The focus of my trip to RI was a reunion of the Warwick Vets High School Chorale Tour of Yugoslavia from 1984 and this was an amazing weekend. My friend, Wayne picked me up at Greene Airport. It felt as if yesterday was the last time I had seen him and this was a feeling that went through the whole event.
I had the chance to relax at my sister's house before we got into the whole wake and funeral for Uncle Mike. The first real reunion activity was a social gathering as a pool hall and bar in nearby Cranston. We all caught up with each other and compared notes on the trip we shared together and our lives since. Only about half of those who went on the trip made it but that did not take away from the joy of seeing these friends again after so long.
Saturday morning was our rehearsal. It was the first time I had been back in Vets in decades and it was an overload of memories. Each step sparked another image from the past. I cold picture what I did on a certain area, who I had talked with and what we had said. The richness of these memories was amazing.
The backstage door to the main auditorium was ajar and I couldn't resist. All of the rehearsals, concerts, plays, stage crew meetings, drama club and times I ditched class hiding in the maintenance access room added up to the most time I had spent in any one room in the whole building. The floor creaked in all the same places and the sound was comforting. The same spotlights hung overhead and it actually looked as if they had replaced the wing curtains I tried throwing away in 1980 although the main curtains looked familiar as did the frayed ropes which opened and closed them.
I stood at center stage and looked down and what must have been some of the same tape markings that had been there when I played the Cowardly Lion, Charlie Brown and Sherlock Holmes. In my mind I ran through lines from each of the plays I had done on that stage. For old times sake I broke into the opening to a number from "you're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" which I had frozen on in front of hundreds of my classmates and remembered every word. It felt good to be there again.
I walked into what had been Uncle Mike's office. It had been changed into a piano practice room with six electric keyboards filling the space. As I stood in the doorway all I could see was Uncle Mike's desk. Covered with sheet music and in one corner a small cactus and a porcelain figure which bore a certain resemblance to the man behind the desk. This was also the room from where I had done the morning announcements all four years. I couldn't move past the threshold for fear my presence would dissipate the memories. I stood there and the tears started. I was missing Uncle Mike all over again.
Rehearsal was ready to begin and proved an even stranger experience. We were handed our music and took our places on the risers. I don't have the best posture while sitting and enjoy my life of slouching in my recliner at home and my throne sized executive chair at work. It wasn't until we were halfway through rehearsal before I noticed that simply out of habit, because I was there to sing and it was what Uncle Mike expected, that I was bolt upright seated on the edge of my seat. Habits that had been pummeled into my head 30 years ago came back like DNA encoding.
Also ingrained in our brains were the words and notes to each song. When we finished each time we all looked at each other in amazement that we seemed to sound just like we did "in the day".
All of my feeling of nostalgia were evaporated the moment the members of the current Vets Chorus entered the room to join us. They are little CHILDREN!!!! INFANTS!!!! I had seen my son grow through puberty, so seeing kids this age was nothing foreign to me. This was different! They were here in the same place I used to hang out. We all looked as if we still belonged there...not these children. We could never have been that small, that thin or that gawky. They were the interlopers! They were the new kids playing in our sandbox.
We all sang together and actually blended very well. The concert at the reunion was shaping up to being something special. I'll get into that in the next post. After rehearsal I found out my sister had been rushed to the hospital the previous evening with what would end up being kidney stones. I called her and told her that if she wanted to avoid spending time with me while I was in town she could have just told me.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Funerals suck. I think we can all agree on that. I had missed a number of important ones in the past few months but circumstances and borrowed money put me in the right place and time to be able to fly back to Rhode Island for Uncle Mike’s. I knew it was going to be an emotional one but I wasn’t quite expecting some of the emotions I went through.
As soon as we walked into the funeral home memories started flooding in. On the PA system they were playing our old Chorale recordings. All around the sitting rooms were photos from all stages of Uncle Mike’s life.
And then there were the people.
Old friends I had not seen in almost 30 years filled the room. We hugged, we caught up and we even laughed over old times. I think we also laughed at how old we had all gotten. As more and more came in it was a game to see if you were able to put the current face with the person you remembered from back in F-Wing. My ears perked up when I heard a familiar voice that hadn’t changed a bit, “Jimmy! Where’s Bevans!” I looked around following the same old, scratchy voice, “Why is Jimmy’s voice coming out of that old guy’s head?!”
Mrs. Brown, our accompanist, looked exactly as she did the last time I saw her in the late 80’s. I thought there must be a “Dorian Gray” portrait of her somewhere until a friend reminded me that she was probably using just as many cosmetics now as she did back then.
I was fine with all of these reunions and was glad that none of the grief bubbled to the surface as I had felt would come with this funeral until I glanced up and made eye contact with an old and special friend.
Jill and I had dated back in school and even after we broke up stayed friends and deepened that friendship. While we hadn’t talked in over 20 years we had reconnected on Facebook there was something about looking into her eyes. Across the room I felt as if we immediately felt and shared the grief of our loss of Uncle Mike. Also, in just that momentary glance, was all of the emotion that tied us together back when we walked the same halls, the sadness of a friendship lost over time and the joy of being together again.
All that took place in 3 seconds; the time it took me to look up, stand up and plow my way across the room and sweep my arms around her. And then we cried. As I hugged her tighter I could feel my sobs shaking against hers. “Damn you”, I said “I was fine till you got here!” We laughed, dried our tears and, after she went through the receiving line, caught up with each others lives.
The receiving line? Oh, yeah the real reason for being there.
Uncle Mike looked exactly as I remembered him. I held my tears pretty much in check, although with a huge lump in my throat holding them back. Just like with the other reunions happening in that room it was good to reconnect with the rest of the Kroian family. They all were very appreciative of my having come all the way from Florida.
There was this one moment that happened just as I was preparing to leave which shows how deep the influence Mike had on me. As I stood at the casket before I left, one of the old Chorale songs was playing. With the familiar tune playing and Uncle Mike there before me more and more memories came into focus. I could see his hands massaging the sound and his face either emoting or wincing. Suddenly, I starting singing along. I caught myself before others noticed but it was enough to make me smile at the memories.
The funeral the next day was a traditional Armenian service. The funeral procession was one of the few which came close to equaling the size of my father's as we wound our way from Warwick to Providence and back to the cemetery in West Greenwich. The weather held out with a bright sun and gentle autumn breeze as we filed past leaving flowers on the tomb cover as we left Uncle Mike at his final resting place.
Because there had been a years time to prepare for this, the family seemed able to deal easier with the loss. Added to that the reunion feel to seeing old friends at every turn took much of the sting out of this funeral and the Yugoslav reunion was a perfect coda to the whole things.
But that is tomorrow's blog.
As soon as we walked into the funeral home memories started flooding in. On the PA system they were playing our old Chorale recordings. All around the sitting rooms were photos from all stages of Uncle Mike’s life.
And then there were the people.
Old friends I had not seen in almost 30 years filled the room. We hugged, we caught up and we even laughed over old times. I think we also laughed at how old we had all gotten. As more and more came in it was a game to see if you were able to put the current face with the person you remembered from back in F-Wing. My ears perked up when I heard a familiar voice that hadn’t changed a bit, “Jimmy! Where’s Bevans!” I looked around following the same old, scratchy voice, “Why is Jimmy’s voice coming out of that old guy’s head?!”
Mrs. Brown, our accompanist, looked exactly as she did the last time I saw her in the late 80’s. I thought there must be a “Dorian Gray” portrait of her somewhere until a friend reminded me that she was probably using just as many cosmetics now as she did back then.
I was fine with all of these reunions and was glad that none of the grief bubbled to the surface as I had felt would come with this funeral until I glanced up and made eye contact with an old and special friend.
Jill and I had dated back in school and even after we broke up stayed friends and deepened that friendship. While we hadn’t talked in over 20 years we had reconnected on Facebook there was something about looking into her eyes. Across the room I felt as if we immediately felt and shared the grief of our loss of Uncle Mike. Also, in just that momentary glance, was all of the emotion that tied us together back when we walked the same halls, the sadness of a friendship lost over time and the joy of being together again.
All that took place in 3 seconds; the time it took me to look up, stand up and plow my way across the room and sweep my arms around her. And then we cried. As I hugged her tighter I could feel my sobs shaking against hers. “Damn you”, I said “I was fine till you got here!” We laughed, dried our tears and, after she went through the receiving line, caught up with each others lives.
The receiving line? Oh, yeah the real reason for being there.
Uncle Mike looked exactly as I remembered him. I held my tears pretty much in check, although with a huge lump in my throat holding them back. Just like with the other reunions happening in that room it was good to reconnect with the rest of the Kroian family. They all were very appreciative of my having come all the way from Florida.
There was this one moment that happened just as I was preparing to leave which shows how deep the influence Mike had on me. As I stood at the casket before I left, one of the old Chorale songs was playing. With the familiar tune playing and Uncle Mike there before me more and more memories came into focus. I could see his hands massaging the sound and his face either emoting or wincing. Suddenly, I starting singing along. I caught myself before others noticed but it was enough to make me smile at the memories.
The funeral the next day was a traditional Armenian service. The funeral procession was one of the few which came close to equaling the size of my father's as we wound our way from Warwick to Providence and back to the cemetery in West Greenwich. The weather held out with a bright sun and gentle autumn breeze as we filed past leaving flowers on the tomb cover as we left Uncle Mike at his final resting place.
Because there had been a years time to prepare for this, the family seemed able to deal easier with the loss. Added to that the reunion feel to seeing old friends at every turn took much of the sting out of this funeral and the Yugoslav reunion was a perfect coda to the whole things.
But that is tomorrow's blog.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
It has been two days since I got back from my trip to Rhode Island. I have gnawed my way through the loaf of Portuguese sweet bread, one of the three cans on Narragansett Beer, a quart of coffee milk and my New York System hot weenie meat sauce is simmering on the stove. It was quite a trip.
The reason I had not posted soon is due how emotionally overwhelming this trip was. This may actually take more than one post to cover everything about the trip; let me start with the reasons for the trip.
Originally, it was supposed to be John and I going home to show him off to family before he goes into the Navy tagged onto a reunion of the 1984 Warwick Vets High School Chorale Yugoslavian Tour. Then Julie happened, money got tight and I couldn’t afford to bring John. Then it looked as if I wouldn’t even be able to attend the reunion; as of two weeks ago; I was ready to throw in the towel.
Then Uncle Mike died.
Mike Kroian was the director of the Chorale but his influence went way beyond simply his hunching over a music stand and waving his arms at us. For the 9 years I was actively associated with the Chorale and since, Uncle Mike had taught me “life lessons”.
I showed up for his summer rehearsals having no idea what involvement with the Chorus and Chorale would mean for me. While I could carry a tune I could barely read music and had nothing near to level of ability those in the rest of the practice room had. However, Mike Kroian took me in.
All around me were people like me; artistic, expressive and, at one level or another, talented kids. They all called the director “Uncle Mike” as if it were a family. As I continued to attend rehearsals I heard a new language; the F-Wing Language. Strange words like “Zubar” and “Ah-Fa-Bo” were common place and I wanted to learn them all.
I’m always amazed that Paul McCartney can tell you the first words he said to John Lennon at the church fair where he met John Lennon. I don’t know how it happened but within days I was sharing a locker with Jay Kingston; a junior who would be an important part of my life for many years before a rift not unlike that which destroyed the Beatles.
In the midst of all this was Uncle Mike. Trying to sum up all of my experiences or finding the most poignant is like picking your favorite child. I remember when he was livid with me for oversleeping on the Yugoslavian tour and missing our first concert there. I remember the look in his eyes when he finally, in my senior year, let me join the Chorale even though my voice wasn’t really at its best. It was my last chance and he knew how hard I had worked each year and how much it meant to me. I remember a drive in his two seat MG. It was just him and me and he shared his own problems growing up with an illness and how he overcame it. With him it was polio and mine was asthma. I took his example as inspiration and it gave me the determination I would need later in life.
He took me places on this planet I never dreamed I would see. I stood with him at the tomb of David Ben Gurion and looked out onto the Negev desert. At the Diaspora Museum he talked about the Armenian Holocaust and I felt his ethnic pride. I danced beside him in a pub in Austria and heard him laugh with that beaming smile. Those and thousands of other memories; some good and some bad, because life isn’t always perfect, will stay with me forever. I can still feel his large hand resting on my shoulder. I can hear his voice booming at me for doing something wrong….again. I can hear his laughter. The excitement in his voice sharing a letter from college from alum, Mike Cheney. I can see those hands moving in front of me as the coerced a particular sound and intonation during a performance as if he could reach into me and mold it. I can also feel the last hug I got from him on a visit home 5 years ago.
That’s as best I can do to try to sum all of the emotions and memories I have of Uncle Mike. It’s inadequate, I know because those memories are a deeply rooted part of me. Those memories of all my time in F-Wing went into making me who I am today and I have no possible way of fathoming how different a person I would be if I had never met him.
In my next post I’ll talk about the funeral itself.
The reason I had not posted soon is due how emotionally overwhelming this trip was. This may actually take more than one post to cover everything about the trip; let me start with the reasons for the trip.
Originally, it was supposed to be John and I going home to show him off to family before he goes into the Navy tagged onto a reunion of the 1984 Warwick Vets High School Chorale Yugoslavian Tour. Then Julie happened, money got tight and I couldn’t afford to bring John. Then it looked as if I wouldn’t even be able to attend the reunion; as of two weeks ago; I was ready to throw in the towel.
Then Uncle Mike died.
Mike Kroian was the director of the Chorale but his influence went way beyond simply his hunching over a music stand and waving his arms at us. For the 9 years I was actively associated with the Chorale and since, Uncle Mike had taught me “life lessons”.
I showed up for his summer rehearsals having no idea what involvement with the Chorus and Chorale would mean for me. While I could carry a tune I could barely read music and had nothing near to level of ability those in the rest of the practice room had. However, Mike Kroian took me in.
All around me were people like me; artistic, expressive and, at one level or another, talented kids. They all called the director “Uncle Mike” as if it were a family. As I continued to attend rehearsals I heard a new language; the F-Wing Language. Strange words like “Zubar” and “Ah-Fa-Bo” were common place and I wanted to learn them all.
I’m always amazed that Paul McCartney can tell you the first words he said to John Lennon at the church fair where he met John Lennon. I don’t know how it happened but within days I was sharing a locker with Jay Kingston; a junior who would be an important part of my life for many years before a rift not unlike that which destroyed the Beatles.
In the midst of all this was Uncle Mike. Trying to sum up all of my experiences or finding the most poignant is like picking your favorite child. I remember when he was livid with me for oversleeping on the Yugoslavian tour and missing our first concert there. I remember the look in his eyes when he finally, in my senior year, let me join the Chorale even though my voice wasn’t really at its best. It was my last chance and he knew how hard I had worked each year and how much it meant to me. I remember a drive in his two seat MG. It was just him and me and he shared his own problems growing up with an illness and how he overcame it. With him it was polio and mine was asthma. I took his example as inspiration and it gave me the determination I would need later in life.
He took me places on this planet I never dreamed I would see. I stood with him at the tomb of David Ben Gurion and looked out onto the Negev desert. At the Diaspora Museum he talked about the Armenian Holocaust and I felt his ethnic pride. I danced beside him in a pub in Austria and heard him laugh with that beaming smile. Those and thousands of other memories; some good and some bad, because life isn’t always perfect, will stay with me forever. I can still feel his large hand resting on my shoulder. I can hear his voice booming at me for doing something wrong….again. I can hear his laughter. The excitement in his voice sharing a letter from college from alum, Mike Cheney. I can see those hands moving in front of me as the coerced a particular sound and intonation during a performance as if he could reach into me and mold it. I can also feel the last hug I got from him on a visit home 5 years ago.
That’s as best I can do to try to sum all of the emotions and memories I have of Uncle Mike. It’s inadequate, I know because those memories are a deeply rooted part of me. Those memories of all my time in F-Wing went into making me who I am today and I have no possible way of fathoming how different a person I would be if I had never met him.
In my next post I’ll talk about the funeral itself.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Since moving to Florida my political activism has been dormant. However, in recent months, the spark has been reignited. If my life had taken a different road I am sure I would be working in DC right now so I have to find a way to do something when I feel moved to do so.
First was this email to Senator Jon Kyl (R) Arizona who made statements after the President's health care speech which were nothing more than a twisting of the truth and I felt moved to call him on it. Here is what I sent to him:
Senator;
As you can see from my information, I am not a constituent of yours. I have never been fortunate enough to visit Arizona but would like to one day. I am simply a good American; yes, Liberal Democrat, who, even though I can disagree with someone can still have respect for them as a person and their position. I am not writing to lash out and hope I do not come off as "extremist"; I only heard something you said today, felt it was incorrect and wished to share my point of view.
I have been active in politics since a youngster; having a long family history of involvement; however, I have never sent a letter like this. I feel that the issue of Health Care Reform is so important that I must begin doing more and this email is one step in that direction.
I heard you respond to President Obama's comments last night about "calling out" those misrepresent what is in the plan. Your said that this did not sound like bipartisanship. Here is where we disagree, Senator.
These words, as I read them:
"And I will continue to seek common ground in the weeks ahead. If you come to me with a serious set of proposals, I will be there to listen. My door is always open.
But know this: I will not waste time with those who have made the calculation that it’s better politics to kill this plan than to improve it. I won’t stand by while the special interests use the same old tactics to keep things exactly the way they are. If you misrepresent what’s in this plan, we will call you out. "
The President first says if someone brings him a "serious" proposal he will listen. However, the recent history of blatant disinformation, and mean spirited disinformation will not be tolerated. Bring something to the table with substance and not something silly like "death boards". How is this a bad thing? This is the first time, in a long time of my following politics, that I have seen such a clarion call for you folks in Washington to do the job you were sent to Washington to do.
I grew up in Rhode Island watching John O. Pastore and Claiborne Pell. You might be able to tag me with a "homegrown Liberal Democrat" tag; but, politics aside, can you imagine how such long serving, text book examples of what a legislator should be, would react to some of the divisive rhetoric being slung these days. I, honestly, think they would be embarrassed by some of their colleagues.
I am not saying you are one of those, sir. I respect your work on victim's rights and, as I said at the onset, I respect you as a senator. I hope you will take this in the spirit it is given; in hopes of continued open debate.
And then there was Representative Joe Wilson (R) South Carolina. Yes.....HIM. In all honestly, his outburst did some good. There was a loophole on some of the legislation when it came to illegal aliens and it was a good thing the question was raised. I took issue with how he did it but it wasn't until he kept refusing to apologize to his colleagues in the House, whom he actually insulted more than the President with his outburst, by trying to make correlations to some grumbling by members of the House during an address by President Bush and whining that there was some sort of double standard. Here is what I sent to him.
Congressman;
I am writing to let you know how I feel over the aftermath of your outburst during the President's address of 9/9. While I applaud and respect your quick response in apologizing directly to the President I completely disagree with your statements that you will not apologize to the House as a body. I worked for 4 years as an aide to a member of the RI State House of Representatives and am familiar with the general rules of decorum. I have also done some cursory research on the actual rules of decorum for the US House. From what I can find, you are clearly in violation of section 370 which specifically states "a member could not call the President 'a liar'".
You outburst, while inappropriate, has brought a spotlight on the question of immigrants health coverage. While you and I might disagree on the President's plan we could agree that this wording was, at the very least, ambiguous. Your words may have a positive impact after all.
This does not, however, detract from the act itself. I would urge you, strongly, to reconsider. To continue to take the route of the image of a martyr, it will continue to lessen your image in the eyes of the public at large. If you were to apologize rather than be reprimanded by the House, you would strengthen your image as a thoughtful and patriotic legislator who simply made an emotional mistake.
Well, that's my opinion, anyway. All my best to you either way.
I haven't heard from either of them but I feel sated and I miss being in the think of things.
Well, that's my opinion, anyway. All my best to you either way.
First was this email to Senator Jon Kyl (R) Arizona who made statements after the President's health care speech which were nothing more than a twisting of the truth and I felt moved to call him on it. Here is what I sent to him:
Senator;
As you can see from my information, I am not a constituent of yours. I have never been fortunate enough to visit Arizona but would like to one day. I am simply a good American; yes, Liberal Democrat, who, even though I can disagree with someone can still have respect for them as a person and their position. I am not writing to lash out and hope I do not come off as "extremist"; I only heard something you said today, felt it was incorrect and wished to share my point of view.
I have been active in politics since a youngster; having a long family history of involvement; however, I have never sent a letter like this. I feel that the issue of Health Care Reform is so important that I must begin doing more and this email is one step in that direction.
I heard you respond to President Obama's comments last night about "calling out" those misrepresent what is in the plan. Your said that this did not sound like bipartisanship. Here is where we disagree, Senator.
These words, as I read them:
"And I will continue to seek common ground in the weeks ahead. If you come to me with a serious set of proposals, I will be there to listen. My door is always open.
But know this: I will not waste time with those who have made the calculation that it’s better politics to kill this plan than to improve it. I won’t stand by while the special interests use the same old tactics to keep things exactly the way they are. If you misrepresent what’s in this plan, we will call you out. "
The President first says if someone brings him a "serious" proposal he will listen. However, the recent history of blatant disinformation, and mean spirited disinformation will not be tolerated. Bring something to the table with substance and not something silly like "death boards". How is this a bad thing? This is the first time, in a long time of my following politics, that I have seen such a clarion call for you folks in Washington to do the job you were sent to Washington to do.
I grew up in Rhode Island watching John O. Pastore and Claiborne Pell. You might be able to tag me with a "homegrown Liberal Democrat" tag; but, politics aside, can you imagine how such long serving, text book examples of what a legislator should be, would react to some of the divisive rhetoric being slung these days. I, honestly, think they would be embarrassed by some of their colleagues.
I am not saying you are one of those, sir. I respect your work on victim's rights and, as I said at the onset, I respect you as a senator. I hope you will take this in the spirit it is given; in hopes of continued open debate.
And then there was Representative Joe Wilson (R) South Carolina. Yes.....HIM. In all honestly, his outburst did some good. There was a loophole on some of the legislation when it came to illegal aliens and it was a good thing the question was raised. I took issue with how he did it but it wasn't until he kept refusing to apologize to his colleagues in the House, whom he actually insulted more than the President with his outburst, by trying to make correlations to some grumbling by members of the House during an address by President Bush and whining that there was some sort of double standard. Here is what I sent to him.
Congressman;
I am writing to let you know how I feel over the aftermath of your outburst during the President's address of 9/9. While I applaud and respect your quick response in apologizing directly to the President I completely disagree with your statements that you will not apologize to the House as a body. I worked for 4 years as an aide to a member of the RI State House of Representatives and am familiar with the general rules of decorum. I have also done some cursory research on the actual rules of decorum for the US House. From what I can find, you are clearly in violation of section 370 which specifically states "a member could not call the President 'a liar'".
You outburst, while inappropriate, has brought a spotlight on the question of immigrants health coverage. While you and I might disagree on the President's plan we could agree that this wording was, at the very least, ambiguous. Your words may have a positive impact after all.
This does not, however, detract from the act itself. I would urge you, strongly, to reconsider. To continue to take the route of the image of a martyr, it will continue to lessen your image in the eyes of the public at large. If you were to apologize rather than be reprimanded by the House, you would strengthen your image as a thoughtful and patriotic legislator who simply made an emotional mistake.
Well, that's my opinion, anyway. All my best to you either way.
I haven't heard from either of them but I feel sated and I miss being in the think of things.
Well, that's my opinion, anyway. All my best to you either way.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
More proof of genetics; a recent text messaging session between me and my son.
John: Guess what I'm watching
Me: I'm almost afraid to ask
John: Roughnecks
Me: Download or DVD?
John: Watching at Tate's Comics
Me: Kewl! Showoff and tell em you know Mojo
John: I already did!
Me: That's my boy!
To translate to the non-geeks reading this; "Roughnecks" is a CGI animated version of "Starshiptroopers" which aired a few years ago. A friend of mine, Mojo, was one of the animators. I have been accused of being a name dropper and my son just showed he has the same active gene.
I could hardly be any more proud!
John: Guess what I'm watching
Me: I'm almost afraid to ask
John: Roughnecks
Me: Download or DVD?
John: Watching at Tate's Comics
Me: Kewl! Showoff and tell em you know Mojo
John: I already did!
Me: That's my boy!
To translate to the non-geeks reading this; "Roughnecks" is a CGI animated version of "Starshiptroopers" which aired a few years ago. A friend of mine, Mojo, was one of the animators. I have been accused of being a name dropper and my son just showed he has the same active gene.
I could hardly be any more proud!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
I just came back from watching the shuttle Discovery liftoff and am just as amazed as I was the first time I saw a launch in person. This is one of the few advantages of living in Florida. I live 90 miles south of Kennedy Space Center and have only missed two launches in the 14 years I've been here. Night launches are a special experience themselves.
This time I decided to head right down to the ocean side beach to watch the launch. I was pleasantly surprised to find a good sized crowd had gathered by ten minuets before liftoff.
Well, I was happy with most of those present. Here we were, on a beautiful Atlantic beat close to midnight with the moon streaming its way through a thin veil of clouds left over from a stormy day with open pockets of clear sky sparkling with stars. There were idiots with flashlights! What kind of moron takes a midnight stroll on the beach with a goddamn flashlight?! Slack-jawed tourists without an ounce of romanticism in their blood; that's who! There was one little pre-teen toe head who came close to getting his flashlight embedded somewhere very uncomfortable if he hadn't stopped his lighthouse impression; continually spinning in a circle which brough his AA beacon aimed right into my eyes every 15 seconds.
I ignored the gathering rabble and stepped closer to the water's edge. With the warm wind blowing, the roar of the waves and the smell of the ocean my thoughts went to Ted Kennedy. Somehow, it seemed the right place to be today to watch the launch. I had been thinking over the past few days how much I wanted to be back home. To be able to pay my respects at the Kennedy Library. Even more, the thoughts of the road not taken and how other choices in my life would have put me at the funeral in DC.
The ocean always makes me homesick. When I was growing up I felt as if the ocean was mine. From my bedroom window I could see the water. The seawall at Oakland Beach was my refuge. Whenever I needed a place to go to clear my head or to sort through my thoughts, I went to the water. Beach sand frozen solid in February or soft and warm in August I would go anytime. I closed my eyes and, for a moment, I could imagine myself standing on the rock jutting into Buttonwoods Cove.
And then that little bastard started playing lighthouse again!
Liftoff was closing in and I was inspired to share the moment with someone. I called my friend Bismo and caught him as he was just racing in his door to turn on his TV. He out his phone on speaker and cranked the volume on his TV so he had as close a feeling to being there as he could all the way from New England. I could hear the commentator count off the seconds and announce, "We have ignition!" But I really didn't need him to know that.
At the very edge of the horizon it looked as if the sun were coming up. The clouds just over the cape began to glow as they reflected the light from the shuttle engines. It got brighter and brighter until the golden streak of the shuttle itself began to rise. Like a bright torch being carried across the sky the bright glow streamed up and to the east.
Still brilliantly strong and clearly visible for longer than I've seen any launch. The longer I could see it, the more adrenalin I could feel entering my blood stream and my breath shortened. On the other end of the phone the coverage on Bismo's TV ended so I continued play by play for him. The glow against the clouds continued until the shuttle left the atmosphere. As if I were watching a close up image, I could see the boosters fall away as the shuttle continued further away. Then the shuttle became a bright star in the night sky.
And then it was gone.
The tourists left. The snot nosed living lighthouse returned to his dad's vacation condo. The roar of the waves returned and the beach was mine again.
The only way this experience could have been better would have been to actually be on board the shuttle itself. I stayed on the beach a while longer talking with Bismo. Not to bad a way to spend an evening.
This time I decided to head right down to the ocean side beach to watch the launch. I was pleasantly surprised to find a good sized crowd had gathered by ten minuets before liftoff.
Well, I was happy with most of those present. Here we were, on a beautiful Atlantic beat close to midnight with the moon streaming its way through a thin veil of clouds left over from a stormy day with open pockets of clear sky sparkling with stars. There were idiots with flashlights! What kind of moron takes a midnight stroll on the beach with a goddamn flashlight?! Slack-jawed tourists without an ounce of romanticism in their blood; that's who! There was one little pre-teen toe head who came close to getting his flashlight embedded somewhere very uncomfortable if he hadn't stopped his lighthouse impression; continually spinning in a circle which brough his AA beacon aimed right into my eyes every 15 seconds.
I ignored the gathering rabble and stepped closer to the water's edge. With the warm wind blowing, the roar of the waves and the smell of the ocean my thoughts went to Ted Kennedy. Somehow, it seemed the right place to be today to watch the launch. I had been thinking over the past few days how much I wanted to be back home. To be able to pay my respects at the Kennedy Library. Even more, the thoughts of the road not taken and how other choices in my life would have put me at the funeral in DC.
The ocean always makes me homesick. When I was growing up I felt as if the ocean was mine. From my bedroom window I could see the water. The seawall at Oakland Beach was my refuge. Whenever I needed a place to go to clear my head or to sort through my thoughts, I went to the water. Beach sand frozen solid in February or soft and warm in August I would go anytime. I closed my eyes and, for a moment, I could imagine myself standing on the rock jutting into Buttonwoods Cove.
And then that little bastard started playing lighthouse again!
Liftoff was closing in and I was inspired to share the moment with someone. I called my friend Bismo and caught him as he was just racing in his door to turn on his TV. He out his phone on speaker and cranked the volume on his TV so he had as close a feeling to being there as he could all the way from New England. I could hear the commentator count off the seconds and announce, "We have ignition!" But I really didn't need him to know that.
At the very edge of the horizon it looked as if the sun were coming up. The clouds just over the cape began to glow as they reflected the light from the shuttle engines. It got brighter and brighter until the golden streak of the shuttle itself began to rise. Like a bright torch being carried across the sky the bright glow streamed up and to the east.
Still brilliantly strong and clearly visible for longer than I've seen any launch. The longer I could see it, the more adrenalin I could feel entering my blood stream and my breath shortened. On the other end of the phone the coverage on Bismo's TV ended so I continued play by play for him. The glow against the clouds continued until the shuttle left the atmosphere. As if I were watching a close up image, I could see the boosters fall away as the shuttle continued further away. Then the shuttle became a bright star in the night sky.
And then it was gone.
The tourists left. The snot nosed living lighthouse returned to his dad's vacation condo. The roar of the waves returned and the beach was mine again.
The only way this experience could have been better would have been to actually be on board the shuttle itself. I stayed on the beach a while longer talking with Bismo. Not to bad a way to spend an evening.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I remember the first moment I ever met Red Barrows. It was also the first time I met their family dog, Franco. I'm not sure which one scared me more.
Harry Barrows was a friend of mine in high school. We both belonged to the chorus and eventually came the time for me to visit his house for the first time. We walked through the door and I immediately heard a bellowing bark of his dog Franco and the sound of it made me freeze in my tracks. I sounded like a cross between an angry bison and a very hungry bear.
And then I saw him.
Franco was a German Shepard but he looked as if he had some hidden Great Dane or horse DNA. And then one or two sniffs and a scratch behind the ears and he was my best friend. Every time I entered the Barrows home I was welcomed by Franco like one of the family.
Red was just like that.
As I made my first introductions to Franco and learned he wouldn't chew my head off I heard Red bark from his corner in the living room. Hunkered down in his chair in the corner he looked like a well dressed Gollum in a flannel shirt with his craggy face with pointed chin and beady eyes glaring in my direction.
And then I heard him.
"Close the goddamn door before the dog gets out!"
But, just like Franco, once we got to know each other he always welcomed me like a member of the family. In many ways he filled some fatherly position in my life after my father died. I had grown closer to Harry but I probably called on Red for assistance when my car broke down as often as I called Harry and he was always there for me. He always helped me but I can also see him shaking his head at me at the same time in that fatherly, "I love you but you're an idiot" kind of way. Every time I looked deep in those beady eyes I saw love and respect.
Last week Red passed away. Just a few years ago I stood with him and Harry in a cold November wind at Ma Barrow's grave. Just like then my financial situation kept me away from a funeral. Harry always says its nothing I have to worry about and I know that all the years of friendship make up for not being at some silly service. I also know that I will make it to that cemetery again and pay my respects to Red. But it will never be the same; it is as if I missed my own parent's funeral. I will, however, always have my memories of Red.
My favorite story is one about Red and my father. They were both police officers in neighboring jurisdictions. There was a city park which, to get to, you had to go through part of the neighboring town. They would meet together and patrol the park. This was in the days of the land cruiser car made of steel which weighed as much as a tank. One evening, Red and my dad found one of these tanks parked off the road. A convertible with its top down and various pieces of clothing draped over the fenders and trunk. The occupants were hunkered down deep in the back seat deeply involved with each other.
Red and my dad crept up on the car, one on either side coming up on the rear fenders. In silence, they removed the clothing from the car. One of them kneeled down and took out his large steel cased flashlights and pulled them back ready to swing. The other returned to the patrol car with his hand at the ready on the switch for the lights and siren
On the count of three they let loose; banging loudly on the fender as the siren wailed and emergency lights flashed. Red would howl telling the story, "The two heads popped up looking like they just had the shit scared out of them! They jumped around, half naked looking for their clothes! I never saw two people get dressed so quick in my life!"
I will miss Red. I don't believe in heaven but I do like the romantic image of Red and my dad laughing together again like they did that night.
Harry Barrows was a friend of mine in high school. We both belonged to the chorus and eventually came the time for me to visit his house for the first time. We walked through the door and I immediately heard a bellowing bark of his dog Franco and the sound of it made me freeze in my tracks. I sounded like a cross between an angry bison and a very hungry bear.
And then I saw him.
Franco was a German Shepard but he looked as if he had some hidden Great Dane or horse DNA. And then one or two sniffs and a scratch behind the ears and he was my best friend. Every time I entered the Barrows home I was welcomed by Franco like one of the family.
Red was just like that.
As I made my first introductions to Franco and learned he wouldn't chew my head off I heard Red bark from his corner in the living room. Hunkered down in his chair in the corner he looked like a well dressed Gollum in a flannel shirt with his craggy face with pointed chin and beady eyes glaring in my direction.
And then I heard him.
"Close the goddamn door before the dog gets out!"
But, just like Franco, once we got to know each other he always welcomed me like a member of the family. In many ways he filled some fatherly position in my life after my father died. I had grown closer to Harry but I probably called on Red for assistance when my car broke down as often as I called Harry and he was always there for me. He always helped me but I can also see him shaking his head at me at the same time in that fatherly, "I love you but you're an idiot" kind of way. Every time I looked deep in those beady eyes I saw love and respect.
Last week Red passed away. Just a few years ago I stood with him and Harry in a cold November wind at Ma Barrow's grave. Just like then my financial situation kept me away from a funeral. Harry always says its nothing I have to worry about and I know that all the years of friendship make up for not being at some silly service. I also know that I will make it to that cemetery again and pay my respects to Red. But it will never be the same; it is as if I missed my own parent's funeral. I will, however, always have my memories of Red.
My favorite story is one about Red and my father. They were both police officers in neighboring jurisdictions. There was a city park which, to get to, you had to go through part of the neighboring town. They would meet together and patrol the park. This was in the days of the land cruiser car made of steel which weighed as much as a tank. One evening, Red and my dad found one of these tanks parked off the road. A convertible with its top down and various pieces of clothing draped over the fenders and trunk. The occupants were hunkered down deep in the back seat deeply involved with each other.
Red and my dad crept up on the car, one on either side coming up on the rear fenders. In silence, they removed the clothing from the car. One of them kneeled down and took out his large steel cased flashlights and pulled them back ready to swing. The other returned to the patrol car with his hand at the ready on the switch for the lights and siren
On the count of three they let loose; banging loudly on the fender as the siren wailed and emergency lights flashed. Red would howl telling the story, "The two heads popped up looking like they just had the shit scared out of them! They jumped around, half naked looking for their clothes! I never saw two people get dressed so quick in my life!"
I will miss Red. I don't believe in heaven but I do like the romantic image of Red and my dad laughing together again like they did that night.
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