I couldn’t wait to grow up. I had things to do, big, important things, and when you’re five years old there are a lot of regulations holding you back. For one thing, there was bedtime, an annoying restriction that did nothing but convince me that the really great stuff all happened after I went to sleep. I was missing something, I just couldn’t get anybody to tell me what it was.
Then there were all the rules about eating, something I usually didn’t feel like doing unless it was pizza, ice cream, or candy. My mother made fish every other Friday, which by some inexplicable coincidence also happened to be the days when our cat parked herself directly under my chair at dinnertime. On other nights I developed sleight-of-hand skills, slipping pieces of breaded veal cutlet into my pocket and later flushing them down the toilet. I was incapable of swallowing steak, and spent countless hours seated alone at the table long after everyone else had finished eating, my plate of cold, blood-drenched meat the only obstacle standing between me and the Milky Way bar I had stashed in my room.
More than anything, I yearned to be an adult, to do what adults did. I wanted to experience life up there, close to the ceiling, where they strolled around making mature decisions, reaching things on the top shelf, and laughing at jokes I could not yet fathom. I was tired of living down near the floor, in a constant confusion of kneecaps and bottom drawers, and looking directly into everyone’s crotch. And so I chose my role models carefully, and with a logic that belied my tender age. They were, in chronological order: my father, Superman, and Saint Stephen.
* * * * *
On November 9, 1960, the day after the presidential election, I walked to school and told everyone in my kindergarten class that I was mad because Nixon had lost to Kennedy. I had no idea who Nixon and Kennedy were, but my father seemed mad, so I was too. Four years later, I would be mad again, when Johnson beat Goldwater.
* * * * *
We had an aquarium in our living room with dozens of tropical fish. One day I was jumping around like a lunatic and fell, hitting the glass with some blunt object I’d been swinging. A hole the size of a baseball appeared in the lower front corner of the tank, sending gallons of water cascading onto the floor. The fish flipped around while my parents tried to scoop them up. I’m sure most of them died. I don’t remember the immediate aftermath but I suspect it did not involve pizza, ice cream, or candy. I do recall my father talking to me about respect for living things, even tiny fish.
In my high school biology class about eight years later, the teacher stood at her desk with a small aquarium containing a single fish, about ten inches in length. During her lecture, she reached in and grabbed the fish and held it up out of the water while she described its various anatomical features. As the fish gasped for air, I sat in the back of the room, doing the same.
Every Saturday my father used the garden hose to wash down the driveway, a flat, concrete incline about twelve feet wide and a hundred feet long. He’d turn on the water and start at the top, moving the spray side to side and pushing dirt, cigarette butts, and dead leaves down the hill. I watched as the dark line turned into a small ridge and then a pile of stuff moving gradually toward the street, like a tiny landslide in slow motion. I would follow him along, wanting nothing more than to hose down the driveway myself. I begged, I pleaded, I promised to eat my steak. But for the longest time he insisted that I wasn’t old enough. The farthest he’d go was letting me hold onto the nozzle with him as he guided it back and forth. Then one day, he handed me the hose and stepped back. I was out of my mind with excitement. Holding on with both hands and bracing my little legs, I pulled back on the trigger. The force of the water jerked the hose sideways, drenching my father’s pants from the knees all the way down to his socks and shoes.
Of course, this was before he got too sick to walk the length of the driveway.
I used to watch my father smoke cigarettes. I remember sitting on his bed while he lit one up, and informing him that I was going to smoke when I got older. He told me I shouldn’t, that it was bad for you. We like to convince ourselves that people didn’t know better back then, but they did. My father knew. Still, he’d send me to the store around the corner to buy him a pack or two. It’s hard to imagine that now, a grocery store selling cigarettes to a kid under ten. But then, it’s hard to imagine a father puffing away on smoke after smoke in the car with the windows closed, hurtling down the road at sixty miles an hour while the kids wrestle with each other in the back seat.
People didn’t worry so much about things then. Helmets were for football players and astronauts. Sunglasses were for movie stars and gangsters. No one ever got dehydrated; sometimes we got really thirsty, so we’d drink a half gallon of water and then we were okay again. But my father found things to worry about, things he thought were important. At dinner time, no one began eating until everyone was seated. If we went out to a restaurant, we cleaned up after ourselves, leaving the table looking as though human beings had just been there. Behind the wheel, he was courteous and considerate toward the other drivers. He always rooted for the underdog, even switching his allegiance from his beloved Yankees to the New York Mets, a team that lost three-fourths of its games in 1962. And more than anything, he wanted to spend time with his children.
These were just some of the things that made it easy to root for my father. To hope he and my mother could find a way to repair their damaged marriage. To hope he’d recover from the heart attack he suffered when he was forty-eight. To hope he’d defy the odds, quit smoking, and allow his lungs to recover from a lifetime of abuse.
But emphysema would take away his ability to breathe normally, and therefore, to do anything normally. He worsened gradually over the years, eventually needing oxygen tanks in the house, and a rest stop every five feet on his way from the couch to the bathroom. Still, it was one of those ongoing conditions. He was sick and dying for so long that it always seemed he would die any minute. Thirteen years of that. Dying became a way of life. That’s how I began to think of my father. He would just go on forever, about to die. Of course, he didn’t go on forever. His struggle ended on Mother’s Day, 1984.
It’s impossible to believe he’s been gone that long. I still hear him call my name sometimes, so loud and clear that I turn to see if he’s there. And I suppose he is there, making sure I wait until everyone is seated before I pick up my fork. Reminding me to let that other driver go ahead, even when it isn’t convenient. Inspiring me to pull for the underdog, because there are already enough people cheering for the favorite.
My father didn’t help me grow up any faster. But I know he helped me grow up better.
Priya
March 15, 2011
Isn’t it amazing how much these little things stay back with us? And help us move on and ‘get better’. And still, we call them little things.
Your father was a good man. If he raised a son like you, he’s made this world a better place. That’s not easy to do, raising responsible, feeling humans.
Thank you for letting us see a part of your world, Charles. And very beautifully, too.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
I think the little things can enlighten us the most, because they force us to look closely and think carefully. My father had a lot to teach, but you had to pay attention; his lessons weren’t grand ideas, but small drops of wisdom that have clung to me even when I didn’t realize they were there. The post you wrote about your parents also helped inspire me to write this one. So I thank you for telling us about your super-humans:
http://partialview.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/super-humans/
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arborfamiliae
March 15, 2011
Your father sounds like a special man. I have huge respect for men who want to spend time with their children (especially now that I have two of my own!) I also respect a man who can absorb the shattering of a fish tank, the flooding of a room and all the expense that must have entailed; and then turn it into a lecture on the value of life (even the life of a fish).
My grandfather was special to me. Watching him slowly die of Alzheimer’s was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I still hear his voice. I still think of him often.
My grandfather used to hose down his driveway too. I loved it. I loved to watch it and I always wanted to do it too. My dad never hosed down his driveway. And when I would occasionally pull out the hose and try to hose down the driveway at home, my dad would shake his head and ask me why I was doing it. I could never really explain why. But when I bought my own house, I hosed down my driveway. And my wife would come out and shake her head and ask me why I was doing it and remind me that when she was growing up in California, they used to have to ration their water. I eventually stopped hosing down my driveway. And now when my kids ask to play with the hose, I always shake my head and remind them not to waste too much water. Ah, the circle of life.
Great post. It made me reflect on my grandfather, my father and my kids. And it made me laugh.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
They say there are things that can skip a generation, like red hair or twins. Maybe hosing down the driveway is on that list, too. I think my father did it for its meditative effects; it’s mesmerizing.
Watching your grandfather suffer must have been hard. There’s always a great deal of sadness when a loved when gets sick, but especially so when it’s someone who has had a profound influence on you.
Thank you, Kevin, for your ongoing support and thoughtful feedback.
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Phil G.
March 15, 2011
I miss Uncle Joe sometimes. I always remember the nickel we could never get off the floor. Uncle Angelo helped me grow up better too.
I do enjoy your posts cousin as they remind me of days gone by.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
Thank you, Philip. I miss your Dad, too. What a couple of characters they were. That nickel nailed to the floor was just one example.
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souldipper
March 15, 2011
In so many ways, parents seem to have given their best when they had no idea we were looking. I am so grateful for my parents and all the teachable moments they helped me through. Thanks for reminding me, Charles.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
You’re right, Amy: when they had no idea we were looking or listening. You never know what children’s minds are going to latch onto.
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Allan Douglas
March 15, 2011
Another touching commemoration, Charles. I can relate to a lot of it. My parents both smoked all the time us young’uns were growing up, and they were always perplexed as to why we all got so car sick when we went on our cross-country runs with windows closed and the air thick with smoke.
I smoked too as a teen. Smoked a lot. Then on a first date with an especially fine young lady, I lit up after dinner. She scrunched up her nose and said, “Eww, you smoke?” I stubbed the thing out and replied, “No, not any more.” And I didn’t . I’ve never regretted that.
Thank you for sharing this love filled reverie.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
“No, not any more.” What a great response. If only it were that easy for everyone who wants to quit smoking.
Thanks for taking the time, Allan. It’s always good to hear from you.
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She's a Maineiac
March 15, 2011
This post really floored me. It was like reading about my own dad. I vividly remember cruising down the highway, us three kids rolling around the backseat wrestling…and my dad’s smoke clouds billowing around us. I miss my dad every day and it’s been almost 20 years since he passed at 53. He was a rarity in those days, a sensitive, kind father who truly loved his children and would do anything for them (and never passed on a teachable moment!) Thanks so much for sharing your memories with us! (By the way, I had to laugh at your inability to chew steak…I was also guilty of slipping it into my pockets. I thought that was my ingenious trick.)
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
It’s never the right time to lose a parent, but 53 is much too soon. I’m glad he packed so many gifts into the time you did have with him.
About the steak-in-the-pocket trick, I would be willing to share credit with you. But tell me this: Do you ever try to force your kids to eat things they don’t like?
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She's a Maineiac
March 16, 2011
I have to admit I’ve tried here and there. Not very successful at it. I will suggest to them to try one bite and see if you like it. My parents were pretty hard-core back then, we had to finish everything on the plate no matter what (hence my steak trick).
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Snoring Dog Studio
March 15, 2011
Oh, Charles. Your writing is magical – the way it can make me laugh out loud, tear up, smile, and feel what you feel. And your love for your father and this tribute … we should all know someone like you, Charles, who roots for the underdog, celebrates life, and shows so much sensitivity and humanity. Thank you, again and again.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
Thank you, SDS. I felt the same way when I read your recent post about your father’s birthday, and the one about his all-chocolate diet. Parents can drive us crazy sometimes, but our relationships with them are unique and irreplaceable.
I’m also glad you and I root for each other.
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Snoring Dog Studio
March 15, 2011
By the way, Charles … first pumpkin pie and now veal cutlets?! What kind of culinary oddity are you??! Seriously, my dad made the most delicious veal cutlets. All five of us kids would fight over the last one. He then taught me how to make veal cutlets later in life. There is almost nothing I like better than a veal cutlet, the next day, straight out of the fridge.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
Okay, here’s what I think would work. There are many intriguing subjects we can discuss, and we’ve already touched on quite a few of them. Maybe we just shouldn’t talk about food. What do you think?
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Snoring Dog Studio
March 16, 2011
I’m sorry, Charles. I was insensitive. I feel awful.
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
My eating habits have been described in a range of different ways, all of them insulting, and a few nothing short of brutal. So actually, “culinary oddity” almost sounded like a compliment. You can feel awful if you want to, but you’ll have to come up with a better reason.
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Lisa Miklos
March 15, 2011
I can hear your Dad’s voice too! I hear Uncle Ange and my Nana (Aunt Jo) just as clearly. Their voices always make me smile. I wish I could hear Aunt Bea as clearly but I can’t tune into the memory of hearing her talk. Thanks for sharing. Coming to your house, eating your mom”s cooking, and just being with you all is a treasured memory.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
Thanks, Lisa. I’ll be mentioning your Nana in my next post.
We have a lot of special memories, but I hope someday we’ll find a way to make some new ones, too. It’s been much too long.
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Earth Ocean Sky Redux
March 15, 2011
Poignant, Charles. Poignant. Your stories bring forth a beautiful photo scrapbook for those of us who don’t know you or your family. Thanks.
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bronxboy55
March 15, 2011
I appreciate that, EOS. I’m sure most of us have similar stories, which makes it easier to relate.
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Jac
March 15, 2011
Dad had his weaknesses for sure, but he really passed on his strengths. He was all about unconditional love and compassion, and he taught us to always think of others first. I will never forget how he would eat his eggs on toast in the morning, after working his full time job and then his part time night job. He would be dressed nicely ( I loved when I was old enough to iron his white, button down shirts!) and eating those eggs, saving the best bite for last. Then, on more than one occasion, he would take that last, treasured piece and put it in my mouth. There were 2 lesssons in one right there – delayed gratification and unselfishness! He also taught us to always be on time for an appointment, no matter who it was with. It wasn’t to make a good impression, but to be respectful of the other person’s time and not make them wait. He had his silliness about him, too, always leaving that classic note if we went to see someone and they weren’t there: ” We was here and you wasn’t; now you is here and we isn’t!”
“You won’t forget, will ya?” No, dad, never…
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
I can remember getting into the car with him so he could show me the level of poverty at which other people were living — and just a few blocks from our house. I have no idea what prompted those little trips, but I must have been acting like a spoiled brat. Again, two lessons in one: it taught me gratitude and perspective. The older I get, the smarter he was.
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cooperstownersincanada
March 15, 2011
This is a beautiful tribute to your dad. Thanks for giving us a glimpse into the type of man he was.
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
Thank you, Kevin. I’ve caught glimpses of your Dad from a few things you’ve mentioned on your blog, and he sounds like a great guy, too.
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notesfromrumbleycottage
March 15, 2011
So great, so well written. I bow to the master who makes me laugh and cry at the same time.
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
I’m glad you liked it, Rumbly, but believe me, there’s no master here.
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writerwoman61
March 15, 2011
Beautiful tribute to your dad, Charles! I got a kick out of the part where you sprayed him with the hose!
Wendy
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
Now that you say that, Wendy, I think I may have gotten a kick out of it, too. Or a smack in the head.
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heidit
March 15, 2011
What a beautiful post, Charles. Thank you so much for sharing that.
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
Thank you, Heidi. I always appreciate your kind words.
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Allison
March 15, 2011
I always enjoy reading your blogs, but I enjoy these family stories most of all. It’s so wonderful to get a glimpse into your past. I’m glad your father was one of your role models…I’m sure he’s a big part of the reason you are such a wonderful father. You were lucky to have him, and I’m lucky to have you. Keep these stories coming!
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
I wish you could have had some time with him. I know he would have been very proud of you, as I am.
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Jessica Sieghart
March 15, 2011
Beautiful post, Charles. It’s funny how people’s lives are so similar in a lot of ways. I remember fighting and bickering with my siblings in the car, enveloped in a cloud of smoke and not seat belted. That was just the way it was, I suppose. I laughed out loud at the image of your parents scooping up your poor fish. Did your dad make the same face that your brother did when he had to return from the retreat? That’s how I pictured it. My father passed away when I was 13. I don’t know why but I can’t really picture him in my mind (traumatic event, I suppose) but I can hear his voice and his opinions on things always pop in my head when I make decisions. My dad didn’t wash the driveway, he always washed the car. 😉
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
I don’t think I had the courage to look at my parents’ faces as they were trying to save the fish. It didn’t seem real, even while it was happening.
“Traumatic event” has to be an understatement, Jessica. It’s hard enough being thirteen, but losing your father must have been unbearable. Obviously, he had a great influence on you in a relatively short period of time.
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Earth Ocean Sky Redux
March 16, 2011
I meant to ask. Is the “Part 1” a teaser-trailer to reading about your mom next week? I hope so.
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
My original idea for this post was to write about my father, Superman, and Saint Stephen. But my father quickly took over, so I decided to break it into three parts. The other two will follow in the next week or so. I’m sure I’ll be writing about my mother soon.
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Jac
March 16, 2011
Remember how mom and dad always said (regarding raising us kids) “you’re better off raising pigs – at least you get pork!” ? Well you proved them wrong by raising a woman like Allison who acknowledges what a great father you are. It’s a good thing, too, since you don’t eat pork.
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bronxboy55
March 16, 2011
Allison was something special from the day she was born. I just tried not to mess her up, and apparently I succeeded.
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Jess Witkins
March 16, 2011
What a wonderful and eloquent story to share about your father. You always amaze me with your writing ability. I think your dad and my dad would have gotten along real well. I never had to buy my pop cigarettes, but he definitely taught me the importance of giving and helping others. He too wanted to be with his family as much as he could.
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bronxboy55
March 18, 2011
I’m glad you had a good relationship with your Dad, and that he taught you lessons to take into adulthood. It’s always good to hear from you, Jess. Thank you.
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Betty Londergan
March 16, 2011
Oh Charles, what a great post about your dad! I started off laughing at your stories about eating and wanting to grow up, and ending up teary-eyed over the loss of your dad and his gradual decline …
it was exactly what I needed to read today when I’m so frustrated with my daughter. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that when you feel that you have no influence or importance in your kids’ life, that that is hardly the truth of the matter … and what you’re really called to do is just to love them, offer your support and help when they need it, and root for them to become the best people they can. Thanks for sharing your insight, your memories and your wonderfully vivid family stories!
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bronxboy55
March 19, 2011
I’m sorry you’re in one of those frustrating phases, Betty, but you know as well as I do that it’s temporary. Your daughter has had the great fortune to learn directly from you as she grew up; I’m sure the benefits of that experience will serve her for the rest of her life. I consider myself lucky, too, that I’ve been able to learn from you through your books and blog. You’ve had influence and importance in countless lives.
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Margaret Reyes Dempsey
March 16, 2011
I agree with Betty. I laughed out loud at the hairball comment and then found myself tearing up as I continued reading. You have a real gift.
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bronxboy55
March 20, 2011
Thank you, Margaret. I have great respect for you as a writer, so your comment means a lot to me.
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Julia
March 16, 2011
Tender and funny by turns, so that I was never quite sure whether a paragraph would make me sad or happy — which is what everyone here has said, which reminds me once again that if I’m to say anything original here, I should be first rather than 41st!!!
Your boyhood aversions to food — and the solutions you come up with — are, I think, rites of passage for any person of sensitive tastes (well, I know that I used to do the same, with broccoli and pork chops — burying things in planters, wedging them down into the upholstery, feeding them to cats. To hear you talk about your childhood is to wonder how on earth you lived through it.
As everyone else has said, your telling of your relationship with your dad is moving and funny. It makes both of you rather adorably human.
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bronxboy55
March 20, 2011
Your comment about wedging food into the upholestery made me laugh; I’m not sure if it was because I’d never thought to do that or because it reminded me of another trick I used but had forgotten about. Thank you, Julia, as always.
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Mitch Mitchell
March 16, 2011
Great story Charles, and I’m one of those folks who remembers Dad smoking in the car and my being on the floor in the back because it seemed to keep me away from the smoke longer. I have other stories about my dad, and it’s always interesting seeing how people recall the stories of their parents, especially once they’re gone. Thanks for sharing this with us.
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bronxboy55
March 20, 2011
Thanks, Mitch. I’d love to read about more of your childhood memories, especially those involving your parents.
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Linda Paul
March 16, 2011
Isn’t it funny how all little kids seem to be consumed with growing up. And then once we’re supposedly grown up, we dream of being kids again! I remember puzzling over just when a person crossed the line between kid and grown up. After careful consideration, I decided that running was the deciding factor. Adults never ran. Kids dashed helter-skelter from here to there, up and down the stairs, and everywhere. To this day, my friends badger me about running. Why am I always running, they ask? Cuz I’m a kid, I think. But really, it’s because there simply aren’t enough hours in the day.
Charles, you always keep me reading. I love how you weave themes throughout your stories and treat even the most serious topics with deprecating humor. “I don’t remember the immediate aftermath but I suspect it did not involve pizza, ice cream, or candy.” This is priceless.
This was a lovely homage to your childhood and to your dad.
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bronxboy55
March 20, 2011
I think you’re on to something, Linda. Running is generally an element of childhood. When my son hears me running up the stairs, he always asks why I’m doing it, as though I’m too old. I hope you and I keep running for many more years.
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shoreacres
March 19, 2011
I found this passage particularly – well, recognizable: He was sick and dying for so long that it always seemed he would die any minute. Thirteen years of that. Dying became a way of life. That’s how I began to think of my father. He would just go on forever, about to die.
No one on my mom’s side of the family lived beyond 62. Maybe 64. We aren’t sure. When she hit 70, we all looked around at each other and said, “Well, this is it. The family record.” When she turned 85 it was just bizarre. Now, she’s just past her 93rd birthday. She’s the energizer bunny of moms. When she hits 100, I’ll be…. oh, let’s not even think of it.
We think she’s going to go on forever, but of course she won’t. Your entry here is a good reminder of that fact, and a gentle nudge toward not always going down the road on cruise control.
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bronxboy55
March 20, 2011
I don’t think there’s much danger of your slipping into cruise control. But how wonderful that your Mom has started a new family tradition of longevity. I hope you’ll carry it on.
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Melinda
March 20, 2011
What lovely memories of your father and then heartbreaking at the same time. I often think it is amazing we all survived as kids without seatbelts and helmets.
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bronxboy55
March 28, 2011
I sometimes wonder if we worry too much these days, and if we’re replacing innocent childhood fun with something that borders on paranoia. On the other hand, I still think seatbelts are a good idea.
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khandise
March 26, 2011
excellent writing …
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bronxboy55
March 28, 2011
Thanks, Khandi. I appreciate your comment.
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Kate
March 30, 2011
What a beautiful tribute to Papa Joe! (I think that is what we called him) Thanks for writing this story Uncle Charlie 🙂 I’m enjoying your blog more and more, you have been blessed with quite the gift for writing. Thanks for the small glimpse into our wonderful family! Love you!
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bronxboy55
April 1, 2011
Thank you for reading the posts, Kate. I think you were the first one to call him Papa Joe.
It’s amazing to see how the family changes — through the inevitable deaths and births — yet continues to be wonderful.
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Val Erde
March 31, 2011
I like the idea (and image) of you jumping around even if it did end badly for the fish.
And your description of being tired of living down near the floor made me smile, as I spent so many hours measuring myself against chairs, tables, wondering when my feet would ever touch the floor when I sat on the loo, etc…
Sorry about your dad. Both my parents were very heavy smokers and for a few years I was, too. Although she died from something different, my mother had emphysema and was quite restricted by it in her later years. Though of course, she carried on smoking!
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bronxboy55
April 1, 2011
My father kept smoking, too. Before his diagnosis he said there was no reason to quit, because it hadn’t made him sick. After he was told he had emphysema, he said there was no reason to quit, because he was already sick. This is the reasoning of addiction, I suppose.
I’m glad you kicked the habit before it kicked you. What would we do without you, Val?
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