As a child, I made a life goal of living to 100 years old. I thought that if one lived that long he would be doing it right. He would have seen and done everything that the world had to offer. He would have found love, wealth, and happiness. He would be surrounded by loving friends and family.
I have a memory which frequently comes to mind. In it, I am getting ready to have breakfast after staying the night at my Grandma Solari’s house. She said that before I ate I had to go and wash my face. This was not the ritual at my house. Furthermore, I didn’t like her barking an order at me. I hadn’t spent much time at Grandma’s house and thus had never been close enough to be told what to do. I remember her making me wash my face with a coarse washcloth. After I was done, I tossed it down the laundry chute which led to a basket in the basement where a laundry basket was waiting to catch it.
Often, when washing my face with a coarse washcloth of my own, this memory surfaces. It’s funny the things we remember.
Grandma died a couple years ago. She was the last remaining grandparent of mine. She lived to age 95. She had been married to my grandfather all her life. He died a few years prior which afforded her an opportunity to enjoy some peace and quiet. I digress.
When I made this goal, I didn’t realize that not everyone would be coming with me- that living that long means that almost everyone you grew up with, siblings, friend, cousins, would die before you. I am 36 and almost half my family is deceased.
I think that a part of my goal was to one day be happy. I figured that a guy who lived to be 100 would figure out how to be happy. I remember having thoughts upon meeting a happy 25 year old, “when I am 25 then maybe I will have figured it out.” I remember seeing someone who was a good athlete and who was a year older than me and thinking “when I am that old I will be a good athlete.” I also did a similar thing with relationships: “when I am xx age I will have friends, like that guy.” Always some other time that now… always in the distant future… never here and now.
The past couple years I have really been forcing myself to slow down and to work in the here now. I found someone to love. This has been a big thing for me as for a long time I was much more comfortable living with “maybe someday.” This living in the “maybe someday” offers protection against the potential pain of today. It also, however eliminates any opportunity for real happiness.
Dave Matthews says in a song “everyday should be a good day to die.” I like this idea. Not sure if I still want to live to be 100 anymore. I’ll be good with 85 J.
I’d attack and he always seemed to have the perfect counter.
He’d attack and I would be done.
I left for the Navy at age 18 and didn’t get to see my dad much after that. I’d come home for the holidays and shuffle around from place to place. I’d give everyone a day: Mom a day, Dad a day, Sister a day. Didn’t have much time for chess and didn’t really think of it. Was too busy catching up or thinking about where else I might need to be.
About ten years later, my dad invited me to go spend some time up in the mountains of New Hampshire. He picked me up at LoganAirport on a busy Friday afternoon. He was pissed about the state trooper that refused to let him sit in his car at the curb to wait for me. Since there is no waiting lot nearby, you have to make a loop through a good part of Boston and come back around again. On any day, this is a pain. On a busy Friday afternoon, this is choke-a-trooper maddening.
Once we got on our way the usual “Dad you left your blinker on” ensued. I hate that I nitpick but I somehow can’t restrain myself. It was good to see him and within a couple minutes my native accent returned. People can’t help themselves to pick on how I have to pahk my cah in the back yahd.
The sunset was beautiful. We stopped for gas and then food at Chili’s. We made it to themotel by about 9. The air was cool and moist. In August, it doesn’t drop much below 85 at night in Florida. Here in the New Hampshire it was in the low 60’s.
We got settled in and I showed Dad my laptop. He was amazed at wifi in the hotel though didn’t much care for Squidbillies. Can’t say that I blame him though once again, I somehow can’t seem to restrain myself.
The next morning my dad woke up refreshed and I woke up irritable. I had forgotten the extent to which my father can snore. People do research to try to fix snoring like that. First thing on the list for the day: buy earplugs. We ate the continental breakfast at the motel which consisted of off-brand sugar cereal and blueberry Eggo’s. Dad commented on how good the waffles were and I replied “well, they’re just Eggo’s.”
We finished breakfast and drove to the center of town. My stomach hurt from traveling and I hadn’t slept much more than an hour. We got coffee and found the general store. I love towns that still have general stores. For those of you that have never been, they’re like hundred year old, well-maintained quick-stops with hardwood floors. I guess the Cracker Barrel gift shops are modeled after the old general stores.
Anyhow, I got earplugs at the general store. They were designed for dampening sound while shooting high-powered deer rifles. They should suffice to quiet Dad’s chainsawing.
After mainlining a half gallon of coffee I was good to go. We drove around the town and out on one the mountain roads. We stopped to take some pictures and saw a tree that was shaped like a heart. We both took pictures with our phones and sent them to our girls. Dad didn’t know his phone could do such a thing and was excited.
We cruised around for a bit longer and got some lunch. Restaurants and diners in the mountains are geared to look old-timey though they are all about the business here and now. Thousands of tourists must come through places like this each year, drinking in the beauty of the surroundings.
More coffee and I placate Dad with agreeing to go for a train ride on the Old Hobo Train. It’s a 1.5 hour round trip train ride on a stretch of track which was laid some 100+ years ago for carrying logs out of the NH forests. The ride takes us through some small quarries, over several streams and rivers, and through the beautiful stretches of the New England woods and countryside.
The conductor is a retired former conductor for the major railway in the area. He has ridden trains all his life. He sat at the open door of the back car, telling tales of the area and watching for cars as the tracks took us across the country roads. In between talking and making adjustments to the controls, he sat peacefully. He was exactly where he was supposed to be. I envy people that spend a satisfied life doing one thing.
After debarking, we head back to the motel to rest. At around it begins to rain. It’s a cold rain and we decide to stay in. Dad has a chess board.
All my life I wanted to beat my old man at chess.
We play. We make idle moves for a few minutes. “Check.” I smile smugly.
“Uncheck” he says melodically.
After a few more moves, “check.” I stare at him as if a bird at its prey.
“Uncheck” he sings and smiles at the board. “Your move” as he laughs at me. I sigh.
An opening. I look for counters and check each angle for how he will get out of my check this time. I see nothing but check again. Holy shit.
“Check.”
.
.
.
“Hmm” he says as he adjusts himself in his seat and clears his throat.
.
.
.
“You little beahstid.”
I gloat.
I laugh heartily.
I say something along the lines of “in your face old man.” We laugh and he congratulates me. We switch sides and set up the pieces for another game.
.
.
Win.
.
.
Win.
.
I find myself feeling a mixture of pride and guilt. When I was a kid, I’d occasionally get lucky and beat him. Now, I had clearly surpassed his ability. Something felt odd inside.
I played a lot while I was underway. Eighteen months of my life spent on ships afforded me an opportunity to see 12 countries, learn to play guitar, and improve my chess game. I struggled to improve my game to beat my dad though never necessarily with that intention at the forefront of my mind.
My dad never felt compelled to work on his game. He just lived his life, worked, and got older. My dad never knew of the sense of competition that I felt toward him. My dad never knew that I had researched strategies on the internet. My dad never knew that I went through what he must have gone through to one up his old man at something.
Or maybe he did.
It’s natural for us to want to best our parents at something. Maybe it satisfies some innate urge to improve upon the information from those that went before us. Maybe I’m just some smartass kid.
My dad lost well. He didn’t complain or stew but accepted his loss and complimented me on my game. He was just happy to have me around to spend time with and play some games of chess.
I left Massachusetts at age 18 because I felt I had to. As if it were yesterday, I remember that lonely bus ride from Plymouth to Boston, the flight to Chicago, and the man shouting orders at me as I stepped off the bus at Great Lakes Recruit Training Command. I remember standing naked at attention with 80 other people while being issued government underwear, socks, toothbrush and shower shoes (which evidently was the new name for flip flops). I remember having a sinking feeling in my stomach and asking myself what the hell I had gotten myself into. I had to leave. I had too much insecurity about just being me. I thought I needed to go away to prove to the world and myself that I could be a man.
It’s been seventeen years since I left home. I’ve done piles of stuff that my old man didn’t. I’ve served my country. I’ve graduated college. I’ve even flown an airplane.
After all these years, I think I’ve finally lost the desire to best my dad at stuff. I love him for who he is and I’m good with me today.
Looking forward to one day playing some more chess with Dad and maybe one day a with smartass one-upping punk kid of my own.
I was in the park with the dogs the other day and I heard bells chiming the hour. The wind was blowing from the northeast and brought the sound of a church or clock tower chiming Westminster. There is something very calming to me about hearing bells in the distance.
When I was a child, my family went to the small white church in the center of our town. The church was established in 1695 with the current building being constructed sometime in the early 1900’s. The church sits amidst 30 acres of land within which are the cemetery, the library, ball fields, the fire and police departments, town hall, and the town commons. The church bore a similar smell to the other older buildings in Plympton. This smell is hard to describe but unique to this area. Relatives of the Pilgrims and those who immediately followed early English settlers built this area. These are my people.
Our church has a steeple within which is a bell. I remember each morning that a few minutes prior to and at the conclusion of the service someone would ring the bell. At the conclusion of the Christmas Eve service the bell would be rung with great enthusiasm to celebrate that the birth of our lord was near (which as child meant that I needed to get to bed so I could awake to new sets of Legos in the morning).
By age 12 or 13, I was tapped to be the bell ringer for the Sunday morning services. I was excited and remember my mom driving us there early so that I could start ringing the bell as a welcome for the first parishioners who were arriving (usually the older married couples). As I rung the bell I felt like the most powerful person in the whole church… I was able to make loud beautiful ringing sounds that all would hear. I had the power. I pulled the rope that would determine how loudly the bell would ring. I watched the pastor for the subtle cue that the service was about to end and stood poised ready to do my duty. When it was time, I rang it with enthusiam and vigor. I was a god.
I sometimes make it back to Massachusetts for Christmas. A few years back my sister, her 2 kids, my dad and I made the Christmas Eve service in the old church. The church is as I remember it except for vinyl siding instead of the old painted and repainted decaying clapboards. The old smell comforted me and made me feel some forgotten sense of home and belonging. Seeing old faces, though a little older, was warming. At some point during the service I felt tingly and tears came to my eyes. I felt a connection to something greater than myself. I never felt this as a kid. I guess most kids don't. I guess I never much cared for church until I was tapped with my mighty position.
Snow fell and the bell rang as we left that night. As snow falls, it seems to make the world quiet. I had forgotten that as it doesn't snow where I live now. I felt peaceful and happy as the bells faded off in the distance as we drove away.
It seems that most churches in Florida don’t have bells. A church just doesn’t seem quite like a church to me without a bell (and a steeple for that matter). A lot of churches in Florida have rock bands. A lot of times, these churches have rock bands AND are in strip malls. Near my home, there’s a church in a 5 unit strip mall next to a Carvel ice cream shop and a pizza place... not sure about the band but I wouldn't be surprised. I don’t know that I could concentrate on a sermon much with bastardized rock and rool, the thoughts of cookie puss ice cream cakes, and the smell of pizza wafting in.
People find God in the strangest of places.
I remember the first time that I saw a guitar. I was helping my dad’s friends Joey and Teddy to clean out their yard and do some miscellaneous chores. One of the things they had me do was to move a bunch of boxes from their daughter’s room of their third story house into the attic. Their house was made of country cut lumber and stood for more than 100 years as had many of the homes in the area.
I carefully walked up the stairs into the attic and slid the back against the wall from my awkward standing position on the top of the staircase. To my left I saw a guitar leaning against the far wall. It was standing in a part of the attic that had no floor and was open insulation. It looked lonely.
I went back downstairs and got another stack of boxes and made my way back up. Joey went downstairs and upon my third trip into the attic I creepy across the beams and reached for the guitar. It made a slight ringing sound as I picked it up, almost as if coming alive to touch of a person. I set it against me and strummed it a few times. It rang out though upon pushing on the strings I found that I could make no intelligible and pleasing sounds. I caressed its curved form and dusted it off a little. I longed to have it.
I set it back in its place, being careful to position it exactly as it was. I crept back across the beams and made my way back downstairs pausing to look at it once more before stepping out of sight.
I finish my trips up and down the stairs moving the boxes. When I finished, I went back to the top of the stairs and looked once more. I wanted it. I made my way back downstairs and into the yard where Joey was cutting wood. I helped stack the wood in the neat pile which extended around the back of the barn and alongside the foundation from a building which stood many years before. I asked if I might have the guitar. He said that it was Teddy’s father’s and that I’d have to talk to her though she’d probably not want to part with it.
I finished my work that day and found Teddy. I asked her if I could have the guitar to which she replied no. I offered to trade my work for it. She said that she wouldn’t part with it. I thought about stealing it. I thought it such a shame to have such a thing of beauty stuck in the back of an attic for no one. I knew that stealing was wrong and figured I’d find a way to get it eventually.
I can’t remember if I asked my mom about getting a guitar or not. Objects didn’t come easily to us. We weren’t dirt poor, but lived pretty humbly.
In the 4th grade, I got a saxophone which was much more ‘acceptable’ to play than the guitar. I was good though got bored with it before too long. Our band teacher, God rest his soul, was a frustrated musician. He was an amazing trumpeter and an alcoholic. He would stammer, all red-faced, as a bunch of 10 year old kids would struggle through “Hot Cross Buns” which bears a striking resemblance to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.”
In the 7th and 8th grade, I made the jazz band and was one of the better players. I still avoided practice. In the 9th grade I was kicked out of my band class. I was caught chewing tobacco in the back of the class with another boy, Steve Hadley. I didn’t like him much but yet I felt some need to impress him. He had a black leather jacket. I liked the music they were playing at that time but kept forgetting to bring my instrument to school. I told myself something like: “I never really liked that stuff anyways.” My mom, I’m sure, was heartbroken.
In the Navy I had an opportunity during a six-month deployment to take lessons with another fellow in my shop. I worked on electronics from the F-18’s (the same type of plane as the Blue Angels). I had lots of free time when not working and practiced a lot. He would show me a chord or two and then give me some music to listen to that had those chords. I would pick out where the chords were and try to jam along. I sometimes played 12 hours a day. Within 6 weeks I was sitting in circles with other guitar players on the ship. I loved the power I could create with the guitar. I frustrated other guys that had been playing for years and I liked it.
After my discharge I found myself spending a lot time in bars. I gravitated toward bars that had live music. I loved listening to acoustic guitar players/ singers. I loved soul music. Gimme the beat boys…
I performed my first time at My Place Bar & Grille. I was pretty lit. I played something and messed it up pretty good. Perhaps it was "Blackbird" by the Beatles. I got up embarrassed to leave the stage and the host encouraged me to try again. He told me to do my favorite song. I chose a song which was featured in the film Desperado called “Cancion del Mariache.” I sang in Spanish and the song had some solid rhythmic parts to it. When I finished everyone applauded. The host clapped and said “hell yeah!” I was hooked.
I have played more than 2,000 shows now. I have supported myself for almost 8 years with my music and have made approximately $250,000. Not bad. When I decided to quit my job to play guitar my dad said “a man has to work… not a good idea son.” Heh. Dad, you were wrong about this one.
It is work, don’t get me wrong. I show up and play. I have missed 3 gigs in these last 8 years. I've been in fights and a part of all that goes along with the bar scene. It is however the best work I have ever done and my longest lasting and most consistent job. Who'd a thunk.
Today I get to share a piece of my soul each time I perform. Been loving some "Halleluiah" by Leonard Cohen here recently. mmm.
So thanks to you all for making my love and passion a reality and something I can live off of. Pretty cool.
