Browsed by
Tag: curtchristiansen

Moo

Moo

Comments 1 comment

To the couple in Row Q who felt it necessary to stand up through most of the Jason Isbell show at Wolf Trap last night, thanks from those of us in rows R through U.  We definitely enjoyed watching you guys shake and shimmy more than the performance we came out to see.

When I got really hungry before the show I convinced myself that it was okay just for tonight, to go to the concessions and order that big quarter pound beef hot dog and an order of tortilla chips and queso.  Go ahead live a little you are out on a date.

But when I got to the concession stand and read the menu guilt overtook me.

“Can I help you sir?” the girl asked from behind the counter.

“Yes, I will have a Mezze Platter (Hummus, Tabbouleh, Peppers, Cucumbers, Marinated Olives & Tortilla Chips) and a Deluxe Black Bean Burger (Aged Sharp Cheddar Cheese, Pico de Gallo, Chipotle Mayo & Arugula) please,”  I said with disappointment.

“Let me check to see if we have a Black Bean Burger left,” she said as I began to imagine the taste of that quarter pound beef hot dog once again.

A swift confirmation from the back confirmed the bad news.

“Yes, we have one” she said with a big smile.

“Oh,” I said.  “That’s great.”

And off I went to share the good news and my newly discovered concession fares with my wife waiting at the picnic table.

The best part of all this is, that between the biking and the eating changes, I am at weights I haven’t experienced since I had two colon resections back to back twenty years ago.  And of course even eating plants is much more fun than having two colon resections.

The worst part of it is, when the bouquet of barbecued meats wisp across my yard from my neighbor’s grill to my nostrils,  while I am rotating the plant based ears of corn on my grill, I am convinced that between the amount of corn I am eating for dinner and the amount of oats I am consuming for breakfast, that I will surely be mooing by the end of the summer.

It was really nice to be back at Wolf Trap again.  We used to go see many shows every summer, this summer, Jason Isbell may be our only one. Though Kim thought the lyrics sad and maybe a bit depressing; “I like to look at the glass half full,” she said.  But writing about real life is sometimes hard, sometimes it can be a bit depressing.

And we had fun in spite of the nice couple standing and shaking and head bobbing a few rows up.  I guess it’s like having your French bread snapped in half, some people just don’t understand.

But they were having fun too, and it didn’t rain, and the show was really awesome, and I had a Black Bean Burger (with Aged Sharp Cheddar Cheese, Pico de Gallo, Chipotle Mayo, and not to forget… Arugula).

And that is the glass half full.

It’s Not the Fourth of July Until You Have Had a Carrot Hot Dog?

It’s Not the Fourth of July Until You Have Had a Carrot Hot Dog?

Comments 3 comments

If you are familiar with Max’s hot dogs on the Long Branch, New Jersey boardwalk, or the Windmill in Long Branch’s West End, or my sister’s Fourth of July parties for the last gazillion years, you know Jersey hot dogs.

Man those are hot dogs…

This year I had a carrot hot dog on the Fourth of July.  It was awesome.

 

The first part of the summer is always a bittersweet time of the year for us.

It starts on Mother’s Day; then Memorial Day; Hayley’s birthday; includes Father’s Day; then my birthday; Kim’s birthday; our wedding anniversary;  the Fourth of July; then July 19th, the day of Donny’s accident; and ends with Savannah’s birthday on July 20th; then we breathe again.

And I always find myself reliving that summer.

We had some good times in the early part of the summer of 2002.

I have shared this photo before, its one of my favorites, and these are the three girls who were rightly so, my competition.

On June 20, 2002, Donny and I headed off to Wolf Trap to see Jo Dee Messina and Brad Paisley after Kim couldn’t go.  It was his first and only concert.  I had seats in the first row, but the three girls he knew sitting in the lawn turned out to be tough competition for the old man, but Donny didn’t leave me hanging too long and finished out the show sitting next to me in the front row.

That Fourth of July 2002 we spent in Jersey at my sister’s and got down to the beach.  He used to mess with me and quote the line from the Adam Sandler movie Happy Gilmore, “You want a piece of me old man?” whenever we were doing anything sports-related like throwing the football at the beach or mixing it up with the soccer ball on my sister’s lawn.

I didn’t want a piece of him but I surely wanted badly to have something I could show him.

Donny was a natural-born athlete.

I am a natural-born non-athlete.

He beat me in everything.

One vacation at the outer banks, I knew he had never played golf, so I took him and his friend Chris golfing. Finally, I thought, there was something I could teach him, some sport I could role model.

Something I could maybe even beat him at.

By the end of the day though, I guess I had passed on as many good golf tips as I possibly could and it must have paid off because he beat me again.

 

The funny thing was, I never made the Adam Sandler connection until after Donny’s accident.

I never used to like Adam Sandler movies.

Now I can watch them all day long.

 

When we ride bikes now on the bike trail Kim always says “c’mon old man.”

I like that.

 

I don’t know what I will do on this Thursday the 19th but maybe I will ride my bike.  And maybe my wife will say “c’mon old man.”

And it will be okay.

Because winning doesn’t matter anymore, it never really did, it was having some meaning in that young man’s life that was really important to me.

And maybe, I realize now, in this old man’s life…

So I guess maybe in some way I have won.

At least I can tell you, Donny, that I still have your Mom’s back and she has mine.

Heck, I am even eating carrot hot dogs on the Fourth of July.

That has got to be love.

 

Happy Gilmore: “You like THAT old man? You want a piece of ME?”


Bob Barker character: “I don’t want a PIECE of you, I want the whole THING!”

 

I want the whole thing too…

But I would settle for just a piece of you right now.

 

A Meaningful Life

A Meaningful Life

Comments 3 comments
Here are a few things that make life meaningful!

It’s time for me to get up.

My left foot hits the floor and I wince as the pain moves across the bottom of my foot and up into my ankle.  I relive the experience as my right foot hits, and I hobble down the stairs to get my coffee.  By the time I get my coffee and go back up the stairs, like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz after his oil can treatment, things are moving and the pain is less.

Growing older, it takes some patience.

Today is my birthday.

I turn sixty two today.

And with the exception of the slow starts in the morning, and realizing I can’t do everything the way I used to, I feel pretty good.

I don’t feel like an old guy.

My financial advisor Mike called me yesterday to wish me a happy birthday and to remind me I was now eligible for social security.

I also got a couple of those cell phone sales calls; one was about a Medicare supplemental insurance; and the other went something like this:

“Hello my name is Joe and I am a Medical Alert Systems Emergency Specialist on a recorded line.  Our records indicate you are part of an age group that are prone to falls, injuries, and health issues…”

I guess I now fit the demographic.

For my birthday this evening my wife took me out and bought me a new bicycle.  Since we are running less we have started to cycle more for exercise.  The bad thing about being sixty two and cycling is that I look pretty funny in bike pants.

The good thing about being 62 and looking funny in my bike pants is that I just don’t care.

I read an article yesterday that said there are many people who feel their lives are meaningless, they spend their whole lives searching for a purpose.   But, according to Thaddeus Metz writing in the Stanford Dictionary of Philosophy,  the author says of those who do feel that meaning in their lives can be identified, they fall into one of four groups:

  1. Those that are god-centered (not with a capital G) and believe only a deity can provide purpose.
  2. Those that have the soul-centered view and think that something of us must continue beyond our lives, a spiritual after physical existence.
  3. Then there are the “objectivists” who say there are absolute truths that have value and offer meaning, like creativity or living a moral life.
  4. Finally there are the “subjectivists” who consider making an intellectual discovery, raising children with love, playing music, and developing superior athletic ability is what gives life meaning.

 

I don’t know about all that.

I think Mr. Metz has this meaningful life thing a little confused.

Because I believe the things that make life meaningful are all the above.

I may not be a philosopher or as smart as Mr. Metz, but I think believing in God with a capital G; believing there is a life everlasting; having creativity and living a moral life; raising my children and grandchildren with love; playing music; and developing superior athletic abilities on my new bicycle may be helping me have a meaningful life.

I guess that makes me a God-centered, soul-centered, objective subjectivist with a new bicycle who looks ridiculous in bike pants.

My recommendation for Mr. Metz is that he go find Jesus, pick up a Bible and read John 3:16; get himself a back yard with a koi pond, a deck, and some banana trees; marry someone like my wife and have some kids and grandkids; pick up a guitar or harmonica; and buy himself a bicycle.

Yup that’s what I think.

Today is a happy birthday.

 

 

Purple Carrot All In My Brain

Purple Carrot All In My Brain

Comments 2 comments
Dude…get a haircut!

“Purple Haze all in my brain,

Lately things they don’t seem the same.

Actin’ funny but I don’t know why.

‘Scuse me, while I kiss the sky”

Jimi Hendrix

 

Where is Joe?

Why did he leave me here all alone?

Well, I am not alone really, I know these people.

But I don’t really know these people.

I am scared.

I sit in the sanctuary of this corner that seems like it is miles away from the door.

But it is only feet.

And I would never make it even if I tried.

Those in the room speak to me but I can’t talk back.

I open my mouth but no sounds come out.

They start to talk about me but I can’t defend myself or offer an explanation, not that I understood what was going on myself.

Like someone in a coma maybe,  I hear but I am unable to speak.

Then I give up.

I will just wait for my friend to return.

After what seems like an eternity the door opens, it is my friend.

The fear disappears from my face and my body is alive again.

A smile returns.

“Joe,” I said loudly.

 

Fast forward almost fifty years.

Today the Purple Carrot was left on my doorstep.

The Purple Carrot.

Conjuring up days of future passed; thoughts of Orange Barrels, Purple Haze, and Yellow Sunshine weaved their way through and mixed with the colored carrot.  Maybe I should  play “White Rabbit” by the Airplane or put on Electric Ladyland.

No, this is different.

There is no need to be paranoid (I think?).

I am safely in my later middle age; safe in my backyard and in my garden doing adult things like spreading mulch.

“Honey, dinner in five minutes,” my wife yells from the deck.

Tonight will be my first experience being turned on to the Purple Carrot, my wife’s new plant-based meal service delivered right to my doorstep.

Oh boy!

Roasted Sweet Potato Tacos with Caramelized Pineapple and Chipotle Ranch.

If someone told me back in 1971:

“Hey man, I see a Roasted Sweet Potato Taco with Caramelized Pineapple and Chipotle Ranch in your future many years from now…”

I would have said “Far out man… and I suppose I ordered that taco on my handheld wireless telephone and had it delivered to my doorstep.  You must be hallucinating…sweet potato tacos…chipotle…what is chipotle anyway?”

I don’t think my good friend Joe was a vegan but he did have a passion for growing vegetables.  In fact, at his memorial, I met three nice ladies who were his neighbors who referred to him as “Veggie Joe” because he would always leave care packages of vegetables from his garden on their doorsteps.  After the memorial, we divvied up some of Joe’s collection of seeds amongst our group of close friends.  I am hoping to mix some Veggie Joe ’s tomatoes and cucumbers with my Purple Carrots sometime this summer.

 

Like so many years ago in that place somewhere in my brain, I don’t know why he left me and the rest of us, but this time I am not scared and I don’t feel alone and I know where he is.  And when I see him the next time I expect I will again smile and say loudly “Joe.”

For now, I will eat my Purple Carrot and hope that the Caps don’t have a third period like they did in that second game that might hasten my demise.

Next up…Scallion Zucchini Noodle Cake with Tamarind Butter and Asparagus.

Oh boy!

‘Scuse me while I kiss the sky!

 

 

Don’t Know Much About the French I Took or Yo Tengo Que Tener Un Albondiga

Don’t Know Much About the French I Took or Yo Tengo Que Tener Un Albondiga

Comments 3 comments
Justify, the favorite to win the Kentucky Derby, with trainer Bob Baffert.
Photo courtesy of Eclipse Sportswire

When I was a freshman in high school I decided I didn’t want to take Spanish as my language requirement.  I thought, everybody takes Spanish, and I want to do something different.  No, I would take French instead.

Oh boy,  was that a mistake.

My French teacher was very nice and was very patient with me.  We eventually had an agreement.  I wouldn’t learn to speak French and she would not try to teach me.

Now in my aging nobody phase of life,  I am trying to learn to speak Spanish and wish I hadn’t insisted on being so contrary back in the day.

Because I am realizing how important it is now to be able to speak Spanish; at work, at church, on vacation.  The kicker was when my daughter came to pick me up at the airport in Fort Lauderdale and I asked my two-ish-year-old grandson what he was drinking in his little sippy cup:

“Agua,” he responded.

My wife and I have been trying to eat a plant-based diet since the beginning of the year.  Though my wife has done better with it than I have, I can honestly say I have been about 85% compliant.

But it’s tough sometimes, I have not had a homemade meatball since Christmas.

Me gusto Albondiga!

This is the eve of one of my favorite days of the year, the first Saturday in May.  As part of the festivities, usually I get some good bread, make Italian sausage with green peppers and onions, maybe a salad, and my favorite,  some homemade meatballs.

And I watch the races.

So in spite of my efforts to eat a plant-based diet the last few months, again this year, like other years…

Yo Tengo Que Tener… Un Albondiga.

I have to have…a meatball.

Tomorrow I am breaking the animal protein fast, at least temporarily.

Mañana me voy a comer una albóndiga!

 

Some might say that if you live here and English is not your first language,  you should learn to speak English.  I guess if you live in the USA and Spanish or any other language is your spoken language, then it might be in your best interest to learn English.

I have a friend, I will call him Pedro.  Pedro doesn’t speak English, he never learned.

He never had to.

His children speak Spanish, his grandchildren speak Spanish, heck even his great-grandson can speak some Spanish.

He is retired.

And he lives in a part of the country where most people speak Spanish or are bi-lingual.

I get it, I don’t blame Pedro, I wouldn’t learn to speak English either.  It’s hard to learn a new language when you get older.

But I might agree, learning to speak English could be beneficial for those starting out a new life in a new country.

The problem is, what happens in the meantime?

While they are learning?

And what do we English speaking folks do?

Because if those Spanish speaking folks trying to learn English are anything like me trying to learn Spanish…we are not having a meaningful conversation any time soon.

Because it’s hard!

We all need to be patient.

My goal is to learn a little and meet somewhere in the middle.

 

And I can’t wait to see my friend Pedro and to be able to speak a little Spanish with him.

I hope he likes meatballs.

So for now,

Buenas Noches!

Que tengas un buen día mañana!

 

 

Post Script:

For those of you who may not be as bi-lingual as I am:

Yo Tengo Que Tener Un Albondiga = I have to have a meatball

Me gusto Albondiga = I like meatballs

Mañana me voy a comer una albóndiga! = Tomorrow I am eating a meatball

Buenas Noches! = Good Night

Que tengas un buen día mañana =  Have a good day tomorrow

 

At least, I hope that is what I said…

Kim and I at Kentucky Derby 132, the year Barbaro won.
“It’s The 90’s Man!”

“It’s The 90’s Man!”

Comments 2 comments
One of the photos my mom messaged me of my dad on his new golf cart

Today is the day, according to the History Channel daily news feed I get in my email called “This Day in History,” that God made the Universe.  Well, The History Channel didn’t actually say God did it, but they did say that according to German mathematician and astronomer Johannes Kepler, today was the day the universe was created.  It is just my feeling God had to have had something to do with it.

Of course, I am amazed at what God has created as I sit on my deck and watch my backyard begin to come alive, it’s what we have created since that is sometimes overwhelming.  For someone who grew up learning world events from the Weekly Reader, what we can do today with technology is hard to imagine sometimes.   The generation of my parents often chose to avoid being plugged in all the time, maybe there is something to be said for that.

But my mom, for the first time in her life this week sent a photo to my cell phone that she took with her flip phone.  In fact, she was so excited that I received her photo message, a couple of days later she sent me another one.

Most of us are so used to the technology we use every day we take it for granted, and we are lost when it’s not available to us.

The building I work in has sinks in the men’s room that automatically dispense water when you put your hands in front of the spout.  One day I was in the Fairfax County Public Schools Administration building and went to use the restroom.  I went to wash my hands and when I put my hands in front of the spout no water came out.

Hmm, I thought… must be broken.

So I went to the next one and still nothing happened.  I think I mumbled something at that point about them not working and a guy who was there watching this silly dance of mine pointed to the faucet handles and said:

“Hey, you need to use these things, you are way ahead of us.”

On a recent trip to Florida, my daughter picked me up at the house and rushed me over to the airport, dropped me off and I went and checked my bag, and now with some time I headed to the gate to relax and wait.  Then a strange feeling came over me.  Something was not right.  There was something missing in my space. I stopped, I sat down on the window ledge; I knew right then what it was.

I didn’t have my cell phone.  I had left my cell phone on the kitchen counter.

What do I do? I thought to myself…a real feeling of helplessness swept through me.

I could call Hayley and ask her to pick up my phone and bring it to me, I probably had enough time for that.

But how do I do that?

How do I make a phone call in a public place if not on a cell phone? Do they still have pay phones?

But even if there was a pay phone available to me it wouldn’t matter because I don’t carry money anymore, let alone quarters.  And would it still cost a quarter?

I suppose I could ask someone if I could use a phone.

But that wouldn’t do me any good either because I don’t know Hayley’s phone number! It’s in my cell phone on the kitchen counter in my contacts under “Hayley.”

Feeling totally helpless I walked to the gate found some wi-fi and since I had my laptop (another “can’t leave home without”), I sent out emails to those I felt should know that I had gone off the grid; that I would be back in Weekly Readerville for next 5 days.

It is kind of sad to think we have become so dependent on these conveniences.  We don’t have to communicate verbally we can send a text or an email.  We don’t have to read it in a paper the next day or week, we can watch it unfold as it is happening on the device in our hand in whatever gruesome detail that may be.  It’s not surprising people are influenced to act in ways that may be hurtful or to be hurt by the use of this technology.  Easy ways to be bullied or to inflict control.  On the other hand, so much good comes from our technological developments.

I remember once when I was about 13 I was in my room reading a book written by one of those radical 60’s activists at the time and my dad came in to tell me I shouldn’t buy into everything I read in that book.  Knowing my dad I am sure it took a lot for him to make a point to say that to me.  Though I shrugged it off at the time it was good advice and is even more applicable today.

We just need to learn to enjoy the benefits while also learning how to process the social and economic aspects of all this change.  And teach our kids…well, maybe not my kids they already know everything…but our grandkids; just like my dad tried to teach me.  Maybe things haven’t really changed as much as we think.

So here I sit on my deck, word processing on my laptop while texting with my wife in Pennsylvania who left me alone again to write stuff like this, and I am reminded of that expression I like to use:

“It’s the 90’s man.”

Thank God for creating the universe…though maybe not on this day in 4977 BC as Mr. Keplar had proposed in the 1600’s.  In fact since then it has been estimated he was off by about 13.7 billion years.

And thanks to man and everything he has created since (or woman of course).  The world got a little bit smaller for my mom this week.  She can now share the joys she is experiencing while in the moment.

As for me, I am happy I can go to the restroom just put my hands out and have the water turn on.

It’s those little things.

A photo Kim sent me while I was writing. A reminder of what God created for us.
Forgive Me For Sharing

Forgive Me For Sharing

Comments 3 comments

I am not feeling well.

I don’t typically like when people share their ailments over the internet or social media.

I don’t need the visual that you have diarrhea or that you are throwing up something that looks like something or other.

I want to gag too.

Just tell me you are taking a sick day and leave it at that.

Now here I am telling you I am not feeling well.

It’s been a while since I have felt like this.

But I realized today when reviewing my published work for the week, I had to have been off.

Because I made mistakes.  Some I was able to salvage and some I just had to apologize for.  I even tried to make a cup of tea in the microwave without any water.

But still, in spite of my fuzziness, once I got home, there was something kind of fun and relaxing about being able to sit in bed and have your wife feel sorry you (well at least I expect she will when she gets home), because in my case I know it’s nothing serious.  And when you grow up in the respiratory medical world getting a chest cold is kind of a professional challenge.

I break out my stethoscope.

I begin to analyze every cough and noise that I make.

Hey that one was loose and productive.

Wait that one was dry and non- productive.

Is that a bronchospasm I hear or a mucus plug?

What’s my temperature?  Low grade or high?

Do I have any chest pain?

And then there is the spitting.  When you work in a hospital or homecare keeping the airways open is your job.  Helping people breath is why you went to school.  You need to be alert and aware of all you hear and see.  Sure I have dodged a loogie or two in my day.  I had a couple I wasn’t fast enough for too.  My respiratory and pulmonary friends will relate.  There is nothing wrong with that, it’s part of the job, it’s what we did or do, helping people to breath, often saving lives.

I miss that.

So like it or not, when I am sick, I go into action.

And because today I am the one who is coughing and spitting, and delirious from fever, though I know that what I am experiencing is not serious, when I am sick, in my house, it is serious.

I remember when I was a kid, all the cool kids could spit really good.  Most them were athletic too, many played baseball like John Bedell, Bob Woolley, and Kevin Higgins; friends from my hometown of Oceanport, NJ.  They played hardball and Little League and Babe Ruth.  If you didn’t spit, you weren’t tough.

I wasn’t allowed to do much spitting on the Cub Scout Softball Team.

But those guys could sure spit.

They would wind up and when they let go it sounded like a poison dart coming out of a blowgun.  It was a perfect projectile and man it could travel. (Tttthhhhwwwwuuuut!)

I always envied those guys.

When I was a kid and I spit it was more like trying to eject a raw egg out of my mouth.  And it didn’t travel very far at all it just went about the direction I was leaning and usually required some assistance from my fingers to clear the obstruction.

So as a result I knew never to try and impress the girls by hocking a loogie in gym class.

Maybe I am just delirious.

Maybe I should stop writing before I say something stupid.

Maybe I have already said something stupid.

Maybe it’s a good thing I am not working with patients anymore, because forgiveness for mistakes in that world can be difficult.

Thankfully in the world I work in today, forgiveness is encouraged.

 

My wife is home now.

I am thinking about having her order a chest x-ray stat.

Or maybe a pizza would be easier.

Faith

Faith

Comments 3 comments

I threw the bikes in the back of the truck today and Kim and I took Cameron to the bike shop.  I got my front flat tire fixed and we picked up some new bike helmets and Cameron and I got a couple bells for our bikes.

Then we hit the W&OD Trail for Cameron’s inaugural trip on the bike trail.  But the warm afternoon had brought out swarms of bikers, and walkers, and strollers, and runners; and the stress of teaching Cameron the proper safety and etiquette of riding on the trail was too much for Pop Pop under these conditions, so we bailed out after a short while to the High school parking lot to try out our bells.

Dinner had its challenges too.  We made homemade pizzas.  Cameron was in charge of the cheese so naturally we had extra cheese.  But in my zeal to clone the pizza that was just like the one from Freddie’s Pizzeria on Broadway in Long Branch New Jersey, I slid it off the pan too early and watched in horror as my pizza sauce and all that extra cheese crashed to the bottom of the oven.

In spite of all that we laughed, and salvaged a second attempt to make the perfect pizza…though perfect it was not.

And though I enjoyed a nice weekend with family, my heart hurt.

At church this morning I was handed a cell phone open to a facebook post that read:

It’s a pretty magical thing to find your soulmate in this world.
Like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, our crazy curvy edges matched and we fit together like no one else could.

On March 15, 2018 my husband was tragically taken from us.

“Where there is a lot of love, there is a lot of pain” – and after ten years of knowing and loving Brandon, 3 years and 11 months of marriage, and 3 beautiful girls; our love runs deep, and has been strengthened by our faith.

I keep trying to find the words to share with you – our friends and family – but nothing feels right.

I want to thank you all for your continuous love and support and prayers over the last 3 days. The coming days are going to be excruciating, as we dig deep to find the strength we need to heal.

Please keep us in your prayers, as I now have to find the words and the answers to tell my girls that their Daddy is not coming home.

Posted morning of March 18 by Chelsea Brownfield.

Chelsea Brownfield is a member of my church family.  Chelsea’s parents, Joy and Roy,  are part of my church family too.  Chelsea grew up in church.

Chelsea relocated from Northern Virginia to south Florida.

On March 15th her husband Brandon was under that bridge that collapsed in Miami. Since that time and up until this morning, Chelsea’s family had been waiting with hope.  The hope the faith allows you to have.

And Chelsea’s church family had that hope too, and waited, and prayed.

Many in the world will tell you having a strong faith and being Christian, is not always a good thing.  Some associate you with having a mental illness; or maybe assume you are racist; or in some parts of the world are persecuted.

I don’t understand any of those things.

But I do understand what faith can do.

I saw it with my wife almost sixteen years ago.  It still carries her.

And I saw it again the last few days and particularly today in the words of this young lady.

Something has her, something is lifting her up and carrying her now.

God has her.

The coming days and months will be excruciating, and healing will never come.

But sixteen years from now; 25 years from now, her faith will still be carrying her.

And as a result the time will come when she will be able to enjoy bike rides on Sunday afternoons and not so perfect pizzas with her beautiful daughters; and someday their children.

And she will laugh.

Because she will learn that it’s okay to laugh again.

Because God wants her to laugh again.

 

A Go Fund Me account has been set up to help Chelsea and those little girls.  If you are interested in donating here is the link.

And please keep Chelsea, those little girls; and my friends Joy and Roy, and Brandon’s family  in your prayers.  As well as the others who were injured or perished in that unimaginable accident.

Joe

Joe

Comments 7 comments

Dear Joe,

Today we will all come together and celebrate your life, remember your friendship, honor your memory.

I hope we are able do that in the way you expected us to.

You know, right after we all found out you had left us, the February weather got warm, temperatures rose into the 70’s and even 80’s.  It was wonderful.  It was like you were telling us it was time to plant the tomatoes.

Then you called us all home to Jersey to share some time to remember you in a Nor’easter!

Yesterday Matt flew in from Florida to Atlantic City in 70 mile an hour winds, “roughest ride ever,” is how he described it.

Then you had me driving over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in 60 mile an hour winds since 95 north was closed because two tractor trailers had literally blown over on the Tydings Bridge north of Baltimore.

It was kind of reminiscent of Ricky whipping us around the Shrewsbury in his little Boston Whaler… scary.

But then I hit the Delaware Memorial Bridge and it was covered with slush and I came down into New Jersey and there were cars spun out in ditches on both sides of the highway, and I said to myself “you son of a B?#@*, there is no way you are going to get me to have an accident just to come hang out with you tonight, I hope you are having fun with this, I will see you in good time.”

We did have a lot of fun though.

The time we had to have our sisters bring new clothes to school for us in the eighth grade, in order to participate in graduation because the principal didn’t like our bell bottoms and rope braided belts.

Going to church at Precious Blood and instead of going inside and taking Communion we stayed outside and took something else.

The time we hitch hiked to Asbury Park to see Grand Funk Railroad at the Convention Hall, my first concert, and the wild ride home we had.

The stretch of Steel Mill shows including the infamous Highlands Clearwater Swim Club show; the Sunshine In Black Sabbath/Cactus show that we had early show tickets to, that turned into a Steel Mill marathon when Black Sabbath kept blowing the power. I think my mother almost reported me missing that night and my sister picked us up when we finally spilled out on the street at about 2 AM.  And the final Upstage shows.

The time your sister Diane drove us into the Asbury Park riots where we were stopped by the National Guardsman in full combat gear who asked us “where the hell do you guys think you are going?” then told us to turn around and get out of out of there.

Walking barefoot to North Long Branch and walking back home from North Long Branch. Then walking to North Long Branch again, and walking back home from North Long Branch.  Over and over and over again.

Getting up at 4 AM after getting home at 3 AM to drive to Berkley Heights in your father’s pick-up truck to work at “the shop,” your family’s church furniture woodworking business.  And the time we went to install church pews at a church   in West Orange and Uncle Rudy parked the truck on the hill and the load shifted, when we opened the rear door of the box truck the pews came crashing out on to the street.  Glad that wasn’t our fault.

I could go on and on.

But I have to admit to something.  After losing Donny in 2002, I thought I was immune to all of this.  I thought that never again would I ever feel that death was something that would take me by surprise, something that would rattle me.  I thought that analytically and spiritually I had it under control, because I lived with grief every day and it would never affect me the same again.

And for almost 16 years it didn’t.

Then, I learned I was wrong.

Because, in the last two weeks I felt it again.

And I got scared.

And I started thinking I didn’t even want to come up here and go through this again.

But I knew I had to, and I wanted to, and I knew why as well.

Because I realized, though I had experienced loss, it had been almost 16 years since I lost someone I loved, a member of my “family.”

And the hurt came back.

Your sister told me you had talked about this day and how it should be.  Not religious, just a day for your friends.

So I promise not to get religious, and I think you can be pretty sure that your friends are here.

Through nor’easters or whatever; we may not be barefoot anymore, or need to hitch hike…but thanks for sharing today with us and all the other days before that we will remember.

We had some fun.

 

“Hey Butch…Get Me a Beer”

“Hey Butch…Get Me a Beer”

Comments 2 comments
Fourth of July, 2000.

“Pop” had his bedroom on the first floor, down the hallway from the kitchen.  He would smoke his cigars by shoving them down in the bowl of his pipe.  When he wanted a beer he would holler:

“Hey Butch, get me a beer,” in his “Jugoslavian” accent. That’s how he said it, “Jugoslav.”

Pop was Butch’s grandfather.

Butch was my dear friend Joe.

I spent a lot of time in that house, with his family; his mom, his dad, and a whole bunch of sisters.

It’s weird.

It seems like one day you are growing up 11 years old, then the next thing you know you are 20 and you’ve learned everything about life within a ten-mile radius of a little Jersey shore town called Oceanport.

And then the next thing you know you are 61 with life smacking you upside the head reminding you that you aren’t young anymore and the party can be over abruptly.

What happened?

Where did those forty some years go?

What did I miss?

What could I have done differently?

 

For that which, then, I thought was right…

Have Mercy God.

For that, which now, I regret…

Forgive me God.

For that which, hence, I know not what to do…

Guide me God.

That was from church today.

Today, that resonated with me

 

Before I went to church today I read something on Facebook that resonated with me as well. As I thought about starting to write today I thought what I had read on Facebook would be a good reference, would have some place in these thoughts.

But then I learned about Facebook time.

Like those forty years I just lost, four hours in Facebook time can be just as harsh.  That experience I had at 7 am this morning was now just a cloudy memory of something I know was worth remembering and worth experiencing,  but now lost.  I tried to go back to experience it again but I couldn’t find it, you can’t go back, it is lost in time.

But I recall it had a message that went something like this:

Life is a daily exercise in learning lessons. Mainly because we learn a lesson one day, but because life is what it is and we are what we are, flawed, we have to learn it again and then again, and again and maybe sometimes we never learn.

I think whenever we lose someone we wish we could get a redo, take a mulligan.  The “if I had a chance to do it again” syndrome.

There are songs written about it; I’ve written about it with Donny; now I am writing about it again.

I know this all too well.  It’s like being 60 and making fart noises in walkie-talkies. There are some things I wish I would have done differently.

We don’t always learn lessons well… well, at least I don’t.

We treat our bodies like they are indestructible only to find out once we are older and wiser, that they are not.

We treat our world like it is indestructible only to find out maybe too late,  that may not be true either.

But there is one thing I think I have learned that is true.

Some friendships are indestructible, no matter how hard they are tested or how much time is lost.

And worrying about what I did right or wrong; and what I now regret, is a waste of energy.  It’s in God’s hands now.

And like Facebook time, the remembrances of my experiences forty or fifty years ago might be cloudy and I will never see them as clear again. And even though more recent memories for me were fewer and farther between I can still smile when I think of them all, and still feel good knowing that even after many years, I got messages like this:

“A Very Merry Christmas and a Very Happy and Healthy New Year. I Love You All!! Butch”

We all love you too Butch.

 

Postscript:

My friend Joe died suddenly and unexpectedly last Friday.  We experienced growing into young adulthood together and shared many things in common, especially our love of music (though as instrumentalists,  we were only proficient at air guitar and air drums); and many of life’s lessons that made our relationship one that was comforting; at times funny, sometimes sad; and always in the end, supportive.

It was indestructible.

If there ever was a song written that I always associated with my friendship with Joe, it was this one:

Now young faces grow sad and old and hearts of fire grow cold
We swore blood brothers against the wind
I’m ready to grow young again
And hear your sister’s voice calling us home across the open yards
Well maybe we could cut someplace of our own
With these drums and these guitars

Cause we made a promise we swore we’d always remember
No retreat, baby, no surrender
Blood brothers in the stormy night with a vow to defend
No retreat, baby, no surrender

(From No Surrender by Bruce Springsteen)

Here is a great version if you have a few minutes that puts it in a perspective close to home for me, we did a lot of dreaming too.

I will miss him and will always be grateful for the friendship we shared.