States after that."



Frederic Grudzien (Cyndi's grandfather) - deceased; Emily Grudzien (Cyndi's grandmother, looking on, lovingly): "We met at a poporavini party...which means, the party was after the wedding. Of course, this was done by the father-in-law. Then, the father says, 'I think I'm gonna run a party...poporavini over a poporavini'...so at that time, I saw this girl coming through the door, and it struck me, like a lightning. I says to myself, 'I've gotta meet this person'. And sure enough, I met this person, at this poporavini, and ever since that time, we had a happy life together. That is, 59 years...thank God."



Albino Fosco (my grandfather) - deceased: "59 years ago, we met on a blind date. And I wouldn't go out with her unless I seen her first. After I seen her, it lasted 59 years...very glad to meet her."
Leona Fosco (my grandmother): "It'll be 60 years, February 1...we've been married 60 years...and it lasted!"



Rochelle Fosco (my mother) - to my father, Michael Fosco (deceased): "I know the story!"
Michael Fosco: "Go ahead!"
Rochelle Fosco: "His best friend, and a friend of mine, were dating, and they fixed the two of us up...and we were together, for 22 years--day in and day out...so...that's how we met, and we had them...so...that was simple and sweet."
Michael Fosco: "That's all folks!"
Rochelle Fosco: "That's it!"



Greg Constantino (my uncle): "Hi, Cory...Hi, Cyndi...Denise and I, uh, as you know, we just met, and, uh, we're still falling in love...so, uh, as we have a little bit of result of that love..." (referring to my then, 18 month old cousin, Anthony)..."But, uh, I turn it to you..."
Denise Fosco-Constantino (my aunt): "And I'm sure it's going to last as long as yours is...only don't wait as long as I waited to have children...because we are counting on you to do that for the family!"

Greg Constantino: "Hope to see you in Tucson!"
NOTE: Aunt Denise and Uncle Greg were married the day after our wedding...

Etta Kotowsky (my aunt): "I had a matchmaker named, Mrs. Korastov, and she fixed us up, and we'll be married, October 31st--Halloween--31 years."

Irving Kotowsky (my uncle): "Enough said!"

Roger Baum (friend of my mother): "Hi, kids, this is wisdom speaking...Mary Lou and I met, through, uh, an aunt of hers, who reminds us a lot of Rochelle, and she's uh, a lot of fun...and she put us together...and it stuck...almost 30 years, huh?"
Mary Lou Baum - (friend of my mother) deceased: "Like 32 years!"


Dorris Gold (my great aunt), with Sam Gold (my great uncle) looking on -both deceased "We met over 30 years ago...we were both single parents--with children--someone gave him my telephone number...we met...two weeks later, he proposed, and we got married. And we've been married 33 years...second time around.


Bill Miles (Cyndi's uncle): "What do you want? Uh, yeah, we met, uh, we met at work...and I chased her all over the place.
Tina Miles (Cyndi's aunt): "We both worked at Nuclear Chicago together--"
Bill Miles: "1932..." Laughter from both.
Tina Miles: "Bill used to work in the counter shop, and I worked at the office. And I used to deliver the checks and collect the time cards. And Bill saw me--"
Bill Miles: "I used to ambush her!" Laughter from both.
Tina Miles: "Bill saw me at the time clock one day with a Black Angora sweater on and he said, "why don't you shave that thing?" Ha, ha!"
Bill Miles: "It was my best line!"
Tina Miles: "And I thought he was really rude! And we started dating after that...and we fell in love and got married."
Bill Miles: "That's amazing, isn't it?"
Tina Miles: "And we just want to wish you a very happy, and wonderful marriage."
Bill Miles: "At least as happy as our first 35 have been."


Carol Hollub (friend of Tina and Bill Miles): "Well, John and I were high school sweethearts...and I think I had a crush on him...I spotted him because he was tall, dark, and handsome, and, uh, lived on the wrong side of the railroad tracks...so just a little risky. And, um, so, in order to meet him though, I dated his friend first--"
John Hollub: "A real scumbag!"
Carol Hollub: "Yeah, scumbag...right! Anyway, we dated and we ended up falling in love...and, uh, after five years he finally asked me to marry him--"
John Hollub: "Had to be sure!
Carol Hollub: "It's 35 years almost now. And, uh, we wish the very best for, Cynthia and..." Looks over at a napkin and/or a matchbook on the table--I had never met her before-- "Cory!"

Devil on my shoulder

Once again, on a long car ride, listening to "This American Life" I was inspired by the topic. Long drives give you the opportunity to reflect on your life. Long drives give me the opportunity to catch up on podcasts too. And come up with blog entries. This week's stories on TAL are about "people who are trying to convince you that the Devil is there, whispering in your ear...and stories of people who try to deny he's there, against some very heavy evidence." Hearing the prologue made me recall the day that I elbowed my brother, Ira, in the stomach, for no apparent reason.


I was probably four or five years old. It was cold outside, and we were on our way somewhere. We had on heavy coats. My dad was rushing us; we must have been late, or he was just simply trying to get us moving. Without thought, I walked next to Ira. I bent my right arm, raised it high into the air, and hit him, square in the middle of his stomach, with all of my might. When asked why I did it, I had no reason. Something just told me to do it. I wasn't mad at him. I didn't dislike him at the moment for anything he had done to me that day. A voice just told me to do it. So I did.


That got me thinking about things I could recall that I've done in my life that would be considered bad. Not necessarily things that could be driven or motivated by the Devil. Just bad. I thought I would round it all out. Make it "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly." I've written about some of these things in the past. Not all of them. And I am sure there are more.


The Good:

• I spent nearly a year as a full-time volunteer at the Mesa Senior Center


• During an Internship in college, I taught English as a Second Language to a woman from China


• I volunteered at the Special Olympics Bowling Tournament when I was in college


• I am a lector/commentator at our church


• I was a peer minister my senior year of college


• I teach creative writing at Harper College (NEW CLASS will begin in March 2010)


• I used to help deliver meals on wheels to home bound seniors in our community (the family still does)


• We adopted our dog, Rex, from a shelter (I've vowed to stop calling him "the dog"; as in, "someone feed the dog...")


• We adopted our past dog, Friday, from a shelter


• I am a member of our Parish Pastoral Council


• I've never cheated on my wife

The Bad:

• I used to steal quarters from a currency exchange when I was a kid


• I did anabolic steroids for two years when I was a teenager


• I've stolen money from my parents when I was a kid


• I used to give out (read: STEAL) free clothes and take some for myself when I worked at Gold's Gym when I was a teenager


• I've lied to people I love during various times throughout my life


• I've cheated on ex-girlfriends before I met Cyndi


• I elbowed my brother, Ira, in his stomach, for no reason, when I was a kid


• I stole candy from a convenience store when I was a kid


• I stole cigarettes from a convenience store when I was a teenager


• I've taken the Lord's name in vain


• We gave up our two dogs for adoption several years ago

The Ugly:

• When I lived in Arizona, I was involved in a car accident. I was drunk, and I drove away after it happened. As retold, here: http://ayeartill40.blogspot.com/2009/05/night-i-touched-charles-barkleys.html

To my oldest nephew, Kyle, who gave me something to blog about at 8am on a Sunday

My nephew, Kyle, is a junior in high school. He's a great kid. He was the first grandchild/nephew in our family (there's seven total now). I was living in Arizona when he was born. In fact, it was on my visit home to "meet" Kyle, that I decided to move back home. So, it's his fault that I'm back in Illinois.

Kyle is a smart kid. He's in a bunch of AP classes, and has always taken his education seriously. He's getting to that point where he has to think about college. He's at that point really. And I've offered to help. I'm not an expert in the college admission process. I didn't think much about my college selection process. I was the first one in my family to go to a four year college (my mom, by the time I was getting ready to go to college, had two associates degrees), and I was one of over 700 kids in my school. Guidance was not something I received, or really sought out. I applied to a bunch of schools because they sounded like cool places to go. In the end, I was accepted to all of the schools I applied to, but picked Loyola because it was close to my grandmother.

I don't regret my college experience at all. In fact, just the opposite. Things happen for a reason, and a lot more positive came out of my college education than negative.

I have offered to help Kyle with his college selection process. This morning, I started to write a list of things for him to consider. If you are reading this and have other sound (or not so sound) advice, feel free to weigh in:



· What do you want to study? This is a different question from “What do you want to be when you grow up.” I started at Loyola with the premise that I would be “pre-law” and go to law school after I graduated. There’s really no such thing as “pre-law.” College, itself, prepares you for your next possible step in life, which can be joining the Peace Corps, going to graduate school, getting a job, traveling Europe, etc. I changed my major no less than five times when I was at Loyola (pre-law, psychology, communication, social work, and English). Think about what interests you. If you want to teach, consider a school with an Education program (most will have one). But, if you want to teach, it does not mean you cannot “double-major” in business, or writing, or art. Having options and a well rounded education is the key;

· Does the size of the school matter to you? Meaning, do you want to go to a small school, or a large University. When I went to Loyola, they didn’t (and still don’t) have a football team. Not that I wanted to play football, but going to a school with a team, be it a Big 10 or otherwise, probably would have been cool. Campus life is important. What you do outside of the classroom is just as important as your education;
· Do you want to go to an in-state school or are you interested in going to school in another state? Going to a Illinois State University (ISU) or University of Illinois can be just as exciting of an experience as going to a completely different state. When I lived in Arizona, I lived near Arizona State University. I hung out with the kids from the school and I even took a class there. I have lived in three states in my life (Illinois, Arizona, and Pennsylvania), and I do think I appreciate the opportunity to live elsewhere, but I have also made it a decision (along with Aunt Cyndi) to live and raise our kids in Illinois;

· Sports, interests, etc.: Do you think you are going to want to play sports during college? Playing sports can mean a lot of things. It can mean continuing the experience you’ve had in baseball since little league, and trying to get on one of the school teams. It could also mean intramural sports (forming a team amongst your friends, and playing organized sports amongst the school internally). What are your other interests? Do you want to write for the school paper? Do you want to join theater? Do you want to run for the Student Body? College will be a time for you to try things you may have been interested in in high school, but just didn’t have the time to do. College offers a wealth of free time. You are going to be making your schedule. You may not have a class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You may start classes at 9:30 and go until noon, but then have nothing else on the schedule until 3pm or later. You are going to have to fill those gaps with studying and activities. Try everything. I volunteered. I had jobs. I wrote for the school paper. I acted in a couple of plays. I was in ROTC. I was a Resident Assistant. I was a member of the Housing Orientation Team (I got to move into the dorms early and help people move-in). I ran for Dorm President and was a member of the Senate. I played intramural sports (not that well, but I played). I dated.

· Foreign Exchange Program: Loyola has a campus in Rome, Italy. Students can go overseas for a semester (and in some cases, a year), live and study there. I never did this. I wish I had. A few of my friends did. Take advantage of opportunities like this. My friend, Kevin, lived in Germany for a year. While he studied, he also traveled all throughout Europe. My friend, Javier, lived in Spain. Same with him. Sukhwant, did the Rome Center. I think their experience in Europe offered an additional level for them that I didn’t get. European travel is a blast. I have been fortunate to experience it as a teen and an adult. I didn’t really get it when I was 14 and 17, visiting your dad in England. I didn’t appreciate it. I’ve since been to Ireland, Denmark, and Italy, and would go back to any of these places and others, in a heartbeat. Ask your dad how he liked living in England for 4 ½ years. I’m sure he has a wealth of fond memories. By the time you get to be our ages, you have to find the time to travel. Doing it as part of your college experience is something to consider.

· Fun: College can be a great experience. It was for me. I met some of the greatest people in my life. I maintain most of my adult relationships with people I met 20 years ago in college. I am a better person because of the things I did/learned at Loyola. I didn’t know a single person the day I moved in. I was scared shitless. The first time I walked into the dining room to eat dinner, I almost broke down in tears. Seriously. I looked around at these huge tables of people eating with each other, and I walked to an empty table. I ate my pasta as quickly as I possibly could; swallowed down with a lump in my throat. I wanted to run and hide. I wanted to quit. My first roommate was this kid from Viet Nam, Richard, who barely spoke English, and who had nightmares about his homeland every evening. I didn’t let the first day get me down…too much. I lived in a dorm with 300+ guys. There were 30+ on my wing. Those strangers became my friends. I leaned on them and they on me. I realized we were all in the same boat. Guys began asking me if I wanted to go to meals with them. After the first night, I rarely ate alone. That’s when I realized that college was just as much about having fun as it was about learning. You may want to pick a college because a friend of yours is going to a particular school. It’s not a bad idea to follow your friends, but don’t make it the REASON you pick a school. You will meet other people and will make lifelong friends at college.

Are you ready? Pack your bags. Pack your parent's bags. It's time for that College Road Trip!

How would you want to be remembered?

This was written on my coffee sleeve, which was wrapped around my large Amy's Blend decaf from Caribou Coffee, this morning. During the "school year," Cyndi and I get a regular Saturday morning visit to the coffee shop, after we drop the kids off at Religious Ed. We've been doing this for almost two years now. I'm not sure I ever pay attention to any of the writing on my coffee; cup, sleeve, or otherwise. But this one caught my eye. If not for the chain's "Susan G. Koman for the Cure" campaign, the pink sleeve may have gone unnoticed. Here's the rest:

Amy Erickson was way more than a roastmaster. She was one of us. She was intense and uncompromising when it came to coffee. She helped create our coffee standards and relentlessly pursued the perfect cup. Her passion for coffee was only exceeded by her passion for life--a life she lost to breast cancer. So each year we create this amazing coffee to remember Amy and to her fund a cure. We think she'd approve.

I didn't know Amy Erickson. I do know a couple of women who have battled breast cancer: my mom's close friend, Jackie; Cyndi's cousin, Holly; and a teacher/friend of mine from grad school, Sandi. I don't know if "battle" is the right term or not. I'm not using it to offend anyone. All three of them are survivors. Is that the right term too? Maybe it is.

As I understand it, Caribou Coffee donates 10% of the profits on all sales of Amy's Blend to the Susan G. Koman Foundation. They not only have coffee, but one quick look at their website, and I see they offer the "Amy's Collection"; teas, mugs, t-shirts. There's also a short clip of Amy's mother who thanks the team at Caribou for all they have done in her daughter's name over the past 10 years since she died. Amy must have been a nice woman, an inspiring person, for a company to do this. It doesn't feel like they are doing it for publicity purposes either, which I am sure her family appreciates.

The magnitude makes me stop and wonder what inspiration I may offer to the people around me to launch a similar campaign. Not to minimize or take away from the spirit of the Amy's Blend campaign. Not to make this about me. It did what it was supposed to do, I expect. Make me stop and contemplate. Make me think about what I bring to the table. Make me feel a bit of inspiration from a person I never met. Make me be better.

All this, from a pink sleeve, wrapped around a cup of coffee, shared with my wife, on a quiet Saturday morning.

It's long overdue

When I was a kid, I used to love it when my grandmother spent the weekend with us. She didn't live far; Rogers Park, on the far North Side of Chicago. She lived alone since 1977, when my grandfather passed away, unexpectedly after cataract surgery. She lived on the corner of Devon Avenue and Sheridan Road, three blocks south of Loyola University, my Alma mater. My grandmother didn't have much in terms of things. She lived each month on Social Security and SSI, and lived in a high rise, Chicago Housing Authority apartment. Things were so meager for her that I remember her getting a block of cheese from the Mayor's office; something reserved for people who really needed it.

While she didn't possess much, my grandmother was filled with love. She had love for her children--my mother and aunt, Etta. She had love for her grandchildren, and her son-in-laws. She loved to laugh. She loved to cook, especially traditional Jewish meals filled with gefilte fish, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, turnips, kishke, and latkes. She also loved to bake chocolate chip cookies, and cheesecake squares, angel food cake, banana cake, and chocolate cake. She loved to play games; her favorites were Rumicub, poker, or any card game, really.

I think its a gift, being a grandparent. You get to be the good cop, all the time. You get to spoil your grandchildren, and care less about the consequences. You leave that for the parents. You get to shower your grandchildren with love, take them to special places, create lasting memories like the ones I'm recollecting.

My mother used to live two miles down the road from us. Circumstances have changed, and she now lives with my brother, Ira, and his family, about 30 minutes away. It's not much further than Rogers Park was for my grandmother. We used to see my mother several times a week. The kids had her in their lives; she was a permanent fixture. They miss seeing her as much. The occasional babysitting night just doesn't seem to be enough. So we've found a simple remedy: we've invited her over for the weekend. A good old fashioned sleepover. She'll watch Frederic play in his soccer tournament, she'll go trick or treating with us, she may even come to mass on All Saint's Day (good old Jewish woman she is). And she'll sit in a hotel hallway with me for several hours, while Frederic competes in a chess tournament. "We can talk," she said, when I suggested it wasn't necessary.

We're going to build up some memories next weekend. It's long overdue.