Trina put this up on her blog and then didn't tag me for it. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. It sounded like fun, so here it goes. The rules:

1. Find the nearest book.
2. Name the book.
3. Name the author.
4. Turn to page 123.
5. Go to the fifth sentence on the page.
6. Copy the next three sentences and post to your blog.
7. Tag three more lucky souls.

And so I have done:

The book is Time and Again by Jack Finney, recommended to me by a friend.

"As I watched it, Kate touched my arm, and I turned. She was frowning, shaking her head. 'Si, I've had enough.'"

The only readers I'm aware of who haven't folded their blogs or whom Trina didn't already tag are Claire, Chloe and Toast.

So, folks, there you are. By no reason other than my poor readership, and the process of elimination, you're it. Now make me proud...and see if you can get me some more readers....

The Magic That Was

The thing I miss the most from my childhood is the way Christmas felt…or rather, the way I felt at Christmas time.

I imagine it was the same for most kids whose families celebrated Christmas. The world seemed to quiet down and, for one day, seemed to slow to a snail’s pace outside. Inside it was usually pretty hectic.

Christmas was always marginally spiritual for me. The holiday was really about getting two weeks off from school and getting tons of presents with one or two really good ones in the mix. Santa Claus was as real to me as my father, only I didn’t realize early on just how close I was in that reasoning!

The excitement leading up to The Big Day was always so palpable, so intense that I trembled at the thought of opening all of my presents that lay beneath the tree, the specific location of each I knew from the repeated excavation projects I had undertaken with my siblings when my parents weren’t looking.

We lived in a very small house. At one point there were seven kids and my parents, all squeezed into a three-bedroom house. As the youngest, I’m told I slept “wherever.” Maybe that’s why I have a wanderlust: I never had a room truly to myself. Even when all my siblings had all grown up and moved out, my oldest sister had gathered up her two kids, left her diseased marriage and moved back in with Mom and Dad and me. Through the Air Force and college dorm life, I never had a room of my own until I was 25, sharing a house off-campus with four other guys, and no place of my own until I took a one-bedroom apartment a year later. But that’s beside the point.

Our small house had a natural gas furnace, so a fireplace was something that existed only in storybooks and movies. And Christmas poems. Every poem, song and story that mentioned Santa Claus included the depiction of his entry into the home via the fireplace. Still clear in my head is the concern I had for Santa (and the presents that were due me!) because we didn’t have a fireplace through which for him to come in. Of course, I had older siblings who had every explanation from “he has a huge key ring with keys for every house without a fireplace,” to “he climbs in through a window,” to “he’s not coming for you.” Yes, that last one was my brother. And, with no snow on the ground – as it often happened in Chicago – how was Santa going to get his sleigh here? My parents put a stop to my questioning with a simple reassurance that Santa knew how to get into our house. He would be there!

As a large family with a diluted Italian heritage, Christmas Eve was always a grand event. I never understood it – still don’t to this day – but, as Catholics, we fasted on Christmas Eve the way Catholics fasted on Fridays: we ate fish. Mom knocked herself out at the grocery store a few days before, buying tons of fresh-water perch, shrimp, calamari and smelt. Christmas Eve always started early for her, as she would begin thawing the shrimp, squid and smelt, clean them, and start making the pasta dough for the Christmas Day dinner. In later years my sisters would help her, but Mom still did the bulk of the cooking.

By mid-afternoon the smelt were battered and frying and the squid was being cut into bite-size pieces. Guests were arriving – early on it was aunts, uncles and cousins; later it was my adult sisters with their husbands and children. The house was always a loud, exciting, electric place, and always, my eyes and thoughts were on the ever-growing pile of presents tucked under the Christmas tree. Mom would unload cookie-sheet-loads of battered, fried seafood into large serving bowls and everyone would load up their plates and chow down! Everyone, that is, except me. I hated fish of all kinds, fish sticks notwithstanding. I later discovered I liked the smelt because you can eat it, bones and all. That’s why I hated perch; you had to watch out for those pesky bones! And shrimp made me queasy.

All that excitement, and my paradoxically empty stomach, did little to prepare me for the coming night. Well into my teens I could never get a good night’s sleep on Christmas Eve for the exhilaration and anticipation for all those presents and what “Santa” might bring by the next morning. Even being dragged to Midnight Mass each year for most of my childhood didn’t make me tired enough – or bored enough – to make me sleepy. Once back at home, Mom and Dad were suspiciously not readying for bed, and insisting that we kids get to bed right away.

I would lie awake through most of the night. When I was little I would listen for the tiniest sound that would indicate Santa’s presence. As an older, wiser child, I listened for the telltale signs of Mom and Dad dragging out Santa's loot to put under the tree. If there ever was magic in that house, it was in my parents’ ability to sneak around and move all those toys and games into place without my ever hearing them, but even more so to have hidden so much stuff in such a tiny house without us kids ever finding it…and we LOOKED!

Finally, after an agonizing night of cat-napping and waking, tossing and turning, the sky through the windows turned from black to purple to deep blue. It was still dark outside, but it was officially morning! Sometimes I was the first to make it to the living room, sometimes it was my sibling closest in age to me, my brother, six years older. All the lights in the house were off, save for the blinking Christmas tree lights, which cast a purplish glow to the room. Mom and Dad always turned the tree lights off at bedtime, except on Christmas Eve. The tree was already the natural focal point of the room, but the light it gave off was touched by magic on Christmas morning, and it held more power and magnetism in that moment than it ever did in the evenings before.

By sunrise all of us kids were up. (By the Christmas of my earliest memory, my two oldest siblings had already moved out and started their adult lives, so there were five of us then.) There seemed to be an unwritten rule that we not touch any of “Santa’s” presents, unwrapped as they were, until Mom or Dad was awake. Sometimes it was blatant, with excited reports to my groggy, sleepy parents in their bed about what Santa had brought us; and sometimes it was more subtle, with excited talking and jumping around – or fighting, as siblings usually do – but we did what we could do to get them to wake up so we could dive into the toys. With another long day of cooking on her agenda, Mom was always up first.

As I grew older, that was one of my first clues about Santa Claus. For the 364 other days of the year Dad always espoused and exemplified the importance of getting up early and getting the day started. Even on Sundays, when his barbershop was closed, he was usually up by 8:00 because he always had something or other to do. But on Christmas morning he always seemed too tired to get up. As my powers of deduction began to develop, I became more and more suspicious of Santa Claus’s true identity.

But Dad would eventually be convinced to wake, and he would walk to the thermostat and, usually frugal where the utilities were concerned, he would turn it up to what had to be 75 to 78 degrees, and the house would be toasty warm while we tore into our presents. It’s one thing about Christmas that has never changed in my eyes: the gift-opening chaos. The more little kids there were, the louder and more chaotic the event. There was always a knee-deep pile of torn, discarded wrapping paper covering the whole living room floor. As my sibs and I grew older and more tidy, there came the nieces and nephews, which just made for even more noise and paper, and the cycle continues.

Mom would spend most of her time in the kitchen, working on the family feast. It alternated each year between traditional turkey and dressing with all the traditional trimmings, or homemade gnocchi with my Italian grandmother’s recipe tomato “gravy,” or Gramma’s recipe ravioli with gravy. Mom was not Italian; she learned Italian cooking from her mother-in-law, the way her mother-in-law did it. So that meant, no matter which dish was the main course, there was always enough food for an army to overeat, which made up for my Christmas Eve fasting. Everyone always ate too much and then fought over the couch for the best place to nap.

And I could never figure out why I slept so soundly on Christmas night!

If Christmas Day was the most exciting day of the year, then the very next day had to be the most boring. Call it adrenalin withdrawal, or the big letdown, but it was an agonizing, long day. All I had left to look forward to was the freebie night to stay up as late as I wanted to a week later to count down to the new year, and then the resumption of school…and a whole year before the next Christmas.

I have to hand it to Mom and Dad; for a poor couple raising a large family, they certainly knew how to pull out enough stops to make our Christmases seem bountiful.

Life goes on, and I eventually grew up and left home for the Air Force, returned home, left home for school, returned home and, finally, shortly after Mom passed away, I left home for good and began my career. In those years away from home I realized how truly commercial the Christmas season is, how it creeps further and further back into the year to where Christmas-themed ads are playing a week or two before Halloween. And where the holiday's spiritual meaning had a tenuous hold on me even as a child, since then my point of view and my beliefs have sharpened, and that spiritual meaning has been discarded. With Mom gone it could never be the same, anyway.

I am by no means a Scrooge, however. I still get caught up in the songs, in the gift-giving (though I don’t get crazy about it) and in the fellowship of family and friends. The traditional foods, now in the hands of my sisters, are still consumed or sought after, and their smells and tastes can still bring back the memories of Christmases past. And I can eat fish and shrimp without gagging.

But Mrs. Farrago and I haven’t put up a tree since our first Christmas together. The glow of the lights in the morning just seemed hollow, despite our efforts and our first holiday Together. The decorating – and especially the undecorating – seemed more chore than joy, and the pressures of whose family to visit when only seemed to take the pleasure out of the journey.

I still get a kick out of the glee in the faces of the nieces and nephews as they tear into a present, especially if they find that it’s one they really wanted. But there’s also a twinkle in their eyes that seems to say this is how it’s supposed to be; it seems as though, despite their families’ own spiritual bases, the kids are losing the message that it’s more about giving than it is about receiving. I got it when I was their age. Right? Didn’t I?

As adulthood trickled into my bones and brain, the special joy that was Christmas morning trickled out. It became quite clear to me that it is and, certainly for my entire life, has always been a child’s holiday, intended to be filled with warmth, magic, abundance and joy.

I hope kids today feel that same magic.

The City(ies) That Work(s)

In the aftermath of one of the worst winter storms to hit the Midwest this…ah...month, I am once again awed by the resilience of Midwestern cities. …or is it apathy?

I mean no ill to cities in other parts of the country. I’m certain their people are just as hardy and fortitudinous as any other cities’ denizens are. But, in the face of winter storms of biblical proportions (I dunno…were there blizzards in the bible?), people of the Midwest, and of the Northeast, too, simply say, “Eh,” and set their alarm clocks to wake them half an hour earlier than usual, and they go about their lives.

Life goes on here. What’s that? Twelve inches of snow expected? Better put my boots and the shovel by the door so I can dig the car out in the morning to get to work on time! Say again? Temperatures in the single digits tomorrow? Better wear the long socks, then!

The dismal forecasts of winter, no matter how apocalyptic, just don’t seem to faze people in northern cities. When it gets cold, we put on coats. If it gets REALLY cold, we put on MORE coats! When it snows we put on galoshes…or we don’t. To HELL with the snow! Business rarely, if ever, stops. Schools close in only the most treacherous conditions. Traffic slows to a crawl, but it does keep moving.

When I was in grade school and then high school, I would be glued to local morning radio during bad winter weather, just waiting to hear my school or school district’s name to be called, just waiting for the elusive “snow day” to be bestowed upon me and my fellow students, only to be thwarted repeatedly from the paradise of a day of idleness.

Any lifelong Chicago area resident above age 35 will likely remember the “Blizzard of ’79.” I was a freshman in high school, and the forecast was so dire, the snow falling so heavily that I was certain to finally hear my school’s name called out by the radio announcer. My mother assured me, as she trudged out the door on her way to work that morning(!), that I WOULD see the inside of a classroom that day, but I sat staring at that radio more intently than I’ve ever stared at a television set, like a gambler who just dropped his last dollar coin in the slot waits for the triple sevens. There were, on this particular day, so many schools closed that the radio station opted to read the names of only those schools which remained open. And, yes, finally, I did indeed hear my school’s name mentioned on the radio that day.

Since then I’ve resigned myself to the reality that winter does not stop Chicago, the City that Works, the City that Works Through Winter. Neither does it stop New York City, Boston, Buffalo or Minneapolis. The people just. keep. moving.

I lived four years in the Deep South. Consider my reaction, this winter-hardened northern boy, when, in the rare instance of the next day’s prediction of snow flurries – FLURRIES – the small south Georgia city where I lived cancelled EVERYTHING! Schools, government offices, city services, MAIL DELIVERIES, for the love of Pete, all shut down on the CHANCE of a few snowflakes falling to the ground!

Let’s give that city and other southern cities some credit. The buildings there are not equipped for the cold weather, nor are their city infrastructures. The schools, uninsulated against the rare cold, have to close for the safety of the children. The cities don’t budget for snow plows or rock salt as it would be a waste of taxpayers’ money to prepare for a once-every-few-years occurrence, so when there’s the potential for icy roads, the cities advise people to stay off of them because they won’t be cleared of ice or snow.

But for someone who grew up in the ready-for-what-nature-could-throw-at-us north, it was both a shock and an amusing state of affairs.

In one regard I feel sorry for the kids who grow up in the South, and other warm-climate cities. When severe winter weather snakes down into those parts, the people there are unprepared or, at best, under-prepared, and are likely to keep their kids indoors for their safety and protection. We northern kids developed thicker blood and a hearty appetite for snowball fights and sledding, and, when the temperature crept up from the arctic chill into the low- to mid- forties… Hell! That was short-sleeve shirt weather!

Today my southern contemporaries bask in the relative warmth of temperate winters, but when the Ol’ Man of the North treks his way south, they hunker down under layers of blankets and hibernate for the duration. I and my fellow northerners simply sigh, start the car and scrape the ice off our windshields while the engine warms up. And we go off to… work?

...there’s definitely something wrong with this picture.

The Day I Thought I Was Going To Die

I would imagine there aren’t too many people who’ve had near-death experiences. I mean the real kind, the out-of-body, move-toward-the-light, talking-to-dead-relatives kind of near-death experiences.

Sure, we’ve all had the embarrassing oh-shit-I’m-gonna-die, holy-crap-she’s-gonna-kill-me kind of “near-death” experiences, but there’s one kind that’s in between the real near-death experiences and the socio-professional ones. They’re the staring-death-in-the-face moments, the kind where some action of yours will result in, or has resulted in a situation that could bring you real harm, or even death… and it’s usually brought on by your own stupidity.

It was early 1984. I was at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, sometime in the middle of the second of three phases of my entry training, the Security Police Technical Training course. Only a few weeks out of basic training, the Air Force wasn’t quite ready to let us enjoy our free time as we saw fit; there were still restrictions on base- and town-liberty privileges. It was a weekend – a Sunday, I think – and though we were allowed to wear civilian clothes, we weren’t yet quite trusted with venturing off base, even though every last one of us had lived our entire lives until a few months earlier off base.

I was in our dormitory day-room, a simple, non-descript room in place for us to relax and unwind after classes and in our down-time.

I don’t remember if I had walked in on the argument, or if I was already in the day-room and the argument had walked in on me, but one of my classmates had gotten into a heated discussion with Airman Johnson over Airman Johnson’s behavior.

I know it sounds like I’m making the name up, but his name really was Johnson. He was a street-tough kid who grew up on the streets on the bad side of Miami. He and I came through basic training in the same class, his bunk across the aisle and a couple down from mine. He had a perpetual sneer on his face, at times threatening, at times mocking, but at all times present, which, when facing the Training Instructors, brought him a lot of grief. To say Johnson had issues with authority figures would be a drastic understatement. He was not used to having to take shit from anyone, and there were times when the Training Instructors had nothing but shit to give. It was a deep-seated, automatic reaction in him when someone got in his face, that it broke into an expression of contempt. It raised in me the question, “If you have that much trouble dealing with authority figures, why join the military?”

But he made it through basic training, and he wound up in my secondary training class, learning how to be an Air Force cop.

I’ve always been a fairly amiable person, despite my general shyness. Despite his tough attitude, Johnson had a likeable quality to him. In conversations I had learned about his rough life, his fights, his victories, a few of his defeats, his experiences on his high school wrestling team. He had an air of the braggart, but an underlying tongue-in-cheek, self-ridiculing personality as well. He was a living, breathing example of the disadvantaged inner-city young black male of the mid-1980s. And where some are little more than a lot of wind and posturing, all it took was shaking Johnson’s hand to know he could back up everything he said about who he was and what he had come from. Though kind of short and of a small build, he was intensely strong; his sinewy, muscular frame hadn’t come from working out at the gym, but from competition and, no doubt, his daily survival. To put it concisely, his was a formidable, intimidating presence. Of course, for me, a gangly, featherweight, white stringbean of a kid from the suburbs, just about everything was intimidating.

So I found myself in the dayroom, an observer of a heated discussion. At question was Johnson’s behavior. I seem to recall the discussion arising from Johnson’s complaint about how the Training Instructors were always on his case. His co-interlocutor had likely stated that Johnson’s attitude was what brought him his troubles, a comment that Johnson likely viewed as an insult or attack, and the heat had turned up.

I was a worrywart in my teens and twenties. I would lie awake nights worried about oversleeping the next morning, worried about whether I’d be closer to the beginning of the chow line or closer to the end; stupid shit like that. I worried that Johnson was getting worked up over this discussion and might do something he would regret. So I opened my mouth and became part of the discussion. My first mistake was to side with the guy who wasn’t Airman Johnson; that just confirmed Johnson’s belief that everyone had it in for him.

Throughout the discussion Johnson had that somewhat mocking, somewhat self-riduling, somewhat half-smile on his face, with moments of fire erupting in his eyes. Before I realized what had happened, Johnson had completely shifted his focus to me. The other guy had stepped back, no doubt ready to throw water on us if need be.

I was seated on the edge of the pool table. Airman Johnson was standing directly in front of me. I don’t remember what it was that I had said, but it reflected my constant state of worry, and my warnings to others that they might get in trouble for doing whatever it was they were doing, and that I wasn’t going to do what they were doing because I didn’t want to get into trouble, ad nauseam.

Johnson, tired of my preaching to him from my pulpit of trepidation, spoke in his mocking tone of voice, and said something to the effect of, “You should worry about your own self, but instead you be cryin’ like a little bitch all the time about what I do…” and he went off on a rant about how much people around him complained about how he acted, and told him how he should behave, how he should wear his uniform, how his actions made the rest of us look bad, and how tired he was of everybody getting in his business.

At this point I saw the tables turn. Suddenly Airman Johnson was doing exactly what he had accused me of doing. I seized the opportunity to put this feeling into words, to put Johnson in his place. I wanted to turn his own phrase, “cryin’ like a little bitch,” back on him, because, admittedly, it had hurt me when he said it. The words formed in my head: “Now who’s cryin’ like a little bitch?” I just waited for him to take a breath. And when he did, for the life of me, I experienced a major brain fart:

“Now who’s cryin’, bitch?”

In a flash Johnson’s self-mocking expression disappeared, replaced by rage. In a greased second his nose was a millimeter from mine, his eyes burning into mine, words pouring from his lips. I don’t remember what he said to me in those moments. The only two things I remember in that moment were the death glare in his eyes and the stream of thought running through my head: “’Now who’s cryin’, bitch?!’ Where the hell did THAT come from?! Now I’m going to die!”

I gather that the only thing that saved me from being cracked like an egg was what I can only guess was an instinctive reaction, which was not to react at all. I sat rigid, stone-faced, and I stared right back into his eyes, giving the best rendition of a street-tough glare I could give him.

Johnson finally ran out of words and we glared at each other menacingly for a few more seconds. I can only guess at why he didn’t snap me in half like a twig. I’m certain it wasn’t that he had never sized me up and was unsure whether or not he could take me. More likely, he weighed the consequences of putting me in the intensive care ward and determined he’d rather not spend the rest of his Air Force career in a military prison.

Johnson stepped back and said something dismissive, like I wasn’t worth his trouble, and he walked away. Only then did I realize that, until his departure, he and I had been alone in the day-room for several minutes. His original opponent had cleared out when I made the ill-fated retort, no doubt to call 9-1-1, or to go make splints or something.

Alone in the day-room, my stoic expression finally broke. There were no mirrors nearby, but I’m certain the new expression read incredulity, and I’d bet I was whiter by several shades than I had been when I sat down on the edge of the pool table!

“Now who’s cryin’, bitch?!” WHAT THE HELL?!

I walked to my room on rubbery legs and lay down on my bed, and I worried about dealing with Airman Johnson the next day and for the rest of the training cycle. I don’t remember if it was immediate, or if it took a few days, but Johnson and I made amends. I don’t recall who approached whom first to apologize, but I do recall that when I apologized for calling him a bitch, he responded with his usual expression of half self-ridicule, half contempt, so I don’t know if he truly accepted my apology or trusted that it was sincere.

I suppose it’s obvious that I think about him from time to time, and I wonder what ever became of him, of his career in the Air Force. I suspect that his attitude and his mouth got him into trouble before too long – it seemed inevitable that he would have been kicked out before the end of his first tour of duty. But who knows? Maybe he’s Colonel Johnson by now….

No Wind In My Sales

I am not a salesman. But then, neither is Mrs. Farrago. Whatever it might be that requires dealing with strangers or the public or people on the other end of a telephone line, Mrs. Farrago isn’t it. Neither am I, but if I don’t do it, Mrs. Farrago makes we wait another week before I get another look at my testicles in the jar that she keeps hidden away somewhere.

Mrs. Farrago’s father -- let’s just call him Papa Swiss -- who lived with us for four years, decided almost all on his own to move out to an assisted living facility about a mile from our home. Now that he’s living in a place where his every need is tended to, he’s decided he no longer has a need for his car, which he has left parked in its handicapped reserved space in front of our house. We should have asked if the assisted living facility facilitates auto sales….

So, Mrs. Farrago and I are stuck with selling Papa Swiss’s car. And, in case you don’t remember reading the first paragraph of this post, that means that I'm stuck with selling Papa Swiss’s car.

It’s a nice enough car. It’s pretty basic, with manual locks and windows, automatic transmission, power steering and power brakes. The problem I saw from the outset is that, though it’s a Toyota 4-Runner, it only has a 4-cylinder engine, and it’s 2-wheel-drive. Until I saw this vehicle, I would never have guessed that a) Toyota would make a 2-wheel-drive version, or b) anyone would have bought a 2-wheel-drive version of a 4-Runner.

And that brings up the issue of making it look desirable. Without lying. The smartest thing we’ve done with it is park it at the local supermarket/strip mall/plaza with the “FOR SALE” sign pointed at the street. We moved it there today and received four phone calls within the first 90 minutes. But then I have to talk about it.

“Yes, it’s a ’97…No, it’s a 4-cylinder…I AM talking about the Toyota…Yes, automatic…No, no, just 2-wheel drive…Yes, I know it’s a 4-Runner…Well, they made at least ONE with 2-wheel-drive…Sir, I’ve never worked for Toyota, so I have no idea why they did it….”

But that’s not the hardest part of it. I hate haggling. I’m not good at it when I’m the buyer, and I’m not good at it as the seller, either. What’s worse, it’s not even me I’m haggling for!

It’s not in pristine shape. It has about 84,000 miles on it, and it has a small, creased dent in the passenger side front door. With these factors taken into account, we’ve researched the fair market value of the thing. So, let’s just say we’re asking $5000 for it. Okay, we really are asking $5000 for it. It’s fair-market range is $4500-$5500. I just don’t know how long to hold out for it when they make their “best” offers. I feel like I’m sucking the life out of them when I say, “Sorry, fifteen hundred just isn’t enough. I want more, MORE!”

I just hope some kid with accommodating parents comes along and really, really wants it for his first car, or an old guy much like Papa Swiss considers it a great deal, because I don’t think anybody else is going to find it worth their while. As a Toyota, people want something with more power and take-off speed than a 4-cylinder will give them. As an SUV, people want the confidence and stability in Chicago rain and snow that 4-wheel drive will give them. I just don’t believe in the product.

That’s three strikes against me.

Okay...Okay...All Right...

How much of our time is spent reminiscing? Were they really the good old days, or do we only remember the good parts of the old days, and the rest of them sucked just as bad as today’s days do, and a couple years down the road we’ll look back on something that happened this week as one of the good old days?

I don’t know what happened to trigger this memory, but it was funny then, and it brings a chuckle to me every time I think about it.

I was a Thespian in high school, a “drama jock,” if you will. I lived and breathed tech theatre for all four years. Our high school auditorium had quite a sophisticated stage, so much so that several professional productions were staged there each year. The benefit to being so involved with the mechanics of our stage was that, when these professional productions came in, they had to hire local hands to work the stage. The school didn’t trust just anybody, so we students were handed roughly 25 to 35 minimum-wage hours for the week to help set-up, rehearse, and tech the performances.

My best friend since 4th grade is Lu. His full first name is Lucio. My family always had the hardest time pronouncing his name. “LOO-she-o” was the most common mispronunciation. Also common was “LOO-che-o,” or “loo-CHEE-o,” which was understandable, coming from a family used to Italian pronunciations. But Lucio is Mexican. I struggled to correct people on the proper pronunciation, but Lucio and his mild speech impediment didn’t help…when he said it, it sounded more like “LOO-she-o” than anything else.

It took more than 10 years, a stint in the military, and living in a college dorm for someone to come up with a convenient solution and just start calling him “Lu.”

But I digress. Lu and I were hired by one of the professional shows in town. I was up in the rear of the auditorium, in the follow-spot booth, and Lu was operating the lighting board backstage. The stage manager with the production was talking to all of us on headsets and running through our cues as we neared the start of the show. It wasn’t that he was mispronouncing Lu’s name like so many other people did. He had misheard it all together.

“Lucien?”

“Yeah?” Nobody on the stage crew had the balls to tell the guy he was saying the wrong name, but we all knew who he was talking to.

“At the opening curtain, lights up full,” said the stage manager.

“Okay,” said Lucio.

“After the second song, we’ll fade to a blue wash.”

“Okay.”

“The fourth song starts with just the follow-spot, but then we’ll fade up on my cue with an orange cyc.”

“Okay.”

“The fifth song is a medley.”

“Okay.”

“The first part is lights up full…”

“Okay.”

“Then the tempo changes at the second part and we go to a red wash and cyc…”

“Okay.”

“Uh…Lucien?” said the stage manager.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to say, ‘Okay,’ after everything I say.”

There was a pause of a few seconds.

“All right.”

Everyone on headsets giggled through the rest of the evening, and Lu and I still laugh about it today.

ode to squirrel, dead

you hunted nuts on ground, in trees
all the summer long
ignoring dogs and cats and bees
even birds of song

the sun crept south, the days grew short
thickened you of fur
never did you tire of work
winter prepped you were

we found you here beneath the bough
your life all but gone
what lay you down we did not know
what deadly deed was done?

you breathed your final, gasping breath
looking at the sky
like humans as they face their death
were you asking, “why?”

who gets your nuts, your final stash?
is some squirrel heir?
do squirrel colleagues take your cache?
is that somehow fair?

we laid your furry corpse to rest
trash bin for your bed
no grave for you, we thought it best
no last words were said

o, squirrel, where’s your furry soul?
heaven, if you will?
or is it where your corpse did go,
out to the landfill?

By the Seat of Technological Advancements

I mention my travels a lot. I hope my readers (both of them) don’t think I’m boasting or showing off when I do. It’s just the part of my life that seems to generate things to write about.

Today I returned home from an 8-day sojourn from Chicago to Lawrence, Kansas (3 days), to Montreal (5 days) and back to Chicago. I spent most of the flight with the window shade closed. Normally I prefer the aisle, but today’s flight was less than full, and I had the rare opportunity of an empty seat beside me. I had taken advantage of the window seat and the wall to lean against and sleep -- without having a body squeezing me in and hindering my exit -- while we sat out a delay on the tarmac, and then, during the flight, I had fired up my laptop and watched an episode of “The Sopranos” from the borrowed boxed set of season five.

During the final approach to O’Hare airport, with the laptop and related paraphernalia stowed, I opened my window shade and was surprised to find that we were right in the thickest part of a huge rain cloud, so thick that at points I could see wispy vapor partially obscuring the engine suspended beneath the wing. Water streamed across the outer surface of my window in a seemingly endless bundle of rivulets, spreading wide in an explosion of droplets when it hit the rearward edge of the window.

The thought occurred to me, the frequent driver of a car, that as unnerving as it is to drive in a fog so thick I can’t see the rear end of a car 15 feet in front of me, how is it for the pilot of a plane careening through space at 150 knots when there’s not enough time to even BLINK, let alone avoid a collision with something at that speed.

And then I heard and felt the landing gear deploy, and the thought ran through my mind as I looked out at the blank gray-white cocoon, “Well, I guess there’s a runway down there, somewhere.” And my mind was off.

I don’t claim to know much about the history of commercial aviation, nor of anything else, but one can make an educated stab at the progression and be pretty close…at least I hope I can! To keep this short, and to keep it from sounding like a history lesson, let’s just skip everything up to just past the point of the inventions of radar and radio navigation, and the world of advancement it meant to the field of aviation.

What would air travel be like today without the conveniences of radar and radio? What was it like back in the 1930s and ‘40s? Granted, we had radio communication back then, but what of radio navigation? Air traffic grids didn’t exist, then, and flight crews needed a navigator to study landmarks and geographical features, as well as relate them to a map, in order to get them to the right place. Everything was by sight and by the seat of the pants!

And then, probably back in the late ‘40s or early ‘50s, certainly when some genius thought to hook eight jet engines to an otherwise fairly anemic-looking plane with a wingspan greater than its length in order to reach the skies over the Soviet Union, some other genius realized there would have to be some sort of system to get a plane from point “A” to point “B” other than someone in the cockpit pointing out the window and saying, “I think it’s that way.”

I don’t know what they are or were called, but I know that there’s a massive grid of radio transmitters laid out across our nation and the globe, and that the world’s commercial and private pilots use this system to keep themselves on track to their destinations. So, no matter how bad the weather, how thick the clouds, the pilot has all the tools available to let him know he’s headed the right way. I guess the radar helps keep planes from crashing into each other.

So as I watched the water dribbling past my window, and the landing gear deployed, I knew that there was indeed a runway down there, somewhere, and that the slightly overweight, tall, balding guy locked away in that little room in the front of the plane knew right where it was, even though he couldn’t quite see it at the moment. I wondered what this flight would have been like without the technologies that had advanced and been perfected a lifetime ago, and it dawned on me that the flight probably would never have happened. It was a very docile weather system. There seemed to be no wind, no lightning, no torrents of rain. We punched through the bottom of the overcast at what I would guess was between 500 and 1,000 feet above the ground. Way back when, such a day would have grounded all flights out of O’Hare, and any pilot caught in the air in such a soup certainly would’ve needed a week at a nervous hospital, or at least a stiff drink, just to calm him down afterward.

But there I sat, my bored face stuck in the window, staring out at the boring clouds, so confident that the pilot knew the runway was there, as complacent with that belief as when I take my sock off that there’ll be five toes wiggling at me from the end of my foot.

And now I’m home, safe, and concerned only with important things. Things like the hopes that the Tigers will pull it out and clip the Cardinals’ wings. Things like being the closest to prayer I’ve been in over 25 years for the Bears to have a Super Bowl team this year. Things like hoping both of you have stuck it out and read my post this far, and not being pissed off at me because there’s no payoff.

A Soft, Warm Fuzzy

Her plump, dark brown face was at my window seemingly out of nowhere in the darkness, and startled me. I had an awareness that she was the same one I had seen near the dumpsters moments earlier, along with two other people, when I came out of the PetSmart store with the thirty-pound bag of dog food slung over my shoulder.

The other two people were children, a boy and a girl, neither older than ten years.

She spoke, but I could not hear. City-dweller alarm bells were going off in my ears. She was in violation of my vehicle's personal space. Talking. But I could not hear. I knew what she wanted, but what I wanted was to get home. I rolled my window down a crack, my psyche unable to be so callous as to ignore her.

"What?" I said, disrespectfully.

Her voice came out in a monotone, a line seemingly rehearsed and delivered by a bad actor. "Please sir could you spare some change sir for I could buy my kids some food we have nothing to eat at home and we hungry a dime a quarter a dollar..."

"Clever ploy," I thought as my eyes darted first to the boy, and then to the girl, both fidgeting like bored kids fidget, neither looking famished, neither looking embarrassed that their mother was begging in a parking lot. "Using the kids kicks it up a notch."

On the even chance that the woman, herself overweight, was telling the truth about their plight, I caved. They were worth lightening my wallet by the weight of a dollar. I opened my wallet and frowned at the lone bill tucked away there.

I felt the power shift to the woman. I had opened my wallet, I was committed to giving her something, and I was struck by how absurd it would be for me to ask if she could break a twenty. Feeling slightly desperate, my eyes scanned the parking lot. About a hundred yards away I saw the bright red letters above the door of the discount grocery, Cub Foods.

"Look," I said to the woman while avoiding eye contact, "all I have is a twenty." I looked back at Cub Foods, heard its suggestion, and I forwarded it.

"Can I buy you some food? What do you need?"

It is an old, 1930s B-movie cliché, but it is also the truth. In response to my question the woman's eyes widened brightly, white contrasting powerfully against the black of the night, the brown of her skin. "OH! Thank you sir! Thank you! Some ground beef and some cheese and a loaf of bread will feed us tonight sir that would be wonderful sir I thank you so much..."

"Okay," I said, pointing toward the grocery store. "Meet me by the entrance of the Cub Foods."

The woman gathered up her children, and I pulled out of the slot and steered my car toward the grocery store.

At the door I confirmed her grocery list, and then I headed toward the door.

"And please, sir, if it's not too much trouble, could you get me some laundry detergent for my kids could have clean clothes for school tomorrow?"

She had passed my test. She had asked for money so she could feed her kids, and I had countered with an offer to buy them food. Her enthusiastic response had sold me, so I did not, I could not refuse her additional request, though I did feel she was taking advantage of my charity, just a little.

In the store I picked up a pound and a half of ground beef, a pound of sliced American cheese and a loaf of white sandwich bread. I also grabbed two large cans of soup, and I debated getting a candy bar for each of the kids, and then decided against it for fear that the kids might just want to eat the candy and forego the opportunity for some real nutrition.

As I roamed the aisles of Cub Foods, I felt a surge of something in my chest, and then in my throat. And suddenly I was on the verge of tears. The woman's response had been counter to my expectations. She preferred a gift of food to a handful of change. She had given the right answer to the one-question test I had given her, and now I was in the rush of knowing I was doing the right thing the right way for someone less fortunate.

I stepped out into the cool evening air half expecting her and the kids to be gone, either disbelieving me, or shooed away by store security. But they were there. I raised the plastic grocery bags for her to see.

"All that's for me? Oh! Thank you sir! God bless you! God bless you, sir!" She clutched at the bag as she praised me, yet I was still unable to look her in the eye. "Come on, kids! Let's go home," she said as she turned away from me, and then she spun once more. "Thank you sir! God bless!" Again with her back to me, she disappeared into the night.

I walked to my car a bit lighter in my step, and with pride in my chest. In my reluctance to hand her a twenty-dollar bill for fear that I'd never see my nineteen dollars in change, I had instead spent fifteen dollars and change, and fed a family...perhaps twice.

When you feel the impulse to give to someone begging for spare change because he's hungry, and you have the time, opportunity and money, offer to give him food instead. If he accepts your offer, then you know you've done the right thing by helping to feed the truly hungry. If he refuses your offer and insists on cash, then you're still doing the right thing by keeping one person away from the alcohol or drugs that a few more coins might help them obtain.

It does them good. It does you good.

Mourning

Recently an assignment required that I get some shots of automobile dealerships in the Chicago area. I had to get a smattering of everything from an auto mall to a multi-line dealer to as wide a variety of manufacturer logos as possible to the cheesiest-looking, shadiest-looking used car dealership I could find.

The only place where I know my way around to such a plethora of sights is the area where I grew up, in the south suburbs. It was raining when I left the house, so there wasn't much promise for the day. The rain fell hard when I entered the tollway, and was still falling when I stopped at the Hinsdale Oasis for a tinkle and a Sausage McMuffin with Egg value meal. The rain hadn't let up when I went back out to my car, nor in the entire drive down to Matteson.

I couldn't shoot, so I decided to use the time to scout locations on the off chance that the rain would let up, and then I wouldn't waste more time looking for locations when I could be shooting them instead. I found the auto mall right where i had left it last, and it was chock full of cars. I drove around it, stopping at points and looking out my windows at various compositions in my head, trying to imagine how it would look under a blue sky and sunshine.

I needed to call a co-worker, the producer who had sent me on this little jaunt, so in the interest of safety, I pulled in to the parking lot of Lincoln Mall in Matteson. The first thing I noticed was that the Lincoln Mall cinema had been torn down some time ago, as the spot where the building had stood was now a patch of asphalt integrated into the former cinema parking lot. I had seen innumerable films there in my adolescence, the most memorable of them "Killer Clowns From Outer Space." And now it's gone.

I drove on toward the building that encompassed the mall itself, and toward what I always considered the main entrance, that door between the old anchor retailers, Wieboldt's department store and Montgomery Ward, that door closest to the video game arcade that once had racing bumper cars at the rear of the space. Wieboldt's had closed many, many years ago, and the space it had occupied stood empty forever. And now? Montgomery Ward was gone, too. Not just the recently defunct chain, but THE BUILDING! GONE! Half of Lincoln Mall has been torn down. HALF!! All that is left now is Sears, of all things -- now in the former Wieboldt's space, and the Carson, Pirie, Scott store, still there since the mall opened in the early 1970s.

I felt a hole forming in my chest. This was one of my haunts; "stomping grounds," as my father would say. Sure, it had come on hard times recently, with anchor stores going away or going under, but still! I felt as if a good friend had died, and I was the last to hear about it.

After the shock wore off, I called my co-worker and told him of my plan...if it ever stopped raining. And I continued to scout.

The example I had in my head for the "shady" used car dealer is actually in the town where I grew up. Back in the late years of the 19th century, the economic center of Bloom Township was incorporated as the city of Chicago Heights, honoring that burgeoning metropolis a mere 25 miles away to the north by taking that city's name as part of her own. Only 14 years later, residents in the southern reaches of Chicago Heights -- by then known affectionately (or not) as "da Heights" -- unsatisfied with their city, organized successfully and seceded, forming their own village and, reaching deep into the heaviest brains available to name their new town, came up with South Chicago Heights, a name that, perhaps, doomed the village to forever remain a footnote to its namesake. In the collective mind of most residents in the area, South Chicago Heights has always easily folded into Chicago Heights, so for what it's worth, I grew up in "da Heights."

I had as typical a childhood, as typical an adolescence and as typical a coming of age as just about any kid. I never had any burning itch to leave "South Heights," as it is known -- or "Soddeights," as it is pronounced in the local tongue -- but to get anywhere in the career I had chosen, I knew I would have to leave. I went back there after my time in the service, lived there, technically, while I attended Southern Illinois University, and moved back in after graduation and for two more years afterward until someone within my chosen field decided to hire me, at which time I moved away, back to Southern Illinois.

That was almost 14 years ago. In that time I moved again, to south Georgia, and I returned "home," living now in Chicago. I changed jobs four times. I married. And my father sold the house in South Heights. Rare has been the occasion for me to return, as I no longer have any immediate family living there, and when the occasion does arise, it's usually a drive through on the way to somewhere else. On this day, I had time to kill.

I headed east on the street with three names. U.S. Route 30 is known -- in Illinois, at least -- as The Lincoln Highway. It's certainly so in Chicago Heights. It is also 14th Street. I cut across a corner of Park Forest to get to 26th Street, the border between Chicago Heights and South Chicago Heights, and turned south to swing past my old grade school, and then south on Chicago Road. So many buildings and houses that exist in my childhood memory are now gone or so sadly in disrepair they might as well be torn down. Fortunately for my heart, the old Farrago former homestead still stands, humble but proud. I headed north again and did a loop around the high school, a majestic building erected during the Great Depression, with the main entrance guarded by impressive concrete statues designed by the man who designed the Jefferson nickel, and entering its 25th year on the National Register of Historic Places.

South and east again, still through the rain, to Marnell's Drive-in, home of one of Chicagoland's greatest Italian roast beef sandwiches...or so I thought. Either the recipe has changed, or my memory has. I was sadly disappointed.

From Marnell's I headed to where my father's old barber shop was, now operated only one day a week by the woman he sold it to, and, I'm certain, no longer providing the service to the neighborhood that my father did. I sat in the main attraction the building has to offer, an old-school tavern to which the barber shop is merely an adjoining room, and chatted with the owner of the building and tavern, my father's former landlord. I ordered a beer and was not allowed to pay for it, thanks to a friend of my father's, one of many of his friends...most of his friends...who keep the place alive. This friend used to own a business on Chicago Road, a business I walked past every day on my way to junior high. He lamented all the businesses, all the great buildings that have disappeared to municipal apathy and abandonment.

And that's when it sank in. I had long harbored the thought, long denied it, and hoped it would go away. But the old man's words brought it home: Chicago Heights is dying. The relentless rain outside seemed to amplify the moment. My eyes had seen it on my drive around town. My eyes had been seeing it since my return from the military, but my heart refused to believe it. A population's children grow up and move away, and a community stagnates. Only the poor stay, as they don't have much choice. Fewer taxes are collected, school referenda are defeated by the tax-paying empty-nesters, teachers leave or are let go, and the children remaining swirl around the drain. Factories close. Businesses close. Veteran workers retire, and there are no younger workers to replace them. A town that was once an industrial dynamo, an exclamation point on the boom that made Chicago, is now gasping in the dust of its own storied past.

Along Lincoln Highway in the west end stand the shells and empty lots where once stood a row of three or four auto dealers and a locally owned department store, all now either shut down or moved away. The building that was forever in my memory a K-Mart closed, then reopened as a Cub Foods, then closed and reopened as a thrift store, then closed and is now gone, a flat, empty, open lot. Beside it stands an empty shell, once a Handy Andy hardware center, then a Builder's Square, then the nothing it's been for years. It's the same in places all over town. Buildings boarded up or missing all together, the once dazzling smile of a young beauty, now faded and marred by rotted or missing teeth.

The rain finally stopped, my beer glass was dry. It was just past noon, and I had work to do. I said good-bye to my dad's friends and hopped in the car to the first location, a place that, in my mind, passed as a "shady" used car lot. I headed west, back toward the auto mall, as the sun began to peek through the clouds, and I was steeped in the feeling that I had just left a funeral. I had met friends. I had reminisced. I was sad, and I sensed the duty to move on.

Maybe it is closure. My mother passed away just as my career called me. In my absence, my father progressed from "senior" to "elderly," sold the home I grew up in, sold the home he had gutted and rebuilt by himself, and has now moved in with my sister.

I'll be drawn back to "da Heights," the hollow shell of the memories of my youth, but I'm certain it'll be more as one is drawn to the grave of a deceased loved one.

To pay respects.

To remember.

To mourn.

A Minute Minute of Musical Minutia

I've done it again. I took one of the perennial little ditties I've kept in my brain and given it the Garage Band treatment. I was, however, inspired on this one by the fact that it actually has a discernible rhythm (which I obscured by attempting to use rhythm instrument voices).

I titled it Spanish Influence because, frankly, the chords remind me of Spanish music. But what the hell do I know?

An accomplished musician will hear the uneven tempo... Well, now that I've mentioned it, even a musical idiot will hear it. Nonetheless, I was quite surprised with the sound, and even moreso surprised when I realized that, yes, I created it.

Please listen, reflect and let me know what you think (notice I didn't write "enjoy?" I didn't want to get your hopes up).

Damsel

What is it, eons after we emerged from caves and the forests, ages since we shed the suits of armor, that still drives men to come to the aid of damsels in distress? No longer is it snarling, snaggle-toothed beasts or heinous evil-doers posing the threat, yet we men still feel that pulse in our chests when a fair lass in our midst is vexed.

Or do we?

So I was shaving. Pardon the visual; it’s necessary for the purposes of the story. I was standing at the bathroom sink, naked, and shaving. There was a light tap at the door and Mrs. Farrago opened it gently. With great anxiety, she told me of how her morning ritual of preparing our birds’ food had been interrupted by the disturbing sight of a “huge” centipede in the kitchen sink. Naturally, this heaving beast sensed Mrs. Farrago’s desire to see it dead, so it took refuge under a dirty dish of some sort, certainly to formulate a plan to capture her and torture her until she relented to become its wife.

What is it about a man – perhaps not a burly, manly man, but your average regular guy kind of man…say, a man like me, for instance – who would throw himself in front of a moving bus if it would protect his woman from harm, who would wave his juicy, fleshy forearm in the face of a pit bull if it meant his woman’s skin would remain unmarred, who would offer himself up in the illusion of a fight to be pummeled by the burly, manly man who had questioned his woman’s honor, yet who breaks out in a blanching wave of goose-bumps at the mere mention of the word “centipede?”

“Well, maybe turn on the hot water, and then when it’s hot enough fill a cup, and then pour the water on it. That should kill it pretty quickly,” I offered my fair lass.

“But it’s UNDER something…” she countered. “And it’s HUGE,” she reminded me, needlessly.

I could see her distress, the fear in her eyes. But I was shaving. And naked.

There aren’t many things – save for possibly a 100-foot-tall redwood tree, engulfed in flames and falling right in my direction, something like that – which would make me scream like a little girl, but a “huge,” leggy, fast-moving creature from the black depths of the earth making for my toes as if they were in its diet plan is certainly one of them, especially – and I know he couldn’t jump up there without some help – especially if I’m naked!

“Maybe use the sprayer thingie. That’ll get ‘im,” I encouraged her, nakedly, from behind the bathroom door.

“But I…” she halted, an image in her head stopped her from speaking.

I knew the image. In order to accomplish any of my suggestions, she had to reach across the basin, at which point she was certain the creature with the fangs of a wolverine would leap up and climb into an ear and eat her brain from one side to the other. Okay, that was MY image, but I’m sure hers was just as comforting.

“You really want me to do this, don’t you?” I asked her, the humoring smile on my face as fake and forced as fake and forced can be.

My fair lady closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and she turned away from me, her hero no more, as she steeled herself and walked to the kitchen to face the battle that lay before her.

I closed the door and continued shaving.

A few moments later there was another tap at the door, and when I opened it she presented me with her kill, squished and wadded up in a thick – THICK – tuft of paper towels, a look of self-pride…or was that a look of disdain aimed at me?

Whatever. She killed it, I didn’t scream like a little girl, and I finished shaving relatively undisturbed.

Flare-Up

I wish brain doctors could come up with the reason why certain memories fire through decades of burial, at the most incongruous times.

I grew up in an economically eclectic neighborhood. We were the poor Italians. There were a couple of comfortable Italian families, one or two poor German families, at least one middle-class German family... Now these weren't immigrant Italians and Germans...and Poles and Slovaks...but the children -- and probably grandchildren -- of these immigrants, just like my father is.

Right next door to us to the south was the only Mexican family on the block, the Fonsecas. I don't know if the mother and the father had come FROM Mexico, or if they were the children of immigrants, but they spoke Spanish to each other, Mrs. Fonseca speaking only Spanish, and Mr. Fonseca a heavily accented, very broken English, except when he was speaking Spanish to his family or other Hispanic friends. They were poor as well.

Theirs was a large family, just like ours, but with four boys and two girls. All of the Fonseca children are older than I am, all but one of or beyond high school age when I was still in diapers. The one exception is Ben, his father's namesake, so he was called, simply, "Junior."

Junior is one year older than I am, and, with no other boys on the block close to us in age, it was almost required of us to be friends. Junior and I had our ups and downs, as friends often do, with his sensitivities and mine often working against each other. As I have written in the past, my family was poor, but I never knew that. I have the same understanding about the Fonsecas. It seems to me now that Junior's family made him more aware of their circumstances than my family made me aware of ours. Mr. Fonseca was a laborer/entrepreneur. He owned a tractor, the kind you might see on a very small farm. In the summer he attached a mower unit to the back and earned money mowing people's fields. In the winter he attached a blade to the thing somewhere and plowed people's driveways and parking lots. In between the plowing and mowing jobs, his garage was employed with fixing cars. Mr. Fonseca did a fair amount of this work, but his sons did quite a lot of it. And as Junior got older, more and more was required of him to help the family earn money. As soon as he could reach the pedals on the tractor, he was mowing the fields. When he was strong enough and had enough practice, he was doing body work on cars.

But I digress. Junior was an employee of his father's enterprise almost as early as he was a member of the family. I never understood this responsibility to his father, and it often affected our friendship.

Junior had some cousins who lived about a mile away, in the next suburb to the north. As I recall, there were five brothers, all ranging in age from about a year younger than I, to about eight years younger. I didn't like these kids. When they came over to visit the Fonsecas they played differently than any of my other friends; the older ones were mean to me, they often spoke Spanish to each other, looking at me, and then laughing...and Junior was at these times in on the joke. Any play with them was usually short-lived, as I wound up either fighting with one or more of them, or I would just walk away and go inside my house.

One summer day -- I figure I was about 9 or 10 years old -- Junior and I saw a kid across the street operating a lemonade stand, and we thought that what that kid deserved was competition! The next day we pulled my wagon out of the shed, and I procured the can of lemonade powder from my mother's cupboard. Junior supplied the water, the Dixie cups and the location -- the sidewalk in front of his house...as that's as far as his water hose would reach. He also brought out some newspaper to lay in the wagon to soak up any spills. It also worked to hide our "till," the money we were raking in selling the cups of lemonade at a nickel each.

We had been working all day and probably had about a whole dollar's worth of loose change underneath the newpaper when, in mid-afternoon, Junior's cousins poured out of their father's car at the curb. We made our sales pitch, and one of them had a quarter. I poured the drink and gave it to him, and he gave his quarter to Junior. Junior flipped up the sheet of newspaper to make the change, exposing our fortune to his cousins' eyes. I don't know now if it's hindsight, or if it was in that moment, but I resented that Junior had flashed our till to them. It seemed inevitable, I guess, but within a few seconds one of the cousins violently threw aside the newspaper -- and the cups and the pitcher of lemonade -- to make a grab for our money. I was so angry he did it that I can't remember if he got any or all of it. From that day forward I refused to have anything to do with those kids, vowing to myself to just leave whenever they showed up.

I recall that the Chicago winters of the mid- to late-1970s were pretty harsh. As happens too often in snow-belt cities, poor people live in inadequately heated homes and they resort to alternative methods to keep warm, some of which are deceptively unsafe. And so it was one evening that following winter when Junior's cousins' family, living in a converted garage across the street from the gradeschool they all attended, went to sleep one winter evening with one of these alternative heating methods in use. I don't remember what it was found to have been -- a space heater or an open oven. Whatever it was, something near it caught fire, and the small apartment was rapidly consumed by the flames, and all but their father were consumed with it.

The memory of this event came to me yesterday while driving to work. Nothing triggered it, that I'm aware of. Later in the day I caught a news headline about a family of 5 who died in a Missouri fire. I found it odd to have thought of Junior's cousins in the morning, and then to see the news story later in the day.

In the aftermath of the tragedy I failed to see the depth of Junior's pain over the loss of his cousins. I could only remember them as I knew them, with dread and animosity. I made a comment about them, something to the effect of how we wouldn't have to worry about them stealing our lemonade money any more, and that deeply hurt Junior, another dent in the finish of our friendship.

Any time their visages swim up to the viewing screen of my memory, I first remember the lemonade stand incident, and how angry it made me. Then I remember that their lives didn't progress much farther past that moment, and that their lives ended in a hell of terror and pain. And I always feel regretful that I hated them so much as a kid, that I made that stupid comment to Junior, and that I don't think of their tragic deaths BEFORE I get to the lemonade stand.

But I guess we remember certain events chronologically, and that serves us to remember life's lessons that way.

Rare Perfection

Have you ever had one of those days, or one of those projects, where it seems that, no matter what you do, things just work out perfectly?

I took the day off Friday and had planned, among other things, to go grocery shopping and have a steak dinner on the table and ready for Mrs. Farrago's return from work. As it turned out, I spent entirely TOO much time loafing, and ran myself out of time to be able to do anything right, but Mrs. Farrago called from the office to tell me that she had to work late, and she really wasn't hungry, anyway.

Her elderly father, who lives with us, who is dealing with Parkinson's Disease and therefore doesn't always think in a straight line, offered to make a grocery run regardless, and said that we could have the steaks on Saturday instead. I agreed.

Had I gone to the store, I would have picked out the best looking cuts of ribeye, in my opinion the most flavorful cut of steak for the money. And I would have spent just shy of an eternity opening the tops of the corn husks to make sure that the kernels weren't shriveled in any of the ears of corn I picked out. But Mrs. Farrago's father picked the steaks -- top sirloin -- which I feared would be tough as leather by the time they came off the grill. I also noticed that none of the corn husks had been pried open, so it was anybody's guess as to how withered or worm-eaten the corn would be when it got to the table.

Saturday afternoon I fired up the gas grill and started prepping the food. When I husked the corn I saw that each of the three ears was completely unblemished all the way to the tip. Not ONE SHRIVELED KERNEL! Our method for corn-on-the-cob-on-the-grill is to completely husk the ear, then wrap it in aluminum foil and lay it directly on the grate. With the corn over the rear burner, I cut the rind of fat/gristle off of the steaks and noticed that each eight-ounce cut appeared to be a little more marbled than I expected. I ground just a little black pepper on one side of each steak and then put them on the grill, peppered side down. Then I ground another light dusting of pepper on the bare side. All three burners were on high, and I left them that way to sear the steaks two minutes on one side and two minutes on the other. I flipped the steaks again, rolled the corn 180 degrees, and I turned the two front burners to medium and closed the lid.

I went inside fully intent on returning in five minutes to flip the steaks and roll the corn, but I was distracted, and it was probably more like six or seven minutes. A minute or two doesn't sound like much, but it's surprising what that length of time over a flaring, flaming grill can do to a fine piece of meat. I ran out to the grill to find just the bare minimum of flames flaring up to lick at the steaks. I turned them each one last time, admiring the deep brown bars that the grill slats had seared into the steaks. The flesh looked just a little too crispy, however, and I feared that I had ruined at least one of them.

Another five minutes over the covered heat and I plucked the steaks and the corn off of the grill and brought them inside. Just to make sure, I cut open each steak to make sure it was done. Each looked a little too pink, but not raw.

We sat down to dinner and I put the first morsel of meat into my mouth, and I could not believe it was I who had cooked this humble little piece of bovine flesh to such tender, juicy, medium-rare perfection!! It was no Filet Mignon, but it certainly changed my mind about sirloin! And the corn! It was sweet, and tender, and cooked just right to golden perfectness! It made mundane old butter seem a heavenly nectar!

All too soon it was over. We three sat there panting and practically licking our plates clean and wishing each steak had been about three ounces more, each ear of corn about two inches longer!

I am not a cook. I am grillmaster by default, since Mrs. Farrago will not go near the grill. I have a repertiore of burgers, steak, salmon and chicken. None of my preparations have fancy names around them, just what they is; I am a blue-collar griller. And too often I burn one or more parts of the meal. But not Saturday. Saturday the god of fire or the ghost of Julia Child or something smiled favorably down upon me and granted me that elusive culinary perfection.

Now if only such an occurrence could flare up like a cold or a rash, and last for days....

Travelog San Francisco

Having been there for any duration worth mentioning only twice before, and at those times my freedom to roam dictated by my work schedule, I looked to this vacation as one who had never been to San Francisco. There were things and places I had seen in my earlier visits, but I had no time to explore them before. This time I was there for fun, and Mrs. Farrago was with me!




We arrived Sunday afternoon, July 16, 2006, checked in to our hotel, the White Swann Inn, and took in the main avenue of Chinatown. In the evening we enjoyed a quiet dinner at Café Claude, nestled in the alley named Claude.





On Monday we met Rik, the Golden Gate Greeter provided by our hotel. He took us out to Haight-Ashbury and to Golden Gate Park. It was a long, though thoroughly enjoyable, 3-hour walk. In the evening Mrs. Farrago and I dined on sushi at Sushi-man, right next door and perilously close to the Nob Hill theatre, with its all male, nude review, featuring Big Giovanni.




Tuesday we walked UP Mason Street to California Street, where we took the cable car down to Market Street. From there we walked the Embarcadero to Pier 41 and our scheduled departure to Alcatraz Island. The historical building there that was the famous prison is an experience that must be had. Don’t let anyone discourage you by saying it’s just a tourist attraction. It’s an interesting, vital piece of the city’s history. And save yourself a few extra bucks by booking directly with Blue and Gold Fleet, as they’re the only ones with docking rights at Alcatraz.




Tuesday evening, due to the fact that the Hyde Street cable car line was not working, and there was a dearth of buses heading in the direction we wanted to go, Mrs. Farrago and I climbed four blocks up Hyde Street to view Lombard Street, the “crookedest street” in the country, perhaps the world. Then we climbed another four blocks, turned right and walked down four more blocks until we arrived at The Matterhorn, a Swiss fondue restaurant. It was during these afternoon walks that I discovered I would rather climb up the hills than walk down, as walking down caused me considerable shin pain. Why? Who knows?





Wednesday, after an inexorably long wait for a rental car (a Mustang convertible!), we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and up to Napa Valley, stopping in the town of Napa for a brief wine tasting before heading up to St. Helena and our Bed & Breakfast, the Ink House. Dinner was at Cindy’s Back Street Kitchen, and was quite delicious.





Thursday morning we visited the Rombauer (think “The Joy of Cooking”) winery for a tour of their half-mile of man-dug caves and a tasting. For lunch we wound up back at Cindy’s, and it was just as delicious. That afternoon was a tour and tasting at the Hall winery in St. Helena by a friend who works there. Thursday night found us at Michael Chiarello’s Tra Vigne Ristorante, stuffing down the delicious veal and papardelle dishes despite having not yet fully digesting lunch!





Friday morning was a quick tour of Hall Rutherford winery with our same friend, and then we were on our way back to San Francisco by way of the Sonoma Valley which, in our opinion, was far inferior to the Napa Valley. Dinner with friends at Scoma’s restaurant at Fisherman’s Wharf, and to our hotel near the airport to continue digesting Wednesday’s dinner!!



Saturday, July 22, 2006, was a late wake-up, turn in the car and hop on the plane back home.

San Francisco has a quirky vitality. Her attitude shaped by – and in spite of – calamity, she is a stubborn city, audaciously perching on hillsides and precipitous streets despite hardship and extra effort required to traverse them. Residents seem oblivious to the hardship, effort and hazards, not to mention her contrary and somewhat bizarre weather patterns. An outsider, winded from a one-block, 30 percent grade, 50-foot climb in altitude, may at first find it difficult to understand one’s love for this city. But it is there, as fierce a passion as anyone can have for a patch of earth.



It is her vitality that seduces a visitor. How can cold summer weather, near-vertical traffic arteries and the ever-present threat of “the big one” win over the hearts and minds of so many people? I don’t know, but there she is, that glowing, golden City By the Bay, bustling and humming, clinging to those impossibly steep hills like bees to a hive.

A Lesson of The Bahamas

My recent trip to The Bahamas was a personally very revealing experience for me. Superficially I learned that, no matter how far I’ve come on the career journey, no matter how well I may have managed to marry, I ain’t rich. The Atlantis Resort as a vacation destination requires one to be very well-to-do or unconcerned with mounting credit card debt!

But I learned a philosophical lesson about myself, something I had not anticipated learning, nor had I even suspected would be a topic I’d encounter.

It’s difficult to say this without sounding racist. A personal pride of mine is that I am fairly open minded – or at least I try to be – about most things. A person’s race, gender, sexual preference, religious beliefs or other personal traits do not affect how I treat that person personally or professionally. So I am reluctant to publish, as it were, something that sounds patently racist: I generally have never found African-American women attractive. There have been a few exceptions, but the general feeling has prevailed. It was always a point of potential personal embarrassment for me as an open-minded, easy-going, white man of the world.

I wasn’t oblivious to the fact, nor was I uncomfortable to know, that the population of the Bahamas is 85% black. The Bahamians are an English-speaking people, having gained their independence from Great Britain only 33 years ago. Most have an island accent of varying thickness, but I mistook a lot of them for Americans, their speech was so unaccented.

After a few days of interacting with hotel staff for various reasons, I became more aware of the occasional attraction I felt towards some of the female staff. I am a flirt in general, always trying to get a laugh or a smile from any woman, so it came as a surprise when I felt the tug in the tummy when the ol’ libido was tickled. She was fairly dark-skinned, with brown eyes and relaxed pitch-black hair, and the “typical” African facial features. In the past I had observed within myself that most attractions I had ever felt for African-American women was for the lighter skinned women, an obvious indicator of my preference for women of my own race and, again, something beyond my control which I have not been proud of.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t screw around. However, I am aware that my male instincts are still intact, and that my brain and my body still respond in the presence of an attractive woman.

And there I stood, before a woman of a type I had rarely found attractive, finding myself attracted. I couldn’t figure out what it was. She was fairly tall, slim, with a great smile and bright, friendly eyes, all the earmarks of a woman I usually find attractive, plus the dark skin. It gnawed at me for a couple of days.

And then it dawned on me. All my life it has had nothing to do with the color of a woman’s skin. Where I had been experiencing my hang-up was with attitude.

Again, at the risk of sounding racist, there is a certain percentage of Americans of African heritage who, due to life experiences or parental or peer examples, grow up with, or adopt, a particular attitude about the world and about their place in it. These individuals cultivate a pattern of speech different from that of other Americans around them – black as well as white – despite their geographical location or their economic position. For lack of a better description, I call it “street” slang. I don’t claim to know a reason for this, but only to state the fact of a distinct sub-cultural difference that sets them apart. This smaller percentage appears averse to a broader intercultural assimilation, rather preferring to stick together socially and culturally, remaining largely separate socially and psychologically from the larger group. The same can be said for any number of white sub-cultures in the United States, I’m sure.

It is this “street” attitude that has been the turn-off for me all these years.

What made itself clear to me in the Bahamas was that there is no “street” culture there. No “street” attitude. Theirs is a population that, in essence, is THE population. They are not subject to a minority representation in a larger entity. They were never subjected to a “separate but equal” existence. They were and are the people. They were and are the government. The success or failure of their society is on their shoulders.

As this realization opened itself to me I saw beyond just the attractive women, but to every local I encountered, and I realized that just about every one of them was friendly and courteous and, yes, beautiful, and not hung up on cultivating an image. My hang-up was – is – not so broad and ignorant and superficial as an aversion to the color of skin, but much more deep and complex, and perhaps just as ignorant; a failure to understand a culture within my own that is as foreign to me as the Chinese.

There is no easy way to describe this feeling, this perception. Reading back over what I’ve written I can’t help but feel that a reader would view me as racist as the average Ku Klux Klan member from 1950s Alabama. I certainly hope that’s not how I am perceived.

Whatever a reader thinks, whatever traits I may be unaware of or too afraid to notice, my visit to The Bahamas gave me a new insight to my view of the world, my view of ME. Where I thought for most of my life I had fallen short I was not falling short at all. I still have similar issues to work out in that area, but at least I believe now that the shortcomings in my social attitudes are much more intricate, more subjective rather than objective, than I ever thought they were.

If I can consider this lesson a step toward a better self-awareness, then I can consider it a step forward in my journey to become a better, more whole person.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fungus

I have been remiss and lazy over the past few weeks. I returned from the Bahamas to a holiday week and a little extra time off for all the extra time I put in on the road. A couple of weeks, a couple of short trips, and then one week of vacation with Mrs. Farrago in San Francisco. In all that time Mrs. Farrago got me wrapped up in one of her new hobbies, a little web site called Flashback Alternatives. It's a free, all-request internet radio station. If you like '80s New Wave/Alternative music, you'll probably like this site. What's had me hooked is the tag-board, a chat-room of fellow listeners to the station. It's mostly all new music to me, as I never really cared for '80s music in the decade that spawned it. And it has fed my jones for writing, providing me the instant gratification of instant feedback.

What it doesn't provide, however, is the freedom or space to wax nostalgic or poetic, or to rant in the uncensored fashion that Blogger.com allows.

So, if I was ever gone, I am back.

And I have a few things to say.

(I tremble with fear at the monumental stack of blogs I have before me to catch up on....)

Island Attitude

For anyone who's thinking I haven't been posting much lately, or who's wondering why I've taken so long to respond to comments:

I've been in the Bahamas since June 22, and the "high-speed" internet at the hotel (The Atlantis, in case you're wondering) reminds me of the heyday of "fast" internet, when we all logged on at the breakneck speed of 9600bps! Mrs. Farrago suggested that the internet is moving at island pace. "No problem, maahn!" Hence, it's a little annoying to wait for the stupid pages to load, even more so when I'm supposed to have a high-speed connection.

So I'll check in on Blogger only once every few days until I get home July 3, but I may not respond immediately due to the fact that I could be home before anything I send actually posts!

Take care! Send money!

Eulogy For My Father

First off, he isn’t dead. I’m a firm believer that if you love someone, you should tell him or her that you do before the day comes when it will forever be too late to do it. Or if you think someone is great or special, you should tell that person why you think so sooner rather than later. Or tell the world.

My father was born in 1923, the fifth child to Italian immigrants. By age five he had lost his father to blood poisoning, the result of an otherwise minor accident at the steel mill where he worked. The following year, his widowed mother, his six siblings, and the rest of the nation tumbled headlong into the Great Depression. Already dirt poor, they were probably better able to cope than those of middle income in that day, for they already knew how to live on next to nothing. My grandmother had a house. Her husband had nearly finished building it when he fell ill. The home was completed by local workers paid by associates of one Alphonse Capone, a great story in itself, to be told some other time.

My father, and others of his generation, grew up learning how to survive. At times his family had to endure meals of jelly-and-onion sandwiches because that was all there was to eat. My grandmother was a strict woman and her methods, though probably frowned upon today, brought up respectable, law-abiding citizens. There weren’t many things that a swift hand or an accurately wielded broomstick couldn’t correct.

My father was the only of his mother’s children to graduate high school. He and four of his brothers fought in, and returned intact from, World War II. It was one of his duties in the Army that eventually led him to his own enterprise – barber. Upon his discharge he did factory work until he determined that he could succeed as a barber. He also married and began a family. Ten years and six children after getting married, he opened his own shop, one block from the home where he grew up.

I can’t imagine the challenges he faced and overcame: the Great Depression through his entire childhood. Four years away from home fighting a war. Learning, without his own father’s example, how to be a father as his family grew. Raising with his wife five of his seven children through the1960s and losing not one to drugs or Vietnam.

I came along in the ‘60s. I am largely ignorant to the family’s rich history in its sixteen years before I was born. My oldest sibling had moved out and joined the military practically before I had any cognitive knowledge of his existence. But the remaining siblings demonstrated a respect for my father that I had no option, no other example, than to follow. From the day I realized that other kids had fathers, too, I have been somewhat in awe of mine.

As my father I always knew him to be stern and strict, and the disciplinarian of our family, though my siblings will tell anyone who will listen that I, the youngest, had it easier than any of them. He dealt justice with a razor strop – three strips of leather clamped together at one end and used by a barber to condition a straight razor before shaving someone. He was never cruel with it, nor vicious. It was a plain and simple fact: if you misbehaved past his last warning, you got a swat or two across the rear with “the strap.” I don’t think contact with “the strap” ever hurt as much as knowing you had earned it.

I also always knew him to be a very funny comedian. During my kindergarten class’s spring picnic, mine was the only father to be a “room mother” for the event. The other kids made fun of me because my father came along, until we got to the park and every kid fought to play with him because he was so much fun. I’m sure he also managed to flirt with the teachers and the other kids’ mothers in between.

He often had me along when he visited with friends, and there was usually a lot of laughter – and foul language. I was always astounded at the two different people my father was, at home versus with friends. At home I never heard him say the ‘f’- word. With his friends, I never heard anyone say the ‘f’-word more! But it was always good-natured, always bracketed with laughter.

And he was generous. Since he had no money, all he could give you was his time and his expertise. As a young man, in order to survive, he had acquired many different skills – some with which to make money, and some with which to save it – which, later in life, he gave as a wealthy man would give money. If a friend’s mother or somebody needed some carpentry work done, or plumbing, or painting, or demolishing, my father was there, that jack of all trades, master of none. Sometimes he would accept money for his time or effort, other times he would not. If an elderly customer came to his shop for a haircut, he would refuse to let the customer pay, often insulting his friend in the process until he either accepted the money or let his friend leave the shop offended. If he heard a friend was in the hospital or laid up at home, he would go in the evening with his traveling barber kit to his friend once a week for as long as the person was laid up – man or woman – and provide a haircut with no expectation, no demand, of payment.

You could step into his barbershop to witness every waiting chair occupied, to hear a lively discussion on just about any topic – though his education was limited to high school, my father was always listening, always aware of the day’s current events, and he always had an opinion. And he always had a knack for opposing you on a topic, wrestling with you over it, and suddenly you’d find yourself arguing FOR his earlier point and against yours! And then, with all those people in the waiting chairs, he would finish with the person in the barber chair and then look at you and say, “You’re next.” The others in the waiting chairs would all look at you, and you’d realize that they’re all there for the conversation.

When times got tough, my father stepped up. During the late 1970s he had three part-time jobs in addition to his Tuesday-through-Saturday eight-hour days at the barbershop. He would lock the door to the shop by 5:30, but then finish the remaining customers who were waiting. He would stop at the bar adjoining his shop, run by the owner of the building, and have a beer or three, and then he would go home. After dinner he would then go to 20th Century Bowling Lanes where he ran the counter, tended bar and gave free bowling lessons until closing, usually around 12:30 or 1:00am. He’d then come home, sleep until 4:00am and get up to clean the office at a finance company. From there, around 6:00, he would go to a strip mall a few miles north and pick up trash and dump garbage cans into a dumpster. He would arrive home around 8:00am, lay down for a nap, and then he would open the shop again at 9:00.

To say the man had boundless energy would not be accurate, as he more often than not fell asleep within minutes of sitting down to watch a television show or football game, when he had the time to do so. More accurate would be to say that he had abnormally high determination and willpower. And patience. After 40 years of smoking, he quit – cold-turkey – once. He and my mother took out a second mortgage on our home so they could buy a lot with a dilapidated house near a river. On weekends and days off over the next seven or eight years or so, he pretty much single-handedly gutted the house, raised it onto cinder-blocks, and rehabbed it to quite a comfortable condition, if a little rustic and eclectic of décor.

Time has caught up with him, however. After cutting back his shop hours to three days a week for about 15 years, he finally sold the shop and retired completely, at age 81. The wear and tear of essentially 55 years of barbering have taken their toll, with numbness in his hands and feet, the result of irreversible nerve damage from the years of standing, and of holding vibrating clippers in raised arms. After nearly 20 years of living in the river house – most of them alone since my mother’s death in 1993 – and now unable to take care of it himself, he has sold it and moved in with one of my sisters.

The change was gradual, and maybe it was connected to his advance in age, but he went from being the rough, gruff, single-emotion disciplinarian of my youth, to a softer, gentler, more affectionate father in my adult years. I had only seen the man cry twice – at the funerals of his mother and of one of his brothers, about four years apart, in the early- to mid-1970s. He didn’t cry at sad movies. He didn’t cry at weddings. Tough as nails. Then there was the visit by my oldest brother, who had joined the military 15 years earlier for what had become his career. He brought with him his older child to meet her grandparents for the first time. It was a joyous event for the whole family in the summer after my high school graduation. When it was time for my brother to leave I was shocked to see my father first choke up as he said good-bye, and then break into sobs as he hugged my brother. I was moved to tears myself. The old man cracked! It was to be understood. This was his oldest child, someone he had only seen a few times in the past 15 years.

Nearly two years later I returned home from the first 18 weeks of my military stint, a brief break on my way into my future. I was only able to manage a week at home before I was to drive off to Montana. On the day of my departure it was almost a carbon copy of the day with my brother. And as my parents said good-bye, my father’s voice cracked, and tears welled up in his eyes. For ME?! It didn’t affect me until I arrived at my duty station in Montana three days later, that first night there, the first night of my real adult life. I lay there in bed, helpless to fight off the tears of homesickness, of loneliness, for how much I missed my family, and, now, for how much I realized my father missed me.

There’s a quote, by whom I don’t know, that goes something like, “He is not poor who has friends.” If this is true, then my father is one of the wealthiest men alive. Through his kindness, his sense of humor, and his endless generosity, he has collected more friends in his long life than anyone I know.

While I was growing up, there were things I resented about being his son. Other kids’ parents were wealthier. They had more toys, bigger houses. They were allowed to go places, to do things, to stay out at night to hours that my parents would not allow me. They went on family trips to places like Disney World. They had air conditioning in their homes.

But one evening juswt a few years back, while mingling with my elderly father and a few of his friends, one of the people nearer my age spoke to me in regard to my father. “You’re his son?” he asked.

I nodded.

“He is such a great man. It must be so incredible to have grown up with him as a father.” The man could not stop raving about how much he admired my father, how much he envied me my childhood with him. It was the first of several such exchanges, with several different people, over the period of a few years. That’s when I was struck by how many people, of all ages, love my father. It is not a massive fortune for which they admire him. It is not fame that draws them. He’s the genuine article. The real deal.

And so it is, a week late for Father’s Day, that I pay humble tribute to a man whom I admire beyond quantification, beyond the grasp of words, the greatest man nobody knows.

I Love You, Dad.