Category Archives: Memories

Memories

Time Travel is Possible

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The sounds of Pat Metheny’s “Cross the Heartland” dance from my ears to my brain and carry it away to the 1980’s of my early adulthood. Images of wheat fields, bad 70’s hairstyles still clinging for relevancy and the fading remnants of bittersweet memories leap from one brain cell to the next.

A few images stick for a while. My father and his 70’s “stache” and my mother and her late 70’s perm. I am not sure if they were still rocking those styles in the early 80’s but your brain locks on to an image whether its factual or not and thus becomes reality for a little while to be replaced when other memories ask for recognition. Music for me takes me back to the exact moment I began listening to the artist responsible and awakens memories that have not been at the forefront of my conscious for quite sometime. The clothes that I wore, the smells of the favorite perfume of my girlfriend at the time and the painful memories of love lost replay in my mind like a forgotten movie. Time travel is possible but it is not a trip I like to take too often.

Memories, Humor

A story I once overheard in a bar.

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Remember this was heard in a bar so the truth of it may be highly suspect. That doesn’t stop me from repeating it and cautioning the reader to take it with a grain of salt or in this case one’s favorite libation or bartenders choice. I’ve chosen to obfuscate the tale and tell it in first person so as to give no impression of whom the story is about….

I have a pretty uneventful existence. Well, ignoring a few personal issues. We all have a few minor problems that complicate our lives and so it doesn’t seem unreasonable to discount those when ascertaining the current state of things.

It’s 7:00 am and like all the previous days the alarm on my phone wakes me from the sanctuary that is sleep. Easing out of bed, I get my bearings before making the journey to the shower. I spy a handwritten sticky note on the wall “Shower This Way->” I say “spy” but it’s hard to avoid the 12 inch by 12 inch yellow square clearly written in large Comic Sans font. Apparently I have a lot of time on my hands. I also didn’t realize they made stickies that big.

I find the shower and let the hot water wake me as it cascades down my body. After drying off I exit the bathroom and head towards the spot where I woke up twenty minutes ago. I walk around the bed and to the door marked “Clothes Closet”. Entering it I find myself staring at hangers to the left and right of me. The hangers to the right of me are draped with shirts and the hangers to the left contain slacks.

The shirts are fairly bland. Mostly solid white or solid blue. The entire right side of the closet is dedicated to them. They are arranged in alternating colors. No color ever duplicates it’s neighbor.

The entire left side of the closet is dedicated to dress pants and does not allow any variety. They are all black and all are a cotton polyester blend.
I believe the closet arrangement is created to avoid repetition in consecutive days.

It’s created for someone who’s memory can not be trusted. The other stickies are for the very same reason.
The person with the memory issue is your’s truly.
To be honest its worse than a memory issue, it is really a matter of trust. Trust in my own ability to remember to write down the events of the day in an accurate manner leaving no room for exaggeration, sarcasm or humor.

I had learned the hard way after one particular day when I saw it fitting to use sarcasm, hyperbole and metaphors all in one days summation. I’m still besieged by Volkswagen Beatles crammed with clowns, rubber chickens and “Acme”signs. That’s a story for a different day.

You see I can never be sure if anything I remember is actually real or something my brain created from scratch.
It is what it is. Yes that common platitude falls woefully short providing salve on an open and painful wound. A wound that never heals since it’s reopened daily.

One day I shall take all of my daily notes and distill them into book form. A book of fiction of course because no one would ever believe them as true events.

Remember this was overheard in a bar.

Fathers Day, Life, Memories

Joy Among The Mud

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Twelve boys and a couple adults were all laying hands on a 1969 Ford Station Wagon. The exercise session was courtesy of my families  1969 Ford Station Wagon.

It’s muddy brown crust the result of heavy rainfall and a fruitless effort by the boys of Scout Troop 177 to pry it from the mire. The station wagon seemed to be perfectly content in calling the muddy road home for a few more days. I, however, was not. Well, not without my dad. 

I can only speak for myself but I may have given less than 100%. In fact, I was putting more effort into looking like I was trying. 

Fake grunts and tensing your muscles takes more effort than one would think.

     I was 11 years old and my boy scout troop was in the middle of its annual week camping trip.

It was my first with the troop and once my dad was back to work it was the beginning of the longest time spent away from either of my parents. 

“What do you say we give it one more try boys,” asked my dad. 

We all managed to grunt a collective “sure why not.” 

Why not,  I thought. I’ll tell you why not, the thought continued. How about I’m tired of the mud. How about I don’t know some of these folks and they seem kind of sketchy. How about I am going to miss you.

That last thought would never be expressed out loud by an eleven-year-old boy among his peers. Especially when many of their fathers could not come along for the fun. I thought about that last item. I was lucky my father wanted to spend time with his son and the rest of this motley group.

We all gave one more push and I can honestly say that I gave 100 percent that time. I realized I was lucky he had spent some time mucking around in the wilderness with my friends and he was eventually going to have to go back to work.

I may have also realized the mud was not going to let go of that car until the sun came out and added to the effort. 

We all released a collected sigh and gave in to the reality of the situation.

“Oh well son. I guess I’m here for one more day.”

“Oh well,” I added, my stoic face betraying my inner joy. “At least one more day.”

 

Fathers Day posts from the past.

I still miss him.

Cruising With The Top Down.

Humor, Life, Memories

Punishment (Growing up Catholic)

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I was raised Catholic in a Polish Neighborhood in Chicago. I also went to a parochial school of the Catholic variety. What occurred at the school was most of the major trauma that would shape the rest of my life. It was there that I developed a very personal definition of punishment.

I fell in love with reading from the minute I was exposed to the perils of Dick and Jane. That series soon lost its luster due to the thin plot lines and it was not long before I graduated to reading more sophisticated material. It was then I was introduced to the Great Books Club, a national program designed to foster reading excellence. The assigned reading material for the club was purposely beyond the grade level of its participants.

I achieved club membership in my first year of eligibility as a second grader and also the next year as a third grader. I was looking forward to making it my fourth year.

Sister Leonard Ann* had been teaching fourth grade at my school since forever. She had actually taught my father and his brothers. I am not sure I ever heard a good story about her.

     She was hateful from year one and by that I actually mean the first year after Christ died. She was that old. I think Jesus sensed she was on her way and feeling the futility of the future turned himself in.

I entered the fourth grade looking forward to the fifth grade. I just had to survive Sister Leonard Ann. It soon became apparent that for that to happen I had to have luck on my side. It also became apparent that I was not lucky.

I had heard about the sister’s teaching technique from my father and uncles. That did not prepare me for the actual experience. Nothing can really prepare you for the book throwing, knuckle smacking and ear pulling she employed outside of daily exposure to a 3 Stooges marathon in 3D. The one thing I had not heard about her was her degree in punishment of the psychological variety.

I soon became convinced she must have been used to interrogate prisoners during the wars. Yes, wars plural. I meant all wars.

It was after the first month of school that the Great Books Club members for the year would be announced. I expected this year to be no different. “.. Walter Praczek, Susan Shirzinski and Alan Vostek. Well congratulations children.”

My face matched the writing paper on my brand new big chief notebook, pale and blank. I had no idea why my name was not called and I was losing a battle to prevent tears from flowing. Glancing around the room the Sister’s shark like gaze fell upon me.

“So tell me Mr. Szybinski* . Why did you not make the club this year?”

“I, uh, I don’t know.”  Then the damn broke and I could see nothing through the refraction of the tears. A few moments but what seemed like hours later the Sister announced that I had indeed made the Club. I first felt relief but that quickly morphed into anger.

Why had the bitch humiliated me? Well, I would have thought, “bitch”, if I used the word.

The vocabulary of a nine-year-old Catholic schoolboy in 1970 Chicago generally did not consist of the word bitch.

The only word I had at my disposal was wench. A strange word for a nine year old boy but I read a lot. Maybe it was Nathaniel Hawthorne. The author did not matter; the point was she was a wench.

The nun I now refer to as The Bitch Who Shall Not Be Named had tried to take away the main element in my life that brought me joy. It was her cruel idea of punishing me for what I can only image to be the crime of existence.

The experience now is pretty much just a story to tell, although from time to time I find when something good happens I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I guess this experience is not done with me or I it. I am currently writing a story of fiction inspired by my time with the bitch who shall not be named.

*The names have been changed to protect the innocent (me).

This post was in response to the Daily Prompt. https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/punishment/, and my need to vent.

Life, Memories, Uncategorized

Sometimes, It’s Just Too Much

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St. Peter was back at his podium before the gates.

 

 

 

He was just beginning to get back in to the swing of things when the days first shuttle announced its arrival.

Peter felt something he had not experienced in quite a long time, sadness.

The shuttle arrived bourn on the strains of a soliloquy by Professor Snape and supported by the melody of David Bowies “Heroes” leading into the Eagles “Best of My Love.”

Peters view of the shuttle became cloudy and he wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Sometimes , this job is just too much and vacations are way too few.”

 

 

 

 

Baseball, Humor, Memories

The Fading Ghosts of ’69

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The place had emptied. The last hot dog wrapper of 2015 had drifted across the infield and made its exit out into the parking lot. A few wisps of vapor had lingered in the right field bleachers. If one listened closely one could almost hear the vapor speak.

“Same time next year fellas?”

“Yea, the usual.”

“I think next year is the last, next year.”

“What are you giving up?”

“Never, but next year we’ll be satisfied and we’ll move on.”

“Yea, I think you’re right. It feels different this time.”

“I saw that goat leave during the season.”

“Oh really, when?”

“It was just after a walk off win.”

“Which one? We had a bunch.”

“September 28, 2015.”

“The last one, against the Royals?”

“Yea. We didn’t know it then but the goat knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That we just took 2 out of 3 from a team bound for the World Series.”

“Yea but that was before we made the playoffs, before we beat St Louis to move to the NLCS.”

“Yea but at that point the goat knew that was a foregone conclusion and that his time was up.”

“I’m not going to miss that goat.”

“Me either, he stunk.”

“When does spring training start?”

“It’s just around the corner.”

Note: The Author is a lifelong Cub fan and spent the summer of 1969 firmly entrenched in the friendly confines.  They have broken his heart more times than the women in his life. He is still a diehard fan….of both.

Memories, family, Fathers Day

Cruising With The Top Down

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Steel repetitively cutting through white foam. Upon occasion the appearance of a red streak breaks the surface and is soon blotted by fluffy white paper. I look in the mirror and the man that I have become looks back. He looks a lot like my father at this point in his life. I am just four years short of his last year ever. I remember watching him shave. At some time he switched to electric and it wasn’t as interesting to watch. I expect that if I had mentioned that he would have switched back, despite the cuts.

My fathers life was full of joy and pain, mostly of the physical variety and knowing what I know now, some fear. He had lived most of his life with type 1 diabetes.

I do not know what he was told upon diagnosis as to any limits his life had. I do know that he lived his life as if he had none.

It wasn’t until I was older that I noticed that time was imposing physical limits. Limits that would make sense had he been 25 years older. His eyesight was going. His peripheral vision was the first to go. Laser surgery could only prolong the inevitable.

Through it all my Dad woke up every morning and lived. He woke up, injected himself and went to work. Sometimes he woke up , injected himself, went to work, came home, slept, woke up and went to his second job. My Dad worked a lot to support his family.

I remember coming home for lunch and eating in the basement so as to not wake him.

It would be just a couple hours before he went to his second job. He had four kids by the age of 28. In those days that is what you did, although I am not sure that the schedule wasn’t accelerated. Time was not an ally.

Although he worked a lot I have plenty of memories of time spent with him. My earliest memory was of cruising through the sunshine in my Dad’s red chevy convertible. My brother and I were sitting in the back seat and it started to rain.

I remember my dad laughing and saying,“Its just a sun shower, we won’t melt.”

He kept the top down and my brother and I laughed. His life was like that. It rained sometimes but he laughed, kept the top down and cruised on.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Fathers and those that love them.

Yes, there is some sadness in my heart. But I can still hear my Dad’s laughter.

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”
Mark Twain

Memories

Do Not Go Quietly (Requiem for a King)

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     Herbert was pulling pearly gate duty again, he volunteered this time. It was a chance to meet people at the end of their journey and witness all of their worries taking wing. It was an experience he could not forget and he had to share in it once more. 

The first time it occurred, he felt guilty that he took pleasure at being at the end of a person’s life. The guilt only lasted until the next person stepped off of the shuttle. A sufficient time for reality to settle in had past and most of the arrivals had a realized they were not heading to a much warmer climate. This stop at the pearly gates was final confirmation that all would be well.
The first shuttle of the day had arrived and unloaded its passengers and while it was sans knights on noble steeds*, the experience was satisfying and he found himself looking forward to the next arrival.

During the wait, Herbert was trying to read the latest issue of People but he was having a hard time concentrating.

The lobby’s muzak was covering the best of Kenny G. While the title may be just a small lie, the music itself belonged at the alternate end of the road.

Soon the sounds of a blues riff in E-Minor mercifully arrived on the wind.

Herbert was somewhat of guitar buff and he thought he recognized the fat sounds of a Gibson announcing the arrival of the next shuttle.

It’s about time we got some righteous tunes up here, he thought.

The notes reached a crescendo as the shuttle appeared and BB King jumped out and completed his riff to announce his arrival. Herbert was blown away.

“Wow,what an entrance,” he exclaimed.
“But why the blues Mr. King? Most people are actually happy upon reaching the pearly gates.”

“Young man you don’t always have to be sad to play the blues. It can be a celebration that sad times are in the past.”

Nice philosophy, thought Herbert.

“Besides,I’m B.B King. You expect me to play Kenny G?

“Oh heavens no,” replied Herbert”

“ I’m looking forward to playing to a new audience. You don’t have many critics up here do you?”

“Oh no, their final destination is much warmer.”

Thank you B.B. King for nourishing my soul.

*If you missed that reference see “Waiting For Dulcinea”

Life, Memories

Lovable Winners (Go Cubs Go)

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Sports teams are mostly remembered in the won-loss column. Whether it is fair or not is inconsequential. That is just how it is. Athletes are judged by similar guidelines. How good was the fielder? What was their batting average? How many yards from scrimmage did the running back accumulate? How many league rushing titles did they have? Unfortunately, the same kind of judgments made every day in the real world do not escape those of the sports arena.

Once in a while there is transcendence. Players of all qualities can win humanitarian awards. Sometimes when worlds collide, teams do the right thing.

The passing of Ernie Banks highlighted what he meant to the city and the neighborhoods of Chicago. The memories shared by friends and family highlighted his sunny disposition and revealed that yes he really was that happy.

His passing also highlighted the fact that he was human. In his twilight years he became estranged from his wife. When he passed, another women lay claim to his assets stating that Ernie gave them to her in a new will. The legal fight that ensued may or may not have threatened the last wishes of Mr. Cub.
In the skirmish, the funeral home that performed the burial services waited to get paid and in turn filed a claim against his estate. Many internet comments urged the Chicago Cubs to do the right thing. Perhaps I am foolhardy to believe otherwise but I do not believe some comments on the internet persuaded the Cubs to settle the matter. I think when the need presented itself they did not hesitate to settle the bill for the man who had given so much to the Cubs and the city of Chicago.

We all know the last time the Cubs won the world series was 1908 and most of us can calculate that it has been 106+ years since those games. We don’t need the math wizards behind the mikes to remind us of that every time there is a break in the action and the talk turns to the “lovable losers”. I for one do not put the Chicago Cubs in that category. Their recent play for Ernie in the game of life puts them in the all too lonely Lovable Winners category.

Go Cubs Go!

Memories

The Fading Echoes of ’69

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Most of my memories of the summer of 1969 are composed of the sounds of the crack of a bat and the calls of the Wrigley Field venders. I was a seven year old living on the Northwest side of Chicago. Naturally, I was* a Cub fan.

1969 is remembered as the one that got away from the Cubs. They were 9 games up in their division going into September before going on a disastrous road trip.

Some say they should have just thrown away their return tickets and kept on going.

1969 never got away from me. The bus extravaganzas my friends and I took to Wrigley. The contests to see who could eat the most 50 cent pizzas. The beautiful ‘lets play two’ days spent in the bleachers of the friendly confines are events deeply embedded in the joyous memories of my youth.

One by one the heroes of my youth are passing from this world but the joyous memories from that magical summer only gain strength.

The voice of Ron Santo no longer echoes the joy and sorrow of the days game on the radio but my mind continues to replay the image of his heal click celebration of another win.

The gorgeous summer days in Wrigley that inspires ones thoughts to “lets play two” will still occur with regularity but Ernie Banks, the author of that sentiment, will no longer express that desire. My soul however will continue to do just that.

The authors of that wonderful summer in Chicago may pass but the chapter they wrote will continue to contain memories that live in my heart until I too fade into echoes.

My sincere thanks to Ernie and Ron for being a wonderful part of my childhood.

*I only use the term ‘was’ because of grammatical correctness. Outside the realm of grammar the past tense of ‘to be’ does not make sense when paired with any form of the term ‘Cub fan’.