My high school, now Tommy's, won the Varsity Girls Soccer Championship this past Sunday at the very impressive soccer stadium in Germantown, Maryland. New coach. First year and the championship trophy now resides at 27th and Military Road in the District. Congratulations to all.
But now comes the story behind the story.
I try to catch the team's games largely to watch one of the most impressive players I've had the privilege to meet. Plus I enjoy visiting with her parents. Last year she was named team captain. She was only a Junior but she had excellent on-field execution. Her passes were arrow straight and to the right person. She was awesome when heading with the ball towards the goal. And she could shoot straight, curved, high, low but always true. Two prestigious New England schools offered her a scholarship. She's that good.
She did not play even a minute in this year's championship game and very little during the regular season. She didn't play because last year she quit the team.
She quit in protest over the coach. He was, in my opinion, a total butthole. He reminded me of more than a few CYO baseball coaches during the 1950s. Only his pet lineup played the games. Apparently she shared the sentiment. Apparently too the school found merit in her actions. They fired the coach.
I thought she showed a great deal of courage in her actions. Her teammates didn't. For the most part they shunned her. She stood alone. Got a bad coach replaced with a good one and carried the consequences of her action with dignity and maturity.
In fact, the new coach told her before the game that she would not play because he didn't want to cause any complaints to be fired his way. I call that gutless and pitiful. She took the news in stride and cheered when the team scored the winning goal and at the final whistle she jumped with joy. No one knew the story behind her riding the bench. I call that courage.
****
On the other hand, I call the sports media's demand for Joe Pa's resignation shameless. Stop for a moment and think. Coach Joe did not see the acts. If he had, his Italian instincts would have found the perpetrator in a world of physical hurt. I guarantee it.
Coach Joe had one person's word. He acted upon it by reporting it to the higher school authorities. The media spent all day expressing phony righteous indignation over his not reporting it to the police. Remember at that point it was hearsay. It was up to the school to act.
So you say, Coach Joe should have fired the man. Based on what? If he acted in a punitive fashion he would have been guilty of the media's greatest sin: assuming one guilty until proven innocent. Coach Joe didn't sign the man's pay check. He didn't play judge or jury based on one man's accusation.
Years ago I was talking to a very fine gentleman about our children. He told me that a parent heard his son tell another youngster: "My Dad always beats me!" Outraged she called the police and had the man arrested. What the woman didn't hear was the first part of the conversation where my friend's son told the other boy: "My Dad and I play soccer every day but..."
If Coach Joe had walked into the shower room and saw the incident reported in the media, I only pray he would have had a pistol and shot the bastard. I call that the only Christian thing to do.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Are We Sending the Wrong Message?
Tommy got his license.
Like most of us who spent our childhood and the majority of our teenage years as perennial passengers, he's pretty shaky on directions to and from places he's traveled for months and years. But, he'll learn.
What surprised me and what prompted this post is the fact that he's scared that he's going to make a wrong decision and get into a wreck. This from a kid who knew no fear literally from his earliest days.
I love to tell the story of the difference between Tommy and his late brother Johnny. I may have mentioned it before but the beauty of having little or no memory is that I can't remember and I don't care. When each was learning to walk, at the stage where they would pull themselves up onto their feet and use sofas, chairs, parent's pant legs to move along, I pulled the same parental trick first on Johnny, then a few years later on Tommy.
I would sit on the sofa and put my legs up on the coffee table blocking their passage. Johnny would stop. Size up the situation as best as he could. Look at me. Look at my legs. Look at the table. Look over my legs at what was or wasn't on the other side. Satisfied he would slowly and deliberately start to climb over. Tommy, on the other hand, motored down the side of the couch, got to my leg-bridge and literally dive over with no regard whatsoever for what awaited on the other side. Same with swimming.
Johnny would cling to me if we were in the bay or ocean or to the side of the pool. Tommy - after he learned the rudiments of staying a float or swimming like a damn dolphin, arms at his side, flexing his body and legs, underwater - didn't care if he was at the shallow or deep end of the pool.
Now behind the wheel of a car, Tommy's living scared.
I think it's because of too much emphasis on all the things that can go wrong. It's been a constant verbal diet of watch out for this, try and read the mind of every idiot around you, and on and on until the experience is one of running a gauntlet of folks out to kill you versus the sensation of being free to roam beyond one's own block (if you grew up in the city). The scales of judgment are out of balance. Too much fear. Not enough confidence building and encouragement.
Tommy is and Johnny was not afraid of guns. They both enjoy(ed) shooting. They both understood safety and responsibility. Johnny was an outstanding shot. At one Trappers' convention he out shot me and pretty much everyone knocking animated ducks out of the sky at one of those wall-size simulated hunting video games. Tommy can hit his share of clay pigeons.
I've got to rethink how I handle things.
Okay, here's a stretch for most but not for me.
Just as I believe I was over protective in warning Tommy about the potential dangers of the road, I believe we as a society have been over protective about speaking out when we see something or someone who is wrong.
One of the many lessons I learned in the Army is the admonition to alert someone when something is or might be edging toward the dangerous. It's the antithesis of "don't get involved."
Well we are involved. It's called life. Two examples that happened in two consecutive days.
I was in the Gaithersburg Costco. There is no grocery store filled with more rude damn people than at this particular Costco save every Whole Foods Market I've visited. No one is looking where they are pushing their carts. They seem to assume everyone else will simply move out of their way. The natural extension of this attitude is blocking the aisle with grocery carts. After a few "Excuse me, may I please get through" I came up to a main aisle totally blocked by people flocking to the free sample station and, of course, shopping carts abandoned like logs at a beaver dam. Shy me said, "Will you people quit blocking the damn aisle?" The main offender turned and gave me a look as if I had just burned a Koran or Bible and I should feel guilty. An older woman, older than me, stopped the other woman mid-scold and yelled "He's right!"
Next day, at Sam's Club, a much more pacifistic store in Gaithersburg I got another taste of what happens when people allow other people to be buttheads.
(As an aside, the Gaithersburg Costco - mid week day or worse, on a weekend - is an experience you simply will not find in Costco stores elsewhere. Parking is ridiculous, the crowd is totally oblivious. Actually it's more akin to a well-dressed mob gone wild in a totally politically correct setting. And I love Costco.)
At any rate, I was next in line at the Pharmacy window. A very nice mom walked up and waited patiently behind me. As one of the assistants began to help me, a gargantuan man entered the exit and said the the woman, "I've already been waited on I'm just picking up my package." Seemed harmless enough. The man's package of medicine was clearly visible over the counter. The pharmacist walked up to hand it to him. Still nothing out of the ordinary. Then the man put a pile of groceries on the counter and asked if they would ring them up...I mean a pile.
The pharmacist was startled but said nothing. A male assistant walked up and said nothing. The female helping me gave a look of disgust. I turned to the woman behind me and she was shaking her head in disbelief. I then turned to the man-mountain and said, "You owe this lady and apology."
He got pissed. "None of your business." I said "rudeness...it is my business. You owe her an apology." It got plenty heated. He never apologized. In fact he acted as if I was the offender for making his rudeness verbal. Lard barrel hastily shoved his groceries into a couple of bags and headed for the door. The lady smiled and said, "thank you."
Like most of us who spent our childhood and the majority of our teenage years as perennial passengers, he's pretty shaky on directions to and from places he's traveled for months and years. But, he'll learn.
What surprised me and what prompted this post is the fact that he's scared that he's going to make a wrong decision and get into a wreck. This from a kid who knew no fear literally from his earliest days.
I love to tell the story of the difference between Tommy and his late brother Johnny. I may have mentioned it before but the beauty of having little or no memory is that I can't remember and I don't care. When each was learning to walk, at the stage where they would pull themselves up onto their feet and use sofas, chairs, parent's pant legs to move along, I pulled the same parental trick first on Johnny, then a few years later on Tommy.
I would sit on the sofa and put my legs up on the coffee table blocking their passage. Johnny would stop. Size up the situation as best as he could. Look at me. Look at my legs. Look at the table. Look over my legs at what was or wasn't on the other side. Satisfied he would slowly and deliberately start to climb over. Tommy, on the other hand, motored down the side of the couch, got to my leg-bridge and literally dive over with no regard whatsoever for what awaited on the other side. Same with swimming.
Johnny would cling to me if we were in the bay or ocean or to the side of the pool. Tommy - after he learned the rudiments of staying a float or swimming like a damn dolphin, arms at his side, flexing his body and legs, underwater - didn't care if he was at the shallow or deep end of the pool.
Now behind the wheel of a car, Tommy's living scared.
I think it's because of too much emphasis on all the things that can go wrong. It's been a constant verbal diet of watch out for this, try and read the mind of every idiot around you, and on and on until the experience is one of running a gauntlet of folks out to kill you versus the sensation of being free to roam beyond one's own block (if you grew up in the city). The scales of judgment are out of balance. Too much fear. Not enough confidence building and encouragement.
Tommy is and Johnny was not afraid of guns. They both enjoy(ed) shooting. They both understood safety and responsibility. Johnny was an outstanding shot. At one Trappers' convention he out shot me and pretty much everyone knocking animated ducks out of the sky at one of those wall-size simulated hunting video games. Tommy can hit his share of clay pigeons.
I've got to rethink how I handle things.
Okay, here's a stretch for most but not for me.
Just as I believe I was over protective in warning Tommy about the potential dangers of the road, I believe we as a society have been over protective about speaking out when we see something or someone who is wrong.
One of the many lessons I learned in the Army is the admonition to alert someone when something is or might be edging toward the dangerous. It's the antithesis of "don't get involved."
Well we are involved. It's called life. Two examples that happened in two consecutive days.
I was in the Gaithersburg Costco. There is no grocery store filled with more rude damn people than at this particular Costco save every Whole Foods Market I've visited. No one is looking where they are pushing their carts. They seem to assume everyone else will simply move out of their way. The natural extension of this attitude is blocking the aisle with grocery carts. After a few "Excuse me, may I please get through" I came up to a main aisle totally blocked by people flocking to the free sample station and, of course, shopping carts abandoned like logs at a beaver dam. Shy me said, "Will you people quit blocking the damn aisle?" The main offender turned and gave me a look as if I had just burned a Koran or Bible and I should feel guilty. An older woman, older than me, stopped the other woman mid-scold and yelled "He's right!"
Next day, at Sam's Club, a much more pacifistic store in Gaithersburg I got another taste of what happens when people allow other people to be buttheads.
(As an aside, the Gaithersburg Costco - mid week day or worse, on a weekend - is an experience you simply will not find in Costco stores elsewhere. Parking is ridiculous, the crowd is totally oblivious. Actually it's more akin to a well-dressed mob gone wild in a totally politically correct setting. And I love Costco.)
At any rate, I was next in line at the Pharmacy window. A very nice mom walked up and waited patiently behind me. As one of the assistants began to help me, a gargantuan man entered the exit and said the the woman, "I've already been waited on I'm just picking up my package." Seemed harmless enough. The man's package of medicine was clearly visible over the counter. The pharmacist walked up to hand it to him. Still nothing out of the ordinary. Then the man put a pile of groceries on the counter and asked if they would ring them up...I mean a pile.
The pharmacist was startled but said nothing. A male assistant walked up and said nothing. The female helping me gave a look of disgust. I turned to the woman behind me and she was shaking her head in disbelief. I then turned to the man-mountain and said, "You owe this lady and apology."
He got pissed. "None of your business." I said "rudeness...it is my business. You owe her an apology." It got plenty heated. He never apologized. In fact he acted as if I was the offender for making his rudeness verbal. Lard barrel hastily shoved his groceries into a couple of bags and headed for the door. The lady smiled and said, "thank you."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Every Parent's Legacy
Worry. That's every parent's legacy. From the moment a child is born though every pivotal incident in that child's life, any parent worthy of the title experiences a mix of emotions with worry far out stripping the rest.
When Johnny was born I was the happiest human alive. My friends and family hung a huge banner from the family restaurant proclaiming "It's a boy!" Two days later, they took the banner down. They did that after Johnny nearly drown in his own blood when his pre-birth circulatory system yielded to the one that sustains us in daily life and discovered his heart had no ventricle, he was slit, slashed and filled with tubing to keep him alive until the doctors could explain his condition and ask the question no parent should ever hear: "Do you want us to try and keep him alive?"
I didn't answer. My father did...through me. Dad died in 1984, six years before Johnny's birth. A deep and forceful "YES" erupted from somewhere deep inside with all the neurological pyrotechnics of a Hollywood sci fi movie. I saw white circles of light and seeming tunnels emerging from somewhere. "YES!" I've never regretted a minute resulting from making that statement. Through his three open-heart surgeries - on a heart the size of a thumbnail at two days old through his last one at age four - worry literally caused me to bleed significant quantities of blood...real blood... in anticipation of each procedure. The bleeding stopped when the nurse liaison entered the waiting room and announced he was okay.
But this blog is not about Johnny. It's about Tommy.
For the past few months Tommy's been working towards today. During the day, at night, in Fort Lincoln Cemetery, throughout the narrow lanes that pass for residential streets in Hyattsville, around 495, up 270 and through the country roads of northern Montgomery County, I sat in the passenger seat as Tommy took the wheel of our brand new 2002 Dodge Neon. Thanks to my sister Elena, his aunt, Tommy took official driving lessons at Henry's Driving School in Germantown. He learned a heck of a lot more than I did fifty years ago. But then a lot more rules and regulations are now in effect than there were when I was 15 and learning to drive.
Tommy set up his driving test for today.
He decided on taking his test at the MVA facility in Annapolis. The bias and pure idiocy of driving test monitors at MVA facilities elsewhere in Maryland is so well-known driving school instructors throughout the state keep students spellbound with stories of monitors tricking students into failing the test.
No this is not rumor or urban legend. I know first hand after accompanying my step daughter to different MVA sites 11 times. The most egregious "trick" was when she executed the parking maneuver perfectly. Followed the monitor's instruction to turn off the engine and put the car in park. Having followed the instructions, she turned to peer at something, again at the monitor's direction, and took her hand off the wheel of the stopped, engine off, parking brake set, (did I mention is was a "stopped") car Bingo! She failed.
I've seen this sort of "activist/drama queen" mentality in numerous places including Congress but the place it was most apparent was in the Army when brand new straight from ROTC 2nd Lieutenants tore through recruit barracks turning over lockers, dumping the contents of foot lockers, tearing up freshly made beds and yelling at the top of their lungs to make an impression. Standing at attention, I was given a glance by one of the lifer Sergeants who shot me an eloquent look midway between "this guy's a buffoon" and "what has this man's army come too with officers like this?"
Finally, we traveled to the MVA in Annapolis. They did not cut corners or turn a blind eye toward student efforts. They were fair, firm and respectful. She passed.
Tommy did not want to deal with the nonsense suffered by his step sister, heeded the advice of his driving school instructor and went directly to Annapolis. As he drove through the course with his monitor, I stood under a tree next to the MVA building with two other parents. We were all nervous for our sons. As Tommy approached the parking section, I turned away. No excuses. I was simply worried. I knew he could do it. I just didn't want to watch if he was disappointed. He made it and proceeded to the next test area.
By the end of the test, he emerged from the car with a grin across his face. He did it. Even the monitor was smiling.
So now he has his driver's license. And now I have a host of new worries. Comes with the title, I guess. What surprised me was that Tommy's driving test took a similar toll compared to Johnny's operations. Worry by a parent for each child is the same no matter what I guess.
When Johnny was born I was the happiest human alive. My friends and family hung a huge banner from the family restaurant proclaiming "It's a boy!" Two days later, they took the banner down. They did that after Johnny nearly drown in his own blood when his pre-birth circulatory system yielded to the one that sustains us in daily life and discovered his heart had no ventricle, he was slit, slashed and filled with tubing to keep him alive until the doctors could explain his condition and ask the question no parent should ever hear: "Do you want us to try and keep him alive?"
I didn't answer. My father did...through me. Dad died in 1984, six years before Johnny's birth. A deep and forceful "YES" erupted from somewhere deep inside with all the neurological pyrotechnics of a Hollywood sci fi movie. I saw white circles of light and seeming tunnels emerging from somewhere. "YES!" I've never regretted a minute resulting from making that statement. Through his three open-heart surgeries - on a heart the size of a thumbnail at two days old through his last one at age four - worry literally caused me to bleed significant quantities of blood...real blood... in anticipation of each procedure. The bleeding stopped when the nurse liaison entered the waiting room and announced he was okay.
But this blog is not about Johnny. It's about Tommy.
For the past few months Tommy's been working towards today. During the day, at night, in Fort Lincoln Cemetery, throughout the narrow lanes that pass for residential streets in Hyattsville, around 495, up 270 and through the country roads of northern Montgomery County, I sat in the passenger seat as Tommy took the wheel of our brand new 2002 Dodge Neon. Thanks to my sister Elena, his aunt, Tommy took official driving lessons at Henry's Driving School in Germantown. He learned a heck of a lot more than I did fifty years ago. But then a lot more rules and regulations are now in effect than there were when I was 15 and learning to drive.
Tommy set up his driving test for today.
He decided on taking his test at the MVA facility in Annapolis. The bias and pure idiocy of driving test monitors at MVA facilities elsewhere in Maryland is so well-known driving school instructors throughout the state keep students spellbound with stories of monitors tricking students into failing the test.
No this is not rumor or urban legend. I know first hand after accompanying my step daughter to different MVA sites 11 times. The most egregious "trick" was when she executed the parking maneuver perfectly. Followed the monitor's instruction to turn off the engine and put the car in park. Having followed the instructions, she turned to peer at something, again at the monitor's direction, and took her hand off the wheel of the stopped, engine off, parking brake set, (did I mention is was a "stopped") car Bingo! She failed.
I've seen this sort of "activist/drama queen" mentality in numerous places including Congress but the place it was most apparent was in the Army when brand new straight from ROTC 2nd Lieutenants tore through recruit barracks turning over lockers, dumping the contents of foot lockers, tearing up freshly made beds and yelling at the top of their lungs to make an impression. Standing at attention, I was given a glance by one of the lifer Sergeants who shot me an eloquent look midway between "this guy's a buffoon" and "what has this man's army come too with officers like this?"
Finally, we traveled to the MVA in Annapolis. They did not cut corners or turn a blind eye toward student efforts. They were fair, firm and respectful. She passed.
Tommy did not want to deal with the nonsense suffered by his step sister, heeded the advice of his driving school instructor and went directly to Annapolis. As he drove through the course with his monitor, I stood under a tree next to the MVA building with two other parents. We were all nervous for our sons. As Tommy approached the parking section, I turned away. No excuses. I was simply worried. I knew he could do it. I just didn't want to watch if he was disappointed. He made it and proceeded to the next test area.
By the end of the test, he emerged from the car with a grin across his face. He did it. Even the monitor was smiling.
So now he has his driver's license. And now I have a host of new worries. Comes with the title, I guess. What surprised me was that Tommy's driving test took a similar toll compared to Johnny's operations. Worry by a parent for each child is the same no matter what I guess.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Black Holes, England Before D-Day, and a Baby Named Oliver
It has been over three months since I dared visit this blog. Since that time I've started to climb out of a deep, black emotional hole. It's depth concerns for a great part my thoughts of promises made and promises unkept, my son Johnny's brief life and premature death, my son Tommy and what the future may bring. In part, it stems from the failure to save both son's from the sick manipulations of their biological mother. In part, from financial limitations that may cause me to lose my house. And, in part because those same fiscal circumstances are keeping me from providing as I should for my family including a truly wonderful woman who is in every way the real mother to my son, Tommy. And in part because of a promise I could not keep to a Roman Catholic Nun.
During those three months I've experienced tremendous moments of tear-welling sadness at the loss of Johnny. Tommy and I were kept from being part of his last few years because his biological mother took him to Ohio and erected barriers both in Maryland and there that barred entry and participation. Her announcement, after the fact, that he died haunts me. "He just quit eating" I was told. At his funeral service his body looked like a cadaver from one of Hitler's death camps. I do not exaggerate. The pads of his fingers were shriveled to the bone. Days later after the fog of loss began to fade I realized that Johnny may well have "given up" but that he could not "just quit eating." He was fed via a tube and pump that put nourishment directly into his stomach.
Before he was moved, quite illegally if the court directives have any credibility, I read in a report from his physician at Children's Hospital that said his biological mother had him in therapy at the National Rehabilitation Hospital. I thought that interesting since early in his tragic disability, she yanked him from that place where he was making tremendous progress and was tended by doctors and nurses who knew him and unceremoniously relocated to Johns Hopkins' juvenile facility in Baltimore. She violated National Rehab protocols on a number of occasions, causing Johnny to contract pneumonia as a consequence of one such incident. The nurses yelled, quite literally telling her to stop what she was doing. She of course put the blame on the nurses. At any rate I went to NRH and asked for records of Johnny's therapy there. Over three years, he had been taken there six times. PT and OT are vital to quadriplegic maintenance: daily, weekly etc. Not one or two days a year.
Unlike the boys' biological mother, I put the blame directly on me for not intervening. I know Johnny blamed me for not being with him daily. He may not have been able to speak but the look in his eyes was articulate and damningly eloquent.
Also during the month's of my written silence, Sister Joyce Volpini, legendary principal of St. Jerome parish school in Hyattsville succumbed to cancer. Sister Joyce was a dear and good friend. She gave Tommy his dog, Gia, in part as a very successful means to deal with Johnny's death.
Sister Joyce was unceremoniously kicked out of the parish by a skunk masquerading as a cleric. She was struggling with cancer when the little man in charge of the parish sent her packing. He lied to the parish saying she was returning to her Order when he knew she was taken from a lifelong religious community that was her home for three or so decades and had no where else to go save a "mother-in-law" apartment at a relative's house. The Order closed its residence years ago with only a small plot of Nuns' graves as all that remained. I promised I would do everything in my power to have the SOB reverse his decision. Dealing with an Archbishop now a Cardinal who has the arrogance and disdain for his "flock" of a medieval monarch and the individual in question once again revealed the incredible hypocrisy of institutional religion...no different than corporate America or pretty much any political or academic ecology. Those in power protect their own...anyone they deem verboten be damned.
This past ten days I was in rural England, Consett to be specific, Durham County or Newcastle in the Northeast. I met some very fine people. Ate some very fine home and pub furnished meals. Had a pint or two and just soaked in the history surrounding the incredibly historic countryside. Everything is made of stone: farm walls, rows of tiny homes that housed miners and their families for a few hundred years. The stones were mined from countless fields and plucked from Hadrian's Roman Legion built wall as well as pasture lands that have changed little since they were crisscrossed by Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen preparing for the June 6, 1944 invasion of the Normandy Coast. I was there for a wedding of two incredibly fine youngsters. The groom's father is a farmer living three hours away near Lincoln on the family farm. He was as quick to reference the circumstances of the preceding generation's experience when General Eisenhower ran the show as anyone alive then or the finest historian.
Most of those training and awaiting the launch signal in 1944 were but kids barely older than 17, Tommy's age. They were away from home, family, and facing an immediate future few could or can now imagine. They were scared. Today, we call the feeling depression. The black hole of World War II makes anything we experience look like the work of a child at the seashore working the sand with a tiny plastic bucket and shovel.
At the wedding was a tike, celebrating his first birthday that same day, named Oliver.
Oliver has huge brown eyes and an even larger smile. Oliver made me think of Johnny and Tommy.
Whatever the future may bring, it's his to deal with and I hope enjoy. Tommy recently told me to listen to a song, I think it's called "The Good Life." He told me to let the words and the music "wash over me." I really couldn't do that from my vantage in the black hole. But thinking of Oliver, of the 17 year olds preparing for war, and my failings and strengths, I did just that this morning.
So to Oliver, his family, to my friends and family and to you I say, that we are alive, whether facing hard times or not, and it is a good life...it's time to launch...so enjoy.
During those three months I've experienced tremendous moments of tear-welling sadness at the loss of Johnny. Tommy and I were kept from being part of his last few years because his biological mother took him to Ohio and erected barriers both in Maryland and there that barred entry and participation. Her announcement, after the fact, that he died haunts me. "He just quit eating" I was told. At his funeral service his body looked like a cadaver from one of Hitler's death camps. I do not exaggerate. The pads of his fingers were shriveled to the bone. Days later after the fog of loss began to fade I realized that Johnny may well have "given up" but that he could not "just quit eating." He was fed via a tube and pump that put nourishment directly into his stomach.
Before he was moved, quite illegally if the court directives have any credibility, I read in a report from his physician at Children's Hospital that said his biological mother had him in therapy at the National Rehabilitation Hospital. I thought that interesting since early in his tragic disability, she yanked him from that place where he was making tremendous progress and was tended by doctors and nurses who knew him and unceremoniously relocated to Johns Hopkins' juvenile facility in Baltimore. She violated National Rehab protocols on a number of occasions, causing Johnny to contract pneumonia as a consequence of one such incident. The nurses yelled, quite literally telling her to stop what she was doing. She of course put the blame on the nurses. At any rate I went to NRH and asked for records of Johnny's therapy there. Over three years, he had been taken there six times. PT and OT are vital to quadriplegic maintenance: daily, weekly etc. Not one or two days a year.
Unlike the boys' biological mother, I put the blame directly on me for not intervening. I know Johnny blamed me for not being with him daily. He may not have been able to speak but the look in his eyes was articulate and damningly eloquent.
Also during the month's of my written silence, Sister Joyce Volpini, legendary principal of St. Jerome parish school in Hyattsville succumbed to cancer. Sister Joyce was a dear and good friend. She gave Tommy his dog, Gia, in part as a very successful means to deal with Johnny's death.
Sister Joyce was unceremoniously kicked out of the parish by a skunk masquerading as a cleric. She was struggling with cancer when the little man in charge of the parish sent her packing. He lied to the parish saying she was returning to her Order when he knew she was taken from a lifelong religious community that was her home for three or so decades and had no where else to go save a "mother-in-law" apartment at a relative's house. The Order closed its residence years ago with only a small plot of Nuns' graves as all that remained. I promised I would do everything in my power to have the SOB reverse his decision. Dealing with an Archbishop now a Cardinal who has the arrogance and disdain for his "flock" of a medieval monarch and the individual in question once again revealed the incredible hypocrisy of institutional religion...no different than corporate America or pretty much any political or academic ecology. Those in power protect their own...anyone they deem verboten be damned.
This past ten days I was in rural England, Consett to be specific, Durham County or Newcastle in the Northeast. I met some very fine people. Ate some very fine home and pub furnished meals. Had a pint or two and just soaked in the history surrounding the incredibly historic countryside. Everything is made of stone: farm walls, rows of tiny homes that housed miners and their families for a few hundred years. The stones were mined from countless fields and plucked from Hadrian's Roman Legion built wall as well as pasture lands that have changed little since they were crisscrossed by Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen preparing for the June 6, 1944 invasion of the Normandy Coast. I was there for a wedding of two incredibly fine youngsters. The groom's father is a farmer living three hours away near Lincoln on the family farm. He was as quick to reference the circumstances of the preceding generation's experience when General Eisenhower ran the show as anyone alive then or the finest historian.
Most of those training and awaiting the launch signal in 1944 were but kids barely older than 17, Tommy's age. They were away from home, family, and facing an immediate future few could or can now imagine. They were scared. Today, we call the feeling depression. The black hole of World War II makes anything we experience look like the work of a child at the seashore working the sand with a tiny plastic bucket and shovel.
At the wedding was a tike, celebrating his first birthday that same day, named Oliver.
Oliver has huge brown eyes and an even larger smile. Oliver made me think of Johnny and Tommy.
Whatever the future may bring, it's his to deal with and I hope enjoy. Tommy recently told me to listen to a song, I think it's called "The Good Life." He told me to let the words and the music "wash over me." I really couldn't do that from my vantage in the black hole. But thinking of Oliver, of the 17 year olds preparing for war, and my failings and strengths, I did just that this morning.
So to Oliver, his family, to my friends and family and to you I say, that we are alive, whether facing hard times or not, and it is a good life...it's time to launch...so enjoy.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
An Amazing Read About An Equally Amazing Person
Seventeen years ago, I met an individual from "the other side" of the ideological tracks. He was an "animal rights" activist. I was not. Up until then, I pigeon-holed everyone working for "the animals" as misguided phonies who hated humans. I had fair to good reasons. My firstborn, Johnny was born with his left ventricle unformed. It's an all to common birth defect called "hypoplastic left heart syndrome."
Thanks to numerous medical procedures developed largely by veterinarians working with dogs, pigs, primates and any variety of other animals, Johnny lived and enjoyed a very fine life up to his teenage years. Infants with that condition traditionally die a few weeks after birth.
After three open-heart procedures and doctors at Children's Hospital being happy their skills offered him as close to a normal life as could be hoped, I was told by a friend still at NRA that I might want to look up a group advocating for animal-based medical research. Using my best imitation of Joshua assaulting the fortifications at Jericho, I was given an opportunity to literally give public tribute to the medical researchers who gave my son his life. Going public on this topic is not for the weak. One ad I wrote featuring an image of Johnny unconscious with tubes running literally everywhere into his infant body juxtaposed with a smiling, vibrant six-year-old drew over a hundred missives best characterized as "hate mail" from animal advocates.
I know the origin of most because where possible I tracked down the authors and phoned them to ask why they adopted the PETA-inspired line that the life of the rats sacrificed to develop medical treatments was far more important than the life of a "genetically defective" child - their term. My outrage was equal only to my disbelief that humans could harbor such nonsense.
At any rate, when I met David Wills I was prepared to despise him. Instead I realized I was looking at my mirror image. We both knew what CITES was (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora). We both knew and were disgusted by the money-minting, fund raising corporate world known as the "animal rights" community, but not at the goal they claimed they were fighting for - helping the helpless. We both knew that working to "do things right" for the benefit of humans AND animals was what we wanted to do. We knew we wanted to do it our way and not help engorge the bank accounts of the ego-inflated multi-million dollar fund raising institutions.
The "kid" as I call him was a pretty amazing fellow. We've worked together for nearly two decades with no regrets. Well almost none. One year while he was doing an analysis of the commercial fisheries of the Bahamas, I was spending a freezing week at a whalers convention in Iceland.
Recently David turned the tables on me. I'm a writer. He's more the project developer in our business. Now he's the writer.
We put together a small publishing firm and he's authored two of the first three volumes sporting our logo. The one still awaiting publication is about his five years working undercover investigating the dark world of ivory poaching, parrot smuggling etc. It describes the smarmy world of international trade in illegal animals and animal parts. It's a great read and a movie waiting to happen. Animal Rights groups and their opponents will want to read it. It will shock and amaze them both. More about it once we send it to the printer.
The second is a wisp of a book. Barely 60-some pages. Big print. Hardly what you would call a "tome." But it is the kind of book that makes its mark on your very soul. It's called "Talk to My A** My Head Hurts" and subtitled "My Life With Uncle Joe."
It's a true tale about how a man, deemed "not quite right" after an insult to his brain during infancy, taught a young, very abused (by "difficult" parents) boy the joys of life.
Jerzy Kosinski wrote a dark and disturbing book called "The Painted Bird" about growing up in Nazi-occupied Poland. That book left you equally dark and quite disturbed.
David K. Wills' remembrances of his Uncle Joe, still living, is its polar opposite. Yes, his words make you reevaluate how you view people who are "not quite right." Yes, it challenges quite a few preconceptions. But when you finish reading it, you feel an inner peace and you literally feel you are breathing in life quite a bit better. It can, no lie, make a grown man cry.
This is a very short book that should be required reading for every high school and university class dealing with all things social, psychological, spiritual, and how we view and treat each other. I am not exaggerating. So click out of this blog. Go to Amazon books and enter either the title or subtitle. Buy the book and enjoy. It will become your new best friend.
Thanks to numerous medical procedures developed largely by veterinarians working with dogs, pigs, primates and any variety of other animals, Johnny lived and enjoyed a very fine life up to his teenage years. Infants with that condition traditionally die a few weeks after birth.
After three open-heart procedures and doctors at Children's Hospital being happy their skills offered him as close to a normal life as could be hoped, I was told by a friend still at NRA that I might want to look up a group advocating for animal-based medical research. Using my best imitation of Joshua assaulting the fortifications at Jericho, I was given an opportunity to literally give public tribute to the medical researchers who gave my son his life. Going public on this topic is not for the weak. One ad I wrote featuring an image of Johnny unconscious with tubes running literally everywhere into his infant body juxtaposed with a smiling, vibrant six-year-old drew over a hundred missives best characterized as "hate mail" from animal advocates.
I know the origin of most because where possible I tracked down the authors and phoned them to ask why they adopted the PETA-inspired line that the life of the rats sacrificed to develop medical treatments was far more important than the life of a "genetically defective" child - their term. My outrage was equal only to my disbelief that humans could harbor such nonsense.
At any rate, when I met David Wills I was prepared to despise him. Instead I realized I was looking at my mirror image. We both knew what CITES was (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora). We both knew and were disgusted by the money-minting, fund raising corporate world known as the "animal rights" community, but not at the goal they claimed they were fighting for - helping the helpless. We both knew that working to "do things right" for the benefit of humans AND animals was what we wanted to do. We knew we wanted to do it our way and not help engorge the bank accounts of the ego-inflated multi-million dollar fund raising institutions.
The "kid" as I call him was a pretty amazing fellow. We've worked together for nearly two decades with no regrets. Well almost none. One year while he was doing an analysis of the commercial fisheries of the Bahamas, I was spending a freezing week at a whalers convention in Iceland.
Recently David turned the tables on me. I'm a writer. He's more the project developer in our business. Now he's the writer.
We put together a small publishing firm and he's authored two of the first three volumes sporting our logo. The one still awaiting publication is about his five years working undercover investigating the dark world of ivory poaching, parrot smuggling etc. It describes the smarmy world of international trade in illegal animals and animal parts. It's a great read and a movie waiting to happen. Animal Rights groups and their opponents will want to read it. It will shock and amaze them both. More about it once we send it to the printer.
The second is a wisp of a book. Barely 60-some pages. Big print. Hardly what you would call a "tome." But it is the kind of book that makes its mark on your very soul. It's called "Talk to My A** My Head Hurts" and subtitled "My Life With Uncle Joe."
It's a true tale about how a man, deemed "not quite right" after an insult to his brain during infancy, taught a young, very abused (by "difficult" parents) boy the joys of life.
Jerzy Kosinski wrote a dark and disturbing book called "The Painted Bird" about growing up in Nazi-occupied Poland. That book left you equally dark and quite disturbed.
David K. Wills' remembrances of his Uncle Joe, still living, is its polar opposite. Yes, his words make you reevaluate how you view people who are "not quite right." Yes, it challenges quite a few preconceptions. But when you finish reading it, you feel an inner peace and you literally feel you are breathing in life quite a bit better. It can, no lie, make a grown man cry.
This is a very short book that should be required reading for every high school and university class dealing with all things social, psychological, spiritual, and how we view and treat each other. I am not exaggerating. So click out of this blog. Go to Amazon books and enter either the title or subtitle. Buy the book and enjoy. It will become your new best friend.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
A True Life Hero
I want to talk about a true life hero: My sister Elena.
Elena turns 64 this December. She just graduated from college last month. She did it with honors and made two honor societies.
Elena is a breast cancer survivor. She was finishing up chemo when our mother died in 2006. She's also a grandmother and, in the words of her husband, Bob, "one of the sweetest, kindest people who ever lived."
Today, Elena wrote the family a long description of her first 5K walk. Remember she's in her sixties. (Of course, our mother entered her first shotgun competition - fifty sporting clay targets - at age 72.) I'm including most of it so you can enjoy the character and humor of my sister.
Let me say this as kind as I can. For those who don't know her, Elena is not an athlete. She works two jobs. At both she's the most admired and loved individual you can imagine. On weekends she works at a very famous Italian deli in the heart of Baltimore. So use your imagination. She's a grandmother who feeds people, all sorts of people. Get the picture? We - she and I - are not from a line of slight folks. Our mother and grandmother before her were outstanding cooks and we reaped the benefits. Now on with the story.
Sunday, June 26: "I planned to participate in the Baltimore Women's Classic to attempt a 5K walk which equates to a little under 3.2 miles. The timing was perfect, a Sunday and the weather was cooperating calling for no humidity. Last night I went to bed disappointed because every family member was disappointed in me for planning to attend regardless of who could attend to be with me. I was determined to carry out my goal. However, as they say I listened to reason (which I many times interpret first as guilt before thinking things through) and heard that I let my family down by not letting them be there with me. Also that no one would be there to pick me up and drag me to the curb if I fell. And figuring I would get lost in the city with my sense of direction. In my defense, I will say sometimes everyone's delivery could be a bit gentler.
So I went to 7a.m. Mass as every Sunday, but I wore my tennis shoes, light weight pants and shirt because after mass I was going to beat the heat. By 8:10 a.m. I was at the Liberty High School track with cell phone (for timing), water (for dehydration), and strawberries (for nourishment). Since my memory does not serve me well when it comes to numbers, I figured if I completed each lane twice, I would cover 3 miles and not get confused and miscount. Believe it or not I can have a plan and structure once in awhile.
Starting at Lanes 5 and 6, the furthest and longest, I completed them (4 trips around the track) in approximately 30 minutes accomplishing the first mile. When I was rounding the track, I would look up to see if Vicki's (her daughter) car pulled up to surprise me and cheer me on. Now, I didn't tell anyone I was doing this after Mass but I still hoped. I pulled up to my water bottle took a swig, ate a strawberry and set off for the rest of my journey.
On my second mile, which were lanes 3 and 4, I decided this was more than I wanted to bite off. By this time the sun was getting hotter and my body was telling me how I had abused it. The first was the usual issue that Granny and I now share... As I rounded the track, I looked for the nearest bathroom... Then I thought about what homeless people go through and decided mind over matter. It took a good two laps before my mind conquered most of my matter... The homeless thoughts helped, I was sharing the track with three runners. I saw a port-a-pot in the horizon, it was not a mirage. However, I would never go in one anyway. I have trouble with gas stations let alone a box in the middle of a field. Besides it was up a hill and I was struggling enough.
Still looking for Vicki's car but now hoped to see Chris (No. 2 son) and family coming out of the neighborhood. I even waved to some strange family. Mile two accomplished and I gladly took in more water, a strawberry, and checked the clock just under an hour and I completed two miles.
Approaching 9 a.m. and mile three, lanes 1 and 2. My big dilemma do I jump over to lane 1 as a reward or stick with lane two the longer stretch before moving to lane 1. Also I remembered my runner courtesy and would watch the people I was sharing the track with down to 2 runners now. I found as I turned to see their location I would be a bit clumsy and loose my footing into another lane. I struggled with deciding if I should give up before I collapsed. The good thing, I was breathing well but my knee was killing me. Then I saw two bikers coming out of Chris' neighborhood. I knew it was Chris and Hannah (granddaughter) out for a morning ride before they took off for the family outing and they were going to check if I was on the track. Wrong again, but I never gave up the hope that one of my family would show up.
By now still struggling through mile 3, I was feeling pretty tired so I turned my thoughts to the kids. How much I wanted to see everyone in Chicago, see Mac (grandson) at one of his games and that cute little mouth, Grayson (granddaughter) to say how proud I am that her sweetness is not wavered by peer pressure, and Robbie (grandson) who has grown into a man but always shows me how much he cares for me and wants to be with me. I thought of how I had to get myself under control because I wanted to get in the pool with Nicholas (grandson) (even though he can out swim me even giving me a headstart) and play. How I wanted to help Livi (granddaughter) and Drew (grandson) now that they love the water. And Hannah I want to take her to one of the new movies out and share some of the girlie stuff. These kids need to help me get into todays world. My mind traveled to all my grown kids, Rob (No. 1 son), Amber (daughter-in-law), Chris, Michelle (Chris' wife), Vicki and Pete (Vicki's husband) and how they love to please me and how I selfishly do my own thing more than I should. And then I thought of Bob and how he was going to yell at me for not telling him.
Well guess what now I had completed 2 3/4 miles and I knew I could make it to finish three.
As I was rounding the last 1/4 mile of the third mile, the sound of hundreds of crows (more properly ravens since she's in Baltimore area) in the trees was over powering. I thought of the movie the "Birds" and wondered if they had come because like in a desert when someone is ready to keel over they had come to pick my bones. They could have a very meaty treat. Or did they sniff out my strawberries. I couldn't see but a couple but the entire flock was there. I knew I couldn't run if they attacked. The car was close but I still had another 1/4 mile to finish 3.25 miles.
All the runners had left me, I was alone. I made it -- three miles. I could do it. I got another swig of water and a strawberry. Now the track was mine to choose the lane of my choice and bring this venture home. I choose lane two and staggered into three on occasion.
My feet were burning and my knee was aching all the way to the front of my shin but I could tell a smile was starting to form on my face. I thought of the conversation I had with Hannah about my fantasy as I rounded to the finish line at a 5K. How all the grandkids were cheering, and in my fantasy I fell but I picked myself up and the Rocky theme was playing as I passed the finish line. We had both laughed but guess what I made it in my fantasy and now.
I retrieved my water which took me an extra few steps over my 3.25 miles and actually limped off the track. It was like my body was telling me what I had put it through and was not forgiving.
The last 1/4 mile the crows disappeared and only a few song birds were chirping. And, I did do my stretching exercises between miles and at the end.
Off I went to fill up the gas tank for tomorrow, get to the bathroom, and get protein into me.
So this is my story of my guilt for making my kids feel bad, my determination to find out if I could finish the race, and mythank you for being such a wonderful family that loves me unconditionally. Thank you."
What Elena missed is that we owe her a resounding "Thank You" for being there for all of us.
She's endured more than most over the years and still approaches life with all the enthusiasm of an innocent.
We have a lot to learn from her.
Elena turns 64 this December. She just graduated from college last month. She did it with honors and made two honor societies.
Elena is a breast cancer survivor. She was finishing up chemo when our mother died in 2006. She's also a grandmother and, in the words of her husband, Bob, "one of the sweetest, kindest people who ever lived."
Today, Elena wrote the family a long description of her first 5K walk. Remember she's in her sixties. (Of course, our mother entered her first shotgun competition - fifty sporting clay targets - at age 72.) I'm including most of it so you can enjoy the character and humor of my sister.
Let me say this as kind as I can. For those who don't know her, Elena is not an athlete. She works two jobs. At both she's the most admired and loved individual you can imagine. On weekends she works at a very famous Italian deli in the heart of Baltimore. So use your imagination. She's a grandmother who feeds people, all sorts of people. Get the picture? We - she and I - are not from a line of slight folks. Our mother and grandmother before her were outstanding cooks and we reaped the benefits. Now on with the story.
Sunday, June 26: "I planned to participate in the Baltimore Women's Classic to attempt a 5K walk which equates to a little under 3.2 miles. The timing was perfect, a Sunday and the weather was cooperating calling for no humidity. Last night I went to bed disappointed because every family member was disappointed in me for planning to attend regardless of who could attend to be with me. I was determined to carry out my goal. However, as they say I listened to reason (which I many times interpret first as guilt before thinking things through) and heard that I let my family down by not letting them be there with me. Also that no one would be there to pick me up and drag me to the curb if I fell. And figuring I would get lost in the city with my sense of direction. In my defense, I will say sometimes everyone's delivery could be a bit gentler.
So I went to 7a.m. Mass as every Sunday, but I wore my tennis shoes, light weight pants and shirt because after mass I was going to beat the heat. By 8:10 a.m. I was at the Liberty High School track with cell phone (for timing), water (for dehydration), and strawberries (for nourishment). Since my memory does not serve me well when it comes to numbers, I figured if I completed each lane twice, I would cover 3 miles and not get confused and miscount. Believe it or not I can have a plan and structure once in awhile.
Starting at Lanes 5 and 6, the furthest and longest, I completed them (4 trips around the track) in approximately 30 minutes accomplishing the first mile. When I was rounding the track, I would look up to see if Vicki's (her daughter) car pulled up to surprise me and cheer me on. Now, I didn't tell anyone I was doing this after Mass but I still hoped. I pulled up to my water bottle took a swig, ate a strawberry and set off for the rest of my journey.
On my second mile, which were lanes 3 and 4, I decided this was more than I wanted to bite off. By this time the sun was getting hotter and my body was telling me how I had abused it. The first was the usual issue that Granny and I now share... As I rounded the track, I looked for the nearest bathroom... Then I thought about what homeless people go through and decided mind over matter. It took a good two laps before my mind conquered most of my matter... The homeless thoughts helped, I was sharing the track with three runners. I saw a port-a-pot in the horizon, it was not a mirage. However, I would never go in one anyway. I have trouble with gas stations let alone a box in the middle of a field. Besides it was up a hill and I was struggling enough.
Still looking for Vicki's car but now hoped to see Chris (No. 2 son) and family coming out of the neighborhood. I even waved to some strange family. Mile two accomplished and I gladly took in more water, a strawberry, and checked the clock just under an hour and I completed two miles.
Approaching 9 a.m. and mile three, lanes 1 and 2. My big dilemma do I jump over to lane 1 as a reward or stick with lane two the longer stretch before moving to lane 1. Also I remembered my runner courtesy and would watch the people I was sharing the track with down to 2 runners now. I found as I turned to see their location I would be a bit clumsy and loose my footing into another lane. I struggled with deciding if I should give up before I collapsed. The good thing, I was breathing well but my knee was killing me. Then I saw two bikers coming out of Chris' neighborhood. I knew it was Chris and Hannah (granddaughter) out for a morning ride before they took off for the family outing and they were going to check if I was on the track. Wrong again, but I never gave up the hope that one of my family would show up.
By now still struggling through mile 3, I was feeling pretty tired so I turned my thoughts to the kids. How much I wanted to see everyone in Chicago, see Mac (grandson) at one of his games and that cute little mouth, Grayson (granddaughter) to say how proud I am that her sweetness is not wavered by peer pressure, and Robbie (grandson) who has grown into a man but always shows me how much he cares for me and wants to be with me. I thought of how I had to get myself under control because I wanted to get in the pool with Nicholas (grandson) (even though he can out swim me even giving me a headstart) and play. How I wanted to help Livi (granddaughter) and Drew (grandson) now that they love the water. And Hannah I want to take her to one of the new movies out and share some of the girlie stuff. These kids need to help me get into todays world. My mind traveled to all my grown kids, Rob (No. 1 son), Amber (daughter-in-law), Chris, Michelle (Chris' wife), Vicki and Pete (Vicki's husband) and how they love to please me and how I selfishly do my own thing more than I should. And then I thought of Bob and how he was going to yell at me for not telling him.
Well guess what now I had completed 2 3/4 miles and I knew I could make it to finish three.
As I was rounding the last 1/4 mile of the third mile, the sound of hundreds of crows (more properly ravens since she's in Baltimore area) in the trees was over powering. I thought of the movie the "Birds" and wondered if they had come because like in a desert when someone is ready to keel over they had come to pick my bones. They could have a very meaty treat. Or did they sniff out my strawberries. I couldn't see but a couple but the entire flock was there. I knew I couldn't run if they attacked. The car was close but I still had another 1/4 mile to finish 3.25 miles.
All the runners had left me, I was alone. I made it -- three miles. I could do it. I got another swig of water and a strawberry. Now the track was mine to choose the lane of my choice and bring this venture home. I choose lane two and staggered into three on occasion.
My feet were burning and my knee was aching all the way to the front of my shin but I could tell a smile was starting to form on my face. I thought of the conversation I had with Hannah about my fantasy as I rounded to the finish line at a 5K. How all the grandkids were cheering, and in my fantasy I fell but I picked myself up and the Rocky theme was playing as I passed the finish line. We had both laughed but guess what I made it in my fantasy and now.
I retrieved my water which took me an extra few steps over my 3.25 miles and actually limped off the track. It was like my body was telling me what I had put it through and was not forgiving.
The last 1/4 mile the crows disappeared and only a few song birds were chirping. And, I did do my stretching exercises between miles and at the end.
Off I went to fill up the gas tank for tomorrow, get to the bathroom, and get protein into me.
So this is my story of my guilt for making my kids feel bad, my determination to find out if I could finish the race, and mythank you for being such a wonderful family that loves me unconditionally. Thank you."
What Elena missed is that we owe her a resounding "Thank You" for being there for all of us.
She's endured more than most over the years and still approaches life with all the enthusiasm of an innocent.
We have a lot to learn from her.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Growing Older and Institutional Memory
Thirty years ago, I worked as the night cook at Clydes' in Georgetown. My training was about a half hour of the day cook showing me and a fellow named DJ the various dishes and what we had to do to prepare for the next day. What he didn't mention was that very little would be prepared for our shift so every night it was a race to weigh out hamburger patties from five pound bags, peel a sack or two of potatoes and run them through a machine that sliced them into fry-size chips, prepare salads, cook turkeys, slice New York strip steaks from shells of beef, and make Hollandaise sauce (a skill I've long forgotten). That's in addition to cooking, really preparing for the day shift and cleaning the kitchen from the floors to the stove cook tops. DJ didn't last long. To me it was a challenge and probably the best training in the world for multi-tasking.
Having three to five waiters/waitresses bring multiple orders virtually at the same time, then preparing each individual meal to be completed exactly when the others come up so they can be served together while starting each successive order to keep the next waiter in line (and the customers) happy was daunting but doable. In fact it was fun.
In the midst of this organized chaos, everyone from top of the economic food chain oral surgeons and their wives would come to the kitchen to unload stories of family vacations and emotional crises. The folks using my kitchen much the same way people use barber shops, beauty salons and therapists would parade in completely oblivious to the culinary juggling act before them. There were newly graduated Georgetown law students working as waiters who would taut the benefits of Bhuddism, Cops looking for a free meal (including a pacifist Quaker who was against war but saw no conflict in carrying a pistol to enforce the law), musicians, filmmakers, you name them all looking to unload the problems of the day on someone who would listen.
One young Virginia college student came in and when I asked what he was studying, answered "management." I was dumbstruck. Here was a kid who never worked a menial job in his life and he wanted to go directly into managing folks twice his age who worked from dawn to dusk, served in the military whether Vietnam (going on at the time), Korea or WWII, raised families and survived all the other stuff that goes along with making one's way through life.
That kid's attitude is even more prevalent today. Everyone wants to start at the top, drive a Mercedes or Lexus, and ignore anyone who is not a CEO now. This is particularly irritating after the age of 60 when friends and relatives around you are getting tossed from jobs they've held for thirty years in favor of youngsters with energy and confidence (and who will take for the time being less in the way of salary than a veteran of the job).
Sam Rayburn's longtime assistant (whose name I will remember the instant I post this) a gent I met decades ago who was a close friend of another friend, Maury Maverick Jr., once described to me his impression of folks in Dallas versus those from Fort Worth, Texas. We both loved and admired friends from Fort Worth, but, at that time kind of viewed Dallas as a more Northern city. At any rate he described the stereotypical Dallas-ite as being in "too big a hurry to make money to shake your hand." (His name was D.B. Hardiman, taught at Trinity here in DC and had more books in his apartment than most bookstores. I know. Helped pack them and drive them back to Texas.)
My point? A lot of institutional memory is being erased in the push for youth. A lot of talent and know-how available to the young is being wasted by ignoring lessons never asked of those with experience. And life does not end once you reach a certain age.
Having three to five waiters/waitresses bring multiple orders virtually at the same time, then preparing each individual meal to be completed exactly when the others come up so they can be served together while starting each successive order to keep the next waiter in line (and the customers) happy was daunting but doable. In fact it was fun.
In the midst of this organized chaos, everyone from top of the economic food chain oral surgeons and their wives would come to the kitchen to unload stories of family vacations and emotional crises. The folks using my kitchen much the same way people use barber shops, beauty salons and therapists would parade in completely oblivious to the culinary juggling act before them. There were newly graduated Georgetown law students working as waiters who would taut the benefits of Bhuddism, Cops looking for a free meal (including a pacifist Quaker who was against war but saw no conflict in carrying a pistol to enforce the law), musicians, filmmakers, you name them all looking to unload the problems of the day on someone who would listen.
One young Virginia college student came in and when I asked what he was studying, answered "management." I was dumbstruck. Here was a kid who never worked a menial job in his life and he wanted to go directly into managing folks twice his age who worked from dawn to dusk, served in the military whether Vietnam (going on at the time), Korea or WWII, raised families and survived all the other stuff that goes along with making one's way through life.
That kid's attitude is even more prevalent today. Everyone wants to start at the top, drive a Mercedes or Lexus, and ignore anyone who is not a CEO now. This is particularly irritating after the age of 60 when friends and relatives around you are getting tossed from jobs they've held for thirty years in favor of youngsters with energy and confidence (and who will take for the time being less in the way of salary than a veteran of the job).
Sam Rayburn's longtime assistant (whose name I will remember the instant I post this) a gent I met decades ago who was a close friend of another friend, Maury Maverick Jr., once described to me his impression of folks in Dallas versus those from Fort Worth, Texas. We both loved and admired friends from Fort Worth, but, at that time kind of viewed Dallas as a more Northern city. At any rate he described the stereotypical Dallas-ite as being in "too big a hurry to make money to shake your hand." (His name was D.B. Hardiman, taught at Trinity here in DC and had more books in his apartment than most bookstores. I know. Helped pack them and drive them back to Texas.)
My point? A lot of institutional memory is being erased in the push for youth. A lot of talent and know-how available to the young is being wasted by ignoring lessons never asked of those with experience. And life does not end once you reach a certain age.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)