What Were You Really Like?

If I had a time machine, there would be so many people I’d like to see again. I’d start with the man who gave me life then disappeared for four years before exiting the planet. My mother probably comes in a close second. Raised in a strict rural German Catholic culture, she proved unable to open herself up to maternal feelings that might have been lingering there. Maybe the next time it would be different?

Then there’s another group. Folks who entered into my life for a brief period of time before disappeared again. I was recently commiserating with one of my salon compatriots about old friends and past companions. With our collective miles under the belt, we’ve both had many casual, close and a few profound friendships and relationships.

While some of my friends won’t admit it, I know there’s been several who have acquiesced to ‘Facebook stalking’ and/or perusing ‘Classmates.com’ in hopes of finding old school chums, friends, associates, love interests and other assorted contacts made over the years.

My belief is that you leave something of yourself with everyone you come into contact with. Granted, you are a different person now than you were back then but if you have ‘history’ with someone even for a brief period of time, the connection is still there.

The categories where old acquaintances can be found vary with time and place. It really comes down to meaningful events in your life even if for only short periods of time. There’re all life sketches, painted a different color for everyone, and yet poignant reminders of one’s past life.

Photo courtesy of Jerry Hoffman

One of my regrets is that almost all of those kids I hung around with in grade school have long since scattered to the winds of time. It would have been so fascinating to find out how their lives turned out after growing up in Highland Park.

The Army had a profound effect on me although I didn’t realize it at the time. My two-year enlistment was ripe with hundreds of storylines, personal antidotes, and character studies. Events happened and were forgotten only to resurface years later when nudged forward by a song, comment, or photograph. It was a colorful kaleidoscope of military images buried deep in my memory bank. There were Drill Sergeants straight out of hell, bunkmates who were anti-social, lost young men, gung-ho John Wayne types, rumblings of a far-off Asian war, and a youthful lusting for the opposite sex.

Straight out of Basic Training, I worked as a reporter at the Presidian, the post newspaper, at the Presidio of San Francisco. My boss, the Sergeant Major, took a fatherly role in pointing me in the right direction (the Army way of doing things.) There was Mara, the office sexpot. She was a sad lost young woman, raised in an abusive household, whose striking good looks proved to be her downfall. The Colonel in charge seemed to hate enlisted men and life in general. I was introduced to the theater (in San Francisco, mind you) by a young German immigrant who had been drafted only weeks after arriving in the states.

As far as my other batshit bunkmates went, I had them all. A hustler (seriously, a working pimp), several deadbeats, an actor (really good), an artist (who hated Joan Baez?) and a squirrel cage of other characters. All destined for success or failure in one form or another.

Living in Europe on two separate occasions also supplied me with lasting memories of colorful characters, sad creatures, and intimate cerebral partners for late night salons.

There was my old roommate I called ‘animal,’ who only lived with me briefly but even then, left a memorable impression. Tiny Bailey, another lost soul from Arizona, who escaped an alcoholic mother to seek solace in Denmark then ended up leaving for Israel instead. The Guy from Canada who lived with a local family and was treated like royalty and Maria, my pal at the Danish laundry.

After I returned back to the states, there was a plethora of friends, close and not so close, who passed in and out of my life. The guy from Kentucky who took me in when I moved out after a racist rant from my mother about my girlfriend at the time. Close contacts that never went very far. For some that was a good thing. For others, I wish I was still in touch.

Those memories ended bundled up as a play entitled ‘PTV’ for which I still have high hopes in the future. It’s a kaleidoscope of wonderful memories: meeting ‘the one’ for the first time, learning to love television production and direction, real estate stumbles and success and now, closer to home, writing nine original songs for the production.

Past Girlfriends are always a topic of curiosity for most men. This kind of inquiry could seem awkward but it doesn’t have to be. For me, each of those women were charming, interesting, and a delight to know in their own way. There were a few others less memorable and my time spent with them was more easily forgotten. Yet with each, there was some ‘history’ and it was good.

Where there was history, there are memories. The key here is to glance into the past but not linger there. I think it’s human nature to want to know about past acquaintances no matter how close or vapid they might have been. They were all, in a way, a reflection of who I was at that time in my life. A point in time that can’t be returned, replaced, or replicated.

There can still be some poignant memories nevertheless. A cryptic e-mail after 48 years stating simply: ‘you did become a writer.’ Occasional e-mail exchanges that never went anywhere. A phone call out of the blue at 58 years for a brief 10 minutes. Then silence again.

Another former friend with whom I crossed paths after sixty some years is still refusing to recognize anything beyond the fact that ‘there was some history there.’ Yeah, like for a year and a half worth but who’s counting? But that’s the way she wants to see our past and I have to respect it.

Memories are like good conversations. They’re ripe with warmth, delight, and carefully construed images dancing in your head. What really happened, who knows? What did the other person feel or remember, who knows?

Like a necklace of pearls, they shine and reflect and say something about who you are, who you were and how far you’ve come. Then it’s time to put the pearls away, look up at life and continue down that pathway of reality. And as Jackie Gleason famously said: “And thanks for the memories.”

A Life in Pictures

Digital Fairy Dust

There are times in ones life when experiences transcend the ordinary and leave a permanent deposit in your memory bank. A simple picture can capture those long since forgotten memories and ‘oh, yeah’ moments in one small smudge of bites and bytes and color hues.

They don’t replace or supplement the other zillion memory capsules flowing around inside your head. They just seem to rise to the surface more often than others.

They don’t define a person, just a micro-second ‘in the life of…’ A gentle jog to pin-

prick a memory bubble that is holding warm reflections void of harsh reality. A happy occurrence spilling out gentle remembrances without conditions or judgment.

 

I came across this picture of my father not long ago. It was in my office, buried behind books, treatments, scripts and other sundry tools of my emerging trade. It’s the only one I have of him and it comes without a caption or location. My mother kept that a secret like she did most everything else about him. His parents came from French Canada. I think he was raised in or around Detroit. He married my mother after another marriage failed. There were two kids right away. He left after two years and died four years later in some old unnamed hotel in Missoula, Montana at the age of forty-six. That’s about it. I know nothing more about him.

And at about the time I started to care, my mother had lapsed into old stories and frag-mented memories mostly made up so I wouldn’t question her any more about him. So I left it at that and never looked back. Until now.

Funny how you can look at a picture and still have a thousand questions that you know can’t be answered. You can study the eyes and facial features and still can’t get a true picture of who this man is that you’re looking at. Then for the first time, you realize that he had a mustache. Who knew? I’ve had one since my twenties and never knew why.

My sister and I were raised as two individuals, living totally separate lives, under the same roof. Now after forty or so years of estrangement, we’re having lunch often and caring about each other. Too bad it took so long to become brother and sister. Lots to make up for.

First time out of the country while I was still in the service. Experienced a minor earthquake in Mexico City, riding it out in an old hotel made of abode and brick. Hung out with students at the University, talking smack about Vietnam. Got sick from the ice in my warm Pepsi in Acapulco and had this great story idea while hiking these Mayan Ruins. (“Follow the Cobbler”) anyone.

First time living out of the country. Had a friend’s moped for buzzing around town on weekends, a library card at a branch library and a steady job. But a basement apartment that even the rodents wouldn’t live in.

                                             

She probably knew it was over long before I had a clue. I expect now that my trip to Boston was ‘fait accompli.’ But we spent time on Beacon Hill, New York City and points in-between attempting to patch up a fragmented lack of communication. It was ultimately a lost cause. Think “America” by Simon and Garfunkel or “Galway Girl” by Steve Earle.

                                                   

Susan was able to see past my urban ghetto near the University, the dust-mites under my bed, the red and yellow walls in my kitchen and other vestiges of a man-boy living on his own. We were both chasing our own elusive goals in that vast confusing maze called adulthood. Ultimately we found it within ourselves and not with one another. She was a very nice person.

                                                    

It started out with phone calls every night, seven nights a week for months on end. Just chatting about anything and everything. The long phone calls have ended and now we spend a lot of time apart under the same roof. Communication is more routine now but still completes the circle of understanding between us. I feel her presence and she feels mine. We communicate in subtle ways that only forty plus years of living together can produce. It’s all good.

                                                

Stranger in a strange land. Chattanooga, Tennessee. A Northern Yankee in public television trying to figure out southern culture where none existed. At least I had my Amsterdam pictures on the walls to remind me of more accepting countries. After eleven months, we escaped to Maryland and one of the best jobs I’ve ever had and some of the nicest folks I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Some are still our friends to this day.           

By mile sixteen I was as good as dead. In more pain than I’d ever experienced before in my life. Injuries during my training sessions had robbed me of critical time ‘on the road’ needed to prepare me for the torture ahead. It was not an exaggeration to say that every fiber in my body was screaming out to end the misery.

Melanie patiently stuck with me, losing any chance of her own PB. Then at mile sixteen she quietly said that if I dropped out she would continue on to finish the marathon by herself. The thought of meeting my daughter at the finish line with her a true marathoner and myself a dropout was enough to spur me on. She carried me for the next ten agonizing miles.

I had no choice. If I had quit, I knew I’d be back training the very next day and I would be on the starting line the following October. Better to die slowly now, I thought, rather than live with failure for another twelve months until the next marathon.

 We spent six days, pounding out 50-75 miles each day, as we rode our bikes across the state of Minnesota in an event called the TRAM; the ride across Minnesota. At night we slept in a stifling heat that caused sweat beads to run tickling lines across our skin, keeping us up half the night. We ate like pigs and chugged beers with wild abandon. And lived a vagabond life for six wonderful days on the road. It didn’t match our vision quest in the Amazon jungle but it sure came close.

                                            

They are the next generation, facing challenges and wonderful opportunities at one in the same time.

They’ve got more frequent flyer miles than a lot of adults and have tasted both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. They’ve skied black diamonds in Colorado and hiked the deserts of Southern California. They’ve sailed quiet lakes in the Midwest and began the ritual of gymnastics, soccer, t-ball, art class, music class, ECFE, pre-school and first grade. Each has a library in their own room and of course at Nana and Papa’s homes. They’re read to every night and are just beginning to understand the power of literature. Even if it’s Ella the elephant or Lama Lama for that nights reading.

 

Much will be expected of them. I know they’re up to the challenge.

Part of it is the luck of the draw. Or good genes. Or that lucky intersection of like-minded individuals deciding to give it a go. Then the kids come along and a whole new set of challenges arises. And at about the time that battle has been won and the troops are safely home, it begins all over again and a new generation begins demanding your time and attention and love and affection. It’s actually easier the second time around, I guess, because some of the parameters have been moved back a bit and there’s usually a little more breathing space.

 

Of course, we gave them advice for twenty plus years so now they feel it’s their turn to give us advice. For another twenty or so years.

Isn’t it grand?

The Axman Cometh

When I was growing up the prevailing wisdom about kids was that they should be seen and not heard. As ludicrous as it sounds, many parents back then were taught from generations before them not to say anything to their children that might lift their self-confidence because it could go to their heads.

Children back then weren’t seen as little people with feelings and emotions and ideas of their own. They were simply an addition to the family, good for chores until they proved their worth. Then at some point, the girls were good for caring for elderly parents. That and getting married and having children and starting the cycle all over again.

In my case, it was a typical German Catholic rural farming family thinking. Pathetic!

So we never talked about feelings, emotions or any kind of oral history. They never spoke. I never asked.

Such a shame.

So I never captured my stepfather’s tales of being a railroad station manager at the turn of the century in the Nebraska Territory when Indians still roamed the west and outlaws were a constant threat. Or riding the rails between Seattle and Vancouver during the great depression. Hanging bootleg whiskey bottles out the train windows on strings so the border inspectors wouldn’t find them. Working for the post office for 30 years and being retired for 33 years. Losing his daughter when she was 22, his wife when she was 50, his son when he was 45, and finding someone else when he was in his 80s (my Mother).

Or recorded tales of my mother growing up on a farm with seven siblings. Being smacked across the floor by her mother when she mentioned that the cat had just given birth to kittens.

First working as a maid to those rich people on Summit Avenue. ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ Saint Paul style. Then as a short order cook in the First National Bank Building in downtown St. Paul. Working for that nice ‘Jewish couple’ who took good care of their employees.

Or meeting my stepfather Erwin in her 70’s for companionship because she was afraid to admit maybe, just maybe, it might have been love she was feeling after all those years.

No reference or memory of my Father so I have nothing to hold on to or remember about the man who brought me into the world. Other than the fact that he smoked, liked to drink and died at age 48 of a massive heartache in some flea-bitten hotel in Montana. The story goes that he was on his way back to Minnesota, with Christmas presents, for the first time in four years after leaving us.

Fortunately that ‘don’t ask – don’t tell’ frame of mind pretty well dissipated by the time it was our turn to be parents. We were smarter with my wife’s parents. Fortunately we did video tape them and have captured at least an hour and a half of their memories while both were still cognizant of their surroundings and their past life.

I guess I should have asked: At what point in your life do memories become more important than dreams? Or could you have both?

I guess I saw my own role as father a little differently. Even though I wasn’t smart enough to deliberately build memories with my kids, it just happened somehow. I was lucky.

Many Saturday mornings found us all up at about the same time. They had the routine down pad.

“What are you doing?” They’d ask.

“Got work to do.” I’d reply.

“Can we come along?” They’d ask, already knowing the answer.

And with that, we were off to breakfast and an assortment of tasks, projects and or just plain screwing around.

First stop was always some cheap diner in town. My kids like to brag that they’ve been to every cheap diner in St. Paul. (unless it’s been torn down by now.) Always a treat as much for the clientele watching as for the mediocre food.

Our Favorites:

Day by Day Café  (wait staff was heavily tattooed and most were in recovery)

Mickey’s Diner  (once saw a guy there in a buffalo headdress and full regalia-so?)

Uptowner  (locals from downtown; a very diverse and eclectic crowd)

Cossettas  (Italians from the neighborhood and tourists from downtown)

After breakfast there might be work projects for the business or properties. ($10.00 an hour isn’t bad for a grade schooler plus lunch thrown in)

But the highlight of the day was always: The Ax Man.

The last stop on our all day Saturday jaunts was always The Ax Man Surplus Store on University Avenue. That shop had more assorted crap you never knew you needed than any other junk store in the Twin Cities. Fifty cents each was their limit and that was always enough back then to fill their small shopping carts.

From nuts and bolts to assorted tools, Chinese knockoffs filled a lot of the bins. From old incubators to newer oscillators to an ancient iron lung. The store had it all. Most of it totally worthless unless you’re in grade school or middle school. Then the place was a treasure trove of wonders for any imaginative kid.

Back then half a buck used to be able to buy a handful of junk that my kids desperately wanted if only for the moment. Brennan and Charlotte will now probably cost me at least a dollar plus each for the same results.

But even before the Ax Man comes into play for the grandkids, we’ve been collecting lots of prints of the kids growing up along with VHS and DVD remembrances.

I want to start my own traditions with Brennan and Charlotte here and the twins and Maya when we’re out in Colorado. Silly, sometimes stupid, sometimes meaningless antics or forages into experiences they might otherwise never have. I have no idea what is going to stick in their little heads but if I throw enough experiences at them something will form a lasting memory without my even knowing it.

And the grandchildren will remember us. It’s called full tilt digital and we intend to capture as many memories as we can. There have already been bazillion digital images

and YouTube videos. Then (hopefully my own comic strips and stories from ‘Sweetpea and the Gang’ for them to hold on to as a memory of Papa and Nana.

There will be trips to Palm Springs and other points West. Of course, we’ll include Colorado, Minnesota and in the future, traveling abroad. Maybe we’ll explore the back roads of America and do our own Jack Kerouac thing; my little Easy Riders and me.

And in the end, we’ll leave them with a legacy in print, pixels, bytes and, oh yeah, gray matter too.