When the idea for my book first came to me I was telling my son, Benjamin – who was quite a bit younger than he is now – about the time I had a kidney stone while serving in the U.S. Air Force during the Cold War back in the 1980s. (Ok, so I was stationed at the Presidio of Monterey, California, but there was a war on. At least, that’s what they kept telling us. Hey, I got a medal.)
Any-who, I was eagerly describing to Ben that it didn’t seem possible that it had been so long since I faced the threat of having an friendly Air Force doctor “go in after” that pesky kidney stone with a look in his eye that had me more than slightly alarmed.
“You have to understand the times,” I said, to Ben as we ate some Coco puffs one morning. “This was during the Cold War.”
“What’s a cold wart?” the Son of My Right Hand asked, crunching ever so seriously.
“The Cold war. The “t” is silent, like the “p” in phish. It was a war that wasn’t really a war. We just acted like it was.”
“You mean like a cold that really isn’t the flu but that’s what you tell your boss so you can stay home from work and watch movies with me?” Bright kid.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
I explained that while we all constantly trained for war we never actually fought in one. It made us all just a little nuts, I think. It was kind of like practicing kissing your arm for that first big date with that amazing blond in class but then never having the opportunity to actually kiss her.
“Yuck. You kissed your arm?” THAT he didn’t get it. He would…in about 15 years. (I have a granddaughter to prove it.) I suppose I would have to explain the Cold War another time, maybe embellishing it with a President Regan impression: ”Mr. Gorbachev! Tear down this wall!” But Ben seemed satisfied for the moment. He crunched attentively.
“So this Air Force doctor was a frustrated Marine, I think, because he really wanted to go in after that stone,” I mused. I heard from nephew, Alex, that they don’t leave anyone behind. This was worrisome.
I continued.
“After two days of IV painkillers, I still felt a burning pain…the whole situation was forcing me to believe I was giving birth to a fireball of molten razor blades.” Ben stopped crunching. THAT he understood.
“Then suddenly, on the morning of the third day, my own private resurrection: the pain was gone. I believed that stone had been miraculously rolled away. I was elated!
“I couldn’t wait to tell the doctor. By evening, he arrived, looking rather pensive. When I told him I felt better, that crazy look washed over his face again like hair gel on a bathroom mirror in January.
That’s when those dreadful words oozed from his sadistic lips, ‘If you don’t pass that stone by tomorrow morning, we’re going to have to go in after it.’
There it was again, that bone-chilling phrase: Go in after it. What the heck did that mean? Go in after it.
“Excuse me? What exactly does that mean Dr. Commando?” I asked him. And what did he mean by force?
Presumably, he could only mean some kind of violent Frankensteiniac procedure. He was, after all, a military doctor, probably Special Forces or something. And this was an Army hospital and I was attending a spy school, in California. Maybe this was how they recruited for the CIA.
Now, this was the best part of the story, I told my six-year-old. “Son, you would have been proud of your old man,” I said, puffing up my chest and holding my spoon so he could see the lone Coco puff I had left. His bowl was empty, so I had his complete attention.
“I displayed the same courage any red-blooded American male would when another man threatens his business with a sharp object. With the prospect of a U.S. Marine detachment being deployed to extract my kidney stone, I prayed feverishly all night, and then, at my midnight potty break, standing there draining my bladder, I felt an unusually high sense of urgency, if you catch my meaning. I shrieked in sheer agony as I involuntarily passed the stone right into the center of my strainer.”
At that, I dropped the Coco puff into his empty bowl for effect. It rolled around the rim and was halfway around the bowl before dropping into the center in a small puddle of milk.
Ben’s eyes were focused on the Coco puff. His breathing stopped. I went on…
“The kidney cannonball rolled to a stop in the strainer like a marble in a roulette wheel. I gripped the strainer in one hand and with the other hand I grabbed my IV tree and took off running through the hospital, looking for a medical professional. I was afraid that without documenting the passing of this huge rock with Paul Revere fervor, I’d surely go under the knife the next morning. I was motivated, boy! Even though it was midnight, I scurried down the halls of Fort Ord Army Hospital with my IV leash, telling anyone, and everyone, who would listen that I had passed Gibraltar through my you-know-what and that surgery in the next few hours would not be necessary.”
I waited to see Ben’s response.
He was wide-eyed looking at me, then the bowl. “Daddy! A coco puff came out of your you-know-what?”
I smiled and leaned back, setting the bowl on the table for emphasis. He understood. “In manner of speaking, that’s exactly right, son.”
“But how?”
I thought for moment. I picked up a grapefruit. “Imagine forcing this through a straw.” (Anyone who has given birth to child or kidney stone knows I’m not exaggerating here.)
“Really, Daddy?”
I can’t lie. The story was better than the memory.
“Ok, maybe it didn’t happened exactly like that, but that’s how I remember it.”
“Wow. Wait’ll I tell the guys!”
Perfect. I was a hero.
Fast-forward to present day America and I’ve been telling this same story – and scores of others like it – ever since.
Now when I tell my son (who is currently serving the Air Force in a different war) a story he’s heard before, Ben looks at me, politely amused, and says, “You’ve told me that one before, Dad. Remember?”
I say, “Of course!” but my face says different.
“You should write them down.” His smile was mine, but the words…
“You sound like your mother.”
“How about I bet you 250 bucks you don’t get the manuscript done, say, by the 14th of next month.”
So that’s what this is all about…a bet. I could use the money. Actually, it’s just a collection of stories that my family is apparently tired of hearing and would rather just read for themselves...or not. We all have them. So I’ve written mine down. I need a broader audience and my dear ones need a break from the chatter.
And remember, things may not have happened exactly as memory serves, but that’s what I recall, for the sake of storytelling...what my Dad called a good yarn. There's truth in it but it's more anecdotal that accurate. Just don’t tell my granddaughter yet. I’m such a hero at the moment.
Now.
Wanna hear about my first colonoscopy?
Friday, August 1, 2008
Lightning Bugs & Whiffleball Bats
Baseball was what we did all summer in the Upper Heights. Mr. Mingle’s backyard was the perfect baseball diamond for boys our age and he didn’t seem to mind much. He owned the local five and dime and I suspect that he expected it’d only help business if he let us play there. After all, he was the only store in Havre de Grace that carried those skinny yellow whiffleball bats and the white whiffleballs that, well, whiffled when you threw them.
Marylanders were all caught up in the Orioles in those heydays of Boog Powell, Brooks Robinson, and Frank Robinson. The 1966 Orioles were the best baseball team ever in the history of the world. At least to us. And, of course, we all played just as well as they did.
I remember one, stuffy, midsummer’s evening playing whiffleball with boys across the street. The lush trees that ringed the yards rose for a hundred feet around us…it was like playing at Memorial Park in Baltimore only with the lights off. The darker it got the darker the trees became, as it grew darker, the lightening bugs would slowly appear. At first, only a few, then there seemed to be thousands. The trees were full of them, like so many fans with slow flashing Instamatics; they winked as we played into the night.
When I was nine, me and the Carcirieri boys ventured into Mingle's yard for our usual evening game of whiffleball. Maryland summer nights are hot and muggy most of the time and whether you were Boog Powell or Brooks Robinson or just some kids in rural Harford county, you sweat profusely. That was as true in 1966 as it is today. Maybe more so. There was a lot more water back then.
Anyway, it was my turn at bat and night was closing in on our ballpark. The lightning bugs were out and hovering low to the ground. They seem to cluster along the first base line like fans with slow-flashing instamatic cameras.
We played until it was so dark, I couldn't see the ball until it was nearly across the plate. I watched Vinnie wind up and pitch. I couldn’t actually see the ball, so as I listened to the whistle homing in on me, I counted silently: 'one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two' and then I swung as hard as I could.
Naturally, I missed the ball.
But in the instant I whiffed it, three rogue lightning bugs – either inadvertently or by God’s keen design, depending on your world view – flew into the flight path of my bat. When I hit them, they lit up and tumbled through the thick night air like Molotov insects….one toward first, one down the third base line and one right at Vinnie. Beautiful. We were awestruck for a moment.
In that one frozen moment, the ballgame was over but a new one was born. I think we slaughtered a thousand fireflies that night in a fireworks display that had Old Man Mingle calling the local fire department to complain about “those dang kids trying to burn my house down.”
Kamikaze lightning bugs, glow-in-the-dark whiffle ball bats and the sweaty boys of summer...images that linger a lifetime.
Baltimore beat the Dodgers in four straight games in the World Series that year. I only know that because I looked it up on the Internet. The rest of it? Ok, maybe it didn’t happened exactly like that, but that’s how I remember it.
Marylanders were all caught up in the Orioles in those heydays of Boog Powell, Brooks Robinson, and Frank Robinson. The 1966 Orioles were the best baseball team ever in the history of the world. At least to us. And, of course, we all played just as well as they did.
I remember one, stuffy, midsummer’s evening playing whiffleball with boys across the street. The lush trees that ringed the yards rose for a hundred feet around us…it was like playing at Memorial Park in Baltimore only with the lights off. The darker it got the darker the trees became, as it grew darker, the lightening bugs would slowly appear. At first, only a few, then there seemed to be thousands. The trees were full of them, like so many fans with slow flashing Instamatics; they winked as we played into the night.
When I was nine, me and the Carcirieri boys ventured into Mingle's yard for our usual evening game of whiffleball. Maryland summer nights are hot and muggy most of the time and whether you were Boog Powell or Brooks Robinson or just some kids in rural Harford county, you sweat profusely. That was as true in 1966 as it is today. Maybe more so. There was a lot more water back then.
Anyway, it was my turn at bat and night was closing in on our ballpark. The lightning bugs were out and hovering low to the ground. They seem to cluster along the first base line like fans with slow-flashing instamatic cameras.
We played until it was so dark, I couldn't see the ball until it was nearly across the plate. I watched Vinnie wind up and pitch. I couldn’t actually see the ball, so as I listened to the whistle homing in on me, I counted silently: 'one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two' and then I swung as hard as I could.
Naturally, I missed the ball.
But in the instant I whiffed it, three rogue lightning bugs – either inadvertently or by God’s keen design, depending on your world view – flew into the flight path of my bat. When I hit them, they lit up and tumbled through the thick night air like Molotov insects….one toward first, one down the third base line and one right at Vinnie. Beautiful. We were awestruck for a moment.
In that one frozen moment, the ballgame was over but a new one was born. I think we slaughtered a thousand fireflies that night in a fireworks display that had Old Man Mingle calling the local fire department to complain about “those dang kids trying to burn my house down.”
Kamikaze lightning bugs, glow-in-the-dark whiffle ball bats and the sweaty boys of summer...images that linger a lifetime.
Baltimore beat the Dodgers in four straight games in the World Series that year. I only know that because I looked it up on the Internet. The rest of it? Ok, maybe it didn’t happened exactly like that, but that’s how I remember it.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
My father’s son’s son’s son
I just found out that my father’s son’s son is having a son (well, his wife is). I’m expecting a grandson! Woohoo! This is really awesome for all of us except my mother’s son’s son’s daughter, who really wanted a sister. (Actually, I think my granddaughter would have been fine with a pony, but that’s another column.)
Of course, the significance of knowing that your bloodline will extend beyond the next generation (Lord willing) is a pretty big deal. It is for most men. Bigger than the World Series, which, if you lose, you can always look forward to next year.
It was awesome news, but then my son said something that struck a chord with me: he was a little spooked at the prospect of raising a boy. He’s been at the girl-raising business for about five years and they’ve done a remarkable job. My granddaughter throws like Tulowitzki, curtsies like a princess, and laughs at everything I say. Everything. She’s a great kid.
But I got to thinking about how I managed to raise a son who turned out pretty well. He owns a business, a house, served six years on active duty with the Air Force, and has a couple of degrees to boot. His wife and he are active in the church. They have lots of friends who call me “Dad” and laugh at everything I say. Everything. Great kids.
Anyway, I tried to remember some wisdom my father passed on to me that I could impart to my son so he’d be ready when the wee lad, sits up in his crib one day, adjusts his diaper, and says, “Father, I want my own Website.”
I heard a former Marine on the radio, who served in the Korean War, telling the story about walking up to his son, who was young man at the time, and giving that boy a big hug. Then, while holding him tight, he whispered in his ear, “I am so proud of you son. And you can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”
It reminded me of the few times my father said something like that to me. In a flood of tears, I recalled so many times I could have said that to my son, and didn’t. And now, as I sit here thumping the keypad well past the official bedtime for grandfathers (9 p.m. in case you were wondering), I can only imagine what that moment will be like when my son grabs a hold of his little boy with skinned knees and dusty, tear-streaked cheeks, and whispers in his little ear: “I am so proud of you, son! You can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”
Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and my son and I talked about that little boy. As remarkable as the birth of a child is, it’s especially poignant at Christmastime to ponder the miracle of it all…the crying newborn, the mischievous toddler, the baseball-gloved little boy, the eager, pimply-faced teenage, the aspiring young man, the father, the son, and the grandson fishing, laughing, talking, hugging, loving.
So what is my sage advice for a son who has always made me proud by doing the right thing, by living a life in service to others, by laughing at everything I’ve ever said? Simple. I told him another story. It’s quite possibly one of the most profound stories I’ve ever heard.
Goes like this: a father, whose son rockets out of town with his inheritance and squanders all of it in, say, the dot com bubble or something, decides to come home and move in with his dad. When the boy returns, the story goes, the father sees him from a distance and runs to meet him, throwing his arms around him and hugging the snot out of him. The son apologizes for messing up, and then, I imagine, at that moment, the son is silent. The father—overjoyed with nothing more that his son’s presence—exclaims, “My son was lost, and now he is found! Put him in an Armani suit and let’s go to Morton’s for steak!” Or something like that.
I want to believe that after a juicy steak, cooked medium, and a glass of red wine, that joyful father hugs his lost-and-found kid, and says, “I am so proud of you, son! You can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”
Of course, the significance of knowing that your bloodline will extend beyond the next generation (Lord willing) is a pretty big deal. It is for most men. Bigger than the World Series, which, if you lose, you can always look forward to next year.
It was awesome news, but then my son said something that struck a chord with me: he was a little spooked at the prospect of raising a boy. He’s been at the girl-raising business for about five years and they’ve done a remarkable job. My granddaughter throws like Tulowitzki, curtsies like a princess, and laughs at everything I say. Everything. She’s a great kid.
But I got to thinking about how I managed to raise a son who turned out pretty well. He owns a business, a house, served six years on active duty with the Air Force, and has a couple of degrees to boot. His wife and he are active in the church. They have lots of friends who call me “Dad” and laugh at everything I say. Everything. Great kids.
Anyway, I tried to remember some wisdom my father passed on to me that I could impart to my son so he’d be ready when the wee lad, sits up in his crib one day, adjusts his diaper, and says, “Father, I want my own Website.”
I heard a former Marine on the radio, who served in the Korean War, telling the story about walking up to his son, who was young man at the time, and giving that boy a big hug. Then, while holding him tight, he whispered in his ear, “I am so proud of you son. And you can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”
It reminded me of the few times my father said something like that to me. In a flood of tears, I recalled so many times I could have said that to my son, and didn’t. And now, as I sit here thumping the keypad well past the official bedtime for grandfathers (9 p.m. in case you were wondering), I can only imagine what that moment will be like when my son grabs a hold of his little boy with skinned knees and dusty, tear-streaked cheeks, and whispers in his little ear: “I am so proud of you, son! You can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”
Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and my son and I talked about that little boy. As remarkable as the birth of a child is, it’s especially poignant at Christmastime to ponder the miracle of it all…the crying newborn, the mischievous toddler, the baseball-gloved little boy, the eager, pimply-faced teenage, the aspiring young man, the father, the son, and the grandson fishing, laughing, talking, hugging, loving.
So what is my sage advice for a son who has always made me proud by doing the right thing, by living a life in service to others, by laughing at everything I’ve ever said? Simple. I told him another story. It’s quite possibly one of the most profound stories I’ve ever heard.
Goes like this: a father, whose son rockets out of town with his inheritance and squanders all of it in, say, the dot com bubble or something, decides to come home and move in with his dad. When the boy returns, the story goes, the father sees him from a distance and runs to meet him, throwing his arms around him and hugging the snot out of him. The son apologizes for messing up, and then, I imagine, at that moment, the son is silent. The father—overjoyed with nothing more that his son’s presence—exclaims, “My son was lost, and now he is found! Put him in an Armani suit and let’s go to Morton’s for steak!” Or something like that.
I want to believe that after a juicy steak, cooked medium, and a glass of red wine, that joyful father hugs his lost-and-found kid, and says, “I am so proud of you, son! You can’t imagine how much I love you and what it means to be your Dad.”
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)