Singing With Friends

The End Of An Era - A few weeks ago, my brother called and told me our music teacher/director/guru from high school, Peter Thomsen, was retiring and that they were having this big party and concert for him in Longmeadow (see the "Education" portion, the part about the music program). Stu sent me an invitation and a link to a great website showing photos of Pete during his own musical training, then with students over his 34 years of teaching. (The website provides a good snapshot of what Pete's all about so I encourage you to click this link and head over there - "A Musical Life.") Looking through the photos nudged my thinking back to those days and brought a huge smile to my face. So of course, it didn't take long for me and Stu to start talking about the possibility of us heading back home together to be part of the celebration. I then spent a good deal of time on the web researching flight and car info, coming within a whisker of locking in plans for a trip to New England. I was that close.

Of course I wanted to see Pete; honor him. After all, singing in "Lyrics" (Longmeadow High School's cream-of-the-crop, chorus-wise) provided some of the best times of my young life, maybe my whole life, for that matter. In my yearbook at graduation, I wrote something which ended with this line: “... singing with friends is one great experience.” And it was. Come to think of it, it still is. Music has been, and always will be, a huge part of my life – it’s in the family blood. Apparently more than I ever knew, having discovered one long lost relative during this trip who ended up being a conductor of a major symphony orchestra. (See "We Are Family" - April, 2007)

I joined Lyrics in the fall of 1971, after making the team via a rare mid-season audition, (George Rommell will remember that). And that was it. The transformation was pretty amazing. Immediately, I went from being a low-B student who didn’t give a hoot about anything – to a straight-A student who started the process of putting things together, at least the pre-20 part of it. Just like that (snap!) I was in with a more-or-less different crowd, the honors students. Sure, I still played ball with my friends, but something shifted when I entered the music program. And I loved it.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get to the retirement shindig, having too much on my plate here and not feeling right about leaving my boss in a lurch with a key colleague being out for a bit. Add to that, I’ve been away a bunch lately and ... well … something had to give. I'm really digging in to finish this book. That, and that, alone, has become my priority.

Fastest 1,357 Mile Trip Ever - Stuart called me about ten minutes ago. There was a racket. It sounded like people clapping? Then singing? What the f ... ? I saw the caller ID so I knew it was him but what the hell was that about!? I tried to call him back. No Answer. "He’s playing games," I thought. Was he calling to tell me the Mets/Yanks score? I knew the Mets had won, so I wanted to fill him in in case he didn’t’ know that. I tried him back again. No answer. He left me a 2nd message in the interim. "Playing games," I thought again. I listened to the second message. Noise and more noise. It sounded like he was in a train station - somewhere in a crowd. Or a concert??

Light bulb - "On."

Stu had driven back to MA a few days earlier to pick up some things to bring back to Chicago, see Emma, friends and … that's right. To head over to Pete’s retirement celebration.

I felt ... well … I was thrilled for Pete. Happy for Stu. But suddenly I wished I was there, too.

I kept the phone on vibrate and set it next to the laptop while I continued my work at Starbucks on 39th.

Stu called back a few minutes later. Somehow I was expected this call.

“Ready?" he asked. "I’m sitting next to Scott and Kim Hamilton ...”

“The Lord Bless You and Keep You?” Have they done it yet?” I asked.

“Here’s the thing….” Stu paused as the crowd started to settle down. There was lots of noise going on and clapping doesn't pick up all that well on a cell's tiny speaker.

“Okay. H? They’re about to do Hallelujah Chorus” and then “The Lord Bless You ..."

More clapping. I think I heard some cheering as well.

"And George is here. Rommell. "

My brother was like Dan Rather on the front lines in Viet Nam, providing me with a blow by blow description of everything unfolding in the LHS auditorium.

Man, Oh man - Western Mass. was tugging at my insides. "I blew it," I thought. "Really blew it."

You know something? A person has a chance to pick special moments in a lifetime, and those kinds of moments don't, how do they say it? Grow on trees? This was one of those moments, I could tell. And I wasn’t there. I made a choice, sure. But, I don’t know. This may have qualified as one humdinger of a mistake.

Singing with Friends - “You ready? Stu asked. "Okay, now – I’m going to put this on speaker. Don't say anything."

I sat at my Starbuck's table and covered up both ears so I could hear better.

"Okay, here we go. Now, don’t say anything – you’re on speak ...”

"You already said th ..."

"I said, don't say anything!!"

I smiled. Everything was in place.
Me in a Kansas City Starbucks.
Stuart with his cell phone sitting on the his lap in the Longmeadow High School auditorium.
The chorus, poised to do their thing.

Then, it was easy. I just listened.

Now, not to sound over dramatic ... Oh, what the hell? I'll be dramatic. It's as though the music coming over the phone lifted me from that little wooden Kansas City Starbuck's seat and transported me back to Longmeadow in the early '70’s. I was in high school, again.

Within about a minute of listening to Peter’s most recent and last Lyrics and super-chorus groups, I smiled when I noticed I was singing along, mouthing the words – every one of them. First to the Hallelujah Chorus, and then … well … here’s what happened next.

“Okay, we're goin’ up now…" Stu continued his play by play. H - It's like half the people here ... At least half the audience is alumni ...”

[A little background here: "The Lord Bless You And Keep You" (hereinafter -"TLBYAKY") is a gorgeous SATB choral piece, the signature sign-off piece for every Lyrics chorus for as long as I can remember. Pete actually carried that tradition over from his predecessor, Mr. Alfredo Carbonell (another terrific music teacher, by the way). I just remembered - Our group of students was Pete’s first at LHS. Mr. Carbonell retired after my freshman year and then - enter Peter Thomsen. Anyway… TLBYAKY was the song. In the years that followed, post graduation, off to college, then back for Thanksgivings ... I and fellow LHS music alumni would return to the LHS auditorium for concerts; we all wanted to keep that experience going for us, at least for a bit longer. We all loved returning home and seeing Pete with his new crop of talented voices. And when it was time to conclude a concert, Pete would turn and make his request. And alumni would head up to the stage and, for another moment, we all had a chance to, once again, sing with friends].

Some jiggling, lots of noise, then quiet. A few seconds passed. I could just picture it. Pete standing in front of this huge chunk of his past, right smack in front of him. Faces. 34 years of faces. People whose lives he has touched and have touched him, in return. The ultimate 2-way street. The obvious line: Mr. Thomsen's Opus - I'm positive that very thought ran through more than a few minds in that room. I could picture Pete, the first dip of his arms - the signal to ... commence.

I listened to the song. I remember thinking the tempo was very slow, slower than I ever remember singing it. Who knows? Was the chosen tempo Pete's doing - him holding back a bit? Trying to hold onto the moment - make everything last just a bit longer? I could hear Stu's voice every once in awhile and was trying to picture him singing while holding the cell phone.

This was great.
The song was great.
The chorus was great.
Everything was great.

"Something's Happening Here"

So, when I first heard the sound, I reached to turn down the volume dial on my laptop.

"What the hell is that?" I thought. "Could it be?"

Someone at work mentioned earlier in the day that there was some "weather" headed our way. A euphamism for severe storms, or worse, tornadic acitivity; I love that last term.

Anyway, I lifted the window a bit and put my ear closer to the opening. Sirens blared in the distance. First loud, then softer ... then much louder, over and over again. I figured this was the tornado warning sirens doing their thing, on some type of revolving mechanism, shouting its warning from county to county; a kind of mechanized Paul Revere. I'd seen a few of these contraptions on the side of the road on my drives to work, but never heard them in action. It was eerie - as though an air raid was imminent ... or worse. I remembered hearing these sirens when we'd do the "duck and cover" nuclear explosion exercises in the 60's. They had those at Tiffany Street School all the time. Yes, yes - I remember those. (See "Bert, The Turtle" to the right)

"When you see the flash ... duck and cover." Plll-lease?! Can you imagine? I mean, what the hell was the point with that? And the funniest (saddest) thing is, our government was serious about that stuff.

So, the sirens reminded me of that, to be sure. But it wasn't just the sounds that weirded me out. It was also the lack of sound. A stillness - it was unmistakable.

Something was happening. And it wasn't clear what it was. What to do?

Making My Move - Well, I suppose I did precisely what they tell you not to do at a moment like that. I grabbed my camera, put on my sandals, and headed out the door and down the stairs. I wanted to see this. I needed to see this. I'm guessing there's a bit of stormchaser in me. I think there's a piece of that in all of us.

Happily, there's not much to report here. I'm glad I didn't end up in a tree five miles up the road and all that. I snapped off a few pics which you can see here, but they don't do justice to the actual view that afternoon. It's the coloring I wished I could have captured a bit better. A great camera might have been able to give you a better shot - I wish you could see that pre-storm coloring. It looked just the way I've heard it described. A kind of greenish, yellow color. The lighter photos show what it looked like at around 6:00 PM or so - which, in May, means it's still supposed to be daylight outside. You can see how dark and ominous the sky got around that time. And the quiet - very strange. I remembered thinking as I walked up the street, no birds. Not a sound at all. My guess is birds and other wildlife know what to do when something dangerous is on the way. I'll tell you one thing - they don't grab their cameras and run outside to take photos. (Note: A few funnels/tornadoes were generated out of that same sky you're looking at - just a short distance away. Knowing that now, gives these photos new meaning).

The darker photo below - I think this was taken around 8 PM, perhaps a bit later. I love seeing lighting, especially the streak kind. It's next to impossible to catch a good shot, so I decided to simply close my eyes and start to press the button every 5 seconds, which I did for a minute or two. Once I was done, I was thrilled to see that I had caught one shot showing a few bolts just above the KC Board of Trade building, directly across the street from my apartment.

Rolling Thunder - I'll close with this. I think it was around 1:30 later that morning. Something woke me up and I'm a pretty heavy sleeper. (I slept through the mini-earthquake they had here a few weeks ago). There was this sound; not sirens this time. It sounded like thunder but, no - it couldn't be. It just kept going and going and going. A roar, rumble, deep tone - sort of like - ?? Well, what do they say? How many times have we heard those testimonies? "It sounded like a freight train." Isn't that what folks always say about a tornado? But there weren't any sirens this time. Then again, if a tornado had already lifted every telephone pole in the vicinity out of the ground, why would anyone even think there would be any sirens left?

No. This wasn't a tornado; it was definitely thunder. But perpetual thunder. The lightning kept flashing, over and over again, keeping the thunder company. It looked and sounded like what I'd imagine a bombing raid would be like. This fiasco lasted for what seemed like an hour, perhaps more. And I'm telling you, for the 4th time now, the thunder had no breaks. Have you ever heard such a thing? The wind whipped and the rain was coming down in a big way. I smiled when I thought about my car, nicely tucked away, four floors below ground in the garage next door. I had no hail worries this time. That calming thought, alone, allowed me to fall asleep I think. Add the rain, the thunder, the lightning - at some level, it was all kind of soothing to me. I like storms; once I know I'm in no danger, that is.

I heard stories the next day at work, confirming that, in fact, a very strange line of storms had passed through the area earlier that morning. And that was, in fact, an hour of non-stop thunder. And these weren't just some one-day visitors talking here. These were Mid-West storm veterans who were passing along this info, so I figured I'd experienced something unusual.
Okay, then.

Hail - check.
Tornadic Activity - check.

And this is just the start of tornado season. I'll keep my camera ready.
I won't do anything stupid, Mom.

True Meaning Of Love

During the most painful moments of my divorce process - I'm talking the most acute part of it - my brother, Stuart, turned me on to a book. I wasn't all that into reading self-help type books. I mean, I'd read them, but the info usually bounced off my brain cells; little of that stuff stuck with me. Still, during that particular time, I was open to anything that might soothe the soul so I scribbled down the title, picked it up a few days later and settled in for the read, figuring, "Why not?"

Who knows why certain things affect us, when they affect us? I've always believed that painful times are often the doorways to some of the most productive learning we'll ever accomplish in our lives. This was one example of that concept in action.

When I started writing this post, I honestly couldn't have told you the name of the book I'm talking about. I mean, you would think that something that reached me the way it did, something that soothed me the way it did, you'd think I would've remembered the title, right? Well ... I'm sorry to say, I still don't know the name of the book. I've Googled and Yahoo'd my fingers off and can't seem to find the right combination of search terms yet. When I figure out the title, I'll pass along the info.

Anyway, I'm not going to get into a long discussion about the entire book here, since I've already drifted pretty far from why I wanted to write today anyway. Suffice it to say that one of the main (if not the main) thrust(s) of the book is the notion that every single person who comes into our life, any any given time, for any given length of time - that person has come into our life for a reason. Good, bad, neutral, happy, sad, angry, tragic ... whatever the experience ends up being, there is reason that person drifted into our life, when they drifted into our life. I think the book went so far as to suggest a very creative concept, something having to do with "contracts." The idea is that there is some great, endless depository of contract-like scrolls where all of these "life intersections" are documented. I pictured a kind of giant - giant's not the word, more like an infinitesimal card catalog, perhaps organized according to the Dewey Decimal System? - where these relationships are tracked. And when we meet these people, there is a definite term/duration to the relationship, certain parameters, each party has certain performance obligations, etc... - just a like a real contract. Sometimes the term can be very long - e.g. life partners. I see some of the couples I've interviewed for Eldercation - we're talking marriages in the 50+ range, some reaching as long as 70+ years. Incredible and quite the contract, I'd say. At other times, the agreement is for only a few years. Sometimes, it can even be a matter of a few minutes, perhaps a chance car crash or an altercation with someone while on line at the market or airport - those are all examples of these relationships being set up ahead of time, according to what these contracts set forth.

Wacky, perhaps. But I have to say, this book and the way the author told the story using this concept, it really took me in and provided me with a sense of peace when I needed it most, giving me a kind of structure to help me make some sense of how my marriage dissolved the way it did. It helped me make some inroads as to the "why" of the whole thing when I pretty much knew that the "why" element of it would, most likely, never be answered. And I ended up being okay with that.

Garlic - Okay, so here's something that made me laugh out loud in the car the other day. Several weeks ago, I met a very nice woman. It happened one night while I was attending a CD release party for a friend's friend at a local jazz club here in Kansas City; a very nice evening and party, by the way. And so, I met this woman; very pretty, very tall, very personable and downright nice. I was actually on my way out the door to leave when I met a friend coming through the door and she was with this woman. And (snap!) just like that - I made a u-turn and decided to hang on for a bit longer. Of course, a bit longer ended up becoming three hours because, once I connected with this woman, I chose to stay and hang out with her. We talked for the next three hours almost non-stop and I had a truly nice time. That, alone, stirred something inside me which I hadn't even come close to feeling in a long time - a nice reassurance that that particular mechanism is still very much alive and kicking inside me. Not that I ever truly believed it was gone for good, but, you know ... So, by the time the three hours were up, it was pretty much just assumed that this woman and I were going to go out, which we did ... the very next night. We ended up having dinner then going for drinks and talked well into the early morning hours.

Now to the universal contract theme: I turned out that this woman - we'll call her Susan - is a caterer and knows her way around a kitchen, to be sure. So I've been cooking a lot over past few months as part of my healthier diet transformation and, one night, I made dinner for Susan and the conversation turned to one of my favorite foods - garlic. I use garlic a lot, in just about anything I cook. And when I use it, I simply mince it myself. It's not a big deal, usually taking just a few minutes to peel and cut up a few cloves, then into the pan with a little oil and ... I'm on my way.

"Don't you use a garlic press?" Susan asked.

I laughed, telling her, "No," explaining that since I moved to Kansas City, I've chosen to buy only essential gear and the garlic press, while cheap, certainly wasn't something I would call essential. Having said that, a quick mini-lecture by Susan, telling me about how the press takes the entire garlic experience to another level, served to capture my attention; She really seemed to know what she was talking about and explained how using a press does something extra; something to do with the extraction of the juices which simple cutting alone doesn't provide.

Anyway - that was that. Susan and I don't see one another any more, for whatever reason. Honestly, it wasn't all that disappointing in the end. As I said, I was actually pretty pleased that I even got excited about meeting someone. That door appears to be open again.

A Whole New World - While in Target a few weeks ago, while walking through the kitchen gadget section, you know it - I snagged a garlic press - remnants of the Susan experience. And I put it to use that very night in a nice stir-fry dish I enjoy. And guess what - she was right - a different level. A genuinely noticeable difference which seemed to explode with flavor. I'm sure the folks at my office appreciate it now that I've learned how to properly cook with the press, not to mention the people in my Bikram yoga class.

All kidding aside, while cooking dinner the other night, I chuckled to myself, first thinking about the brief encounter with Susan and then, for whatever reason, thinking about the aforementioned (still untitled) special book.

"Could it be!?" I laughed hard. "Is that the reason Susan and I met? Is that the reason our paths crossed as I was walking out of the Jardine's party?"

It's wild, I know. But I wonder about that kind of thing, I really do. If there is some kind of universal source energy thing at work here, I would love to see the terms and conditions of that particular document. With the names of the parties listed at the top, the agreement might start with something like this:

WHEREAS this man has been using a particular vegetable in an inappropriate manner and can use some help in that area;

WHEREAS this man has dedicated himself to transforming his dietary needs to incorporate more healthy foods, etc ...

IT IS HEREBY AGREED, as follows:

1. TERM: 28 days, perhaps with an option to extend the term, mutually to be agreed upon.
2. DUTIES AND PERFORMANCE: Susan XX shall hereby introduce Harry Getzov to the garlic press; instructing him about the various potential uses for such a device and so on and so forth.

The rest would be boilerplate, of course, with the requisite warranties and representations, indemnification, choice of law, force majeure and severability clauses and so on and so forth.

Anyway, it doesn't really matter. The fact is, I'm just glad that I've added the contraption to my kitchen arsenal. Sure, it's an extra step to clean the darn thing. But that's all canceled out by the time I now save by not having to cut and mince any more - so I figure it's a wash.

So thank you Susan. It was great doing business with you.

I can only wonder what the next relationship contract is going to bring me. I'm actually pretty excited about the potential.

Perhaps a juicer?
Or a cappuccino maker?

Deep Dish Losing

That's not the way it was supposed to be.

About a month ago, I glanced at the upcoming Mets' schedule, noticed they had two games coming up in Chicago, figured I'd never been to Wrigley Field before and always wanted to go, so ... I picked up the phone and my brother and I agreed, "Let's play two." (sticking with the Cubs' theme here). Within minutes I hit StubHub.com and picked up tickets for the Monday night ESPN game, followed by a clump of tix for the following day, when Stu and I would be joined by his friend Bill and another old family friend. This was gonna be great!! Perhaps a little Portillo's Italian beef beforehand, or a post-game stop at Lou Malnati's for that a deep-dish pizza - with giardinare.

The Best Laid Plans - Silly me. A few days after getting the tickets and booking my SW flights to Chicago, what do I notice? Sure enough, the two games fell during Passover which, for me, means a somewhat curbed diet (i.e., no bread, yeast products for about a week). This, of course, meant no Italian beef and no Lou Malnati's. Actually, it also meant I was a bit of a moron because, without realizing it at first, I had already scheduled a trip down to Florida for that same weekend to be with my folks and sister's family for Passover - these trips have become very special to me; I never miss a holiday with them. And here I was, thinking I was a "Day-At-A-Glance" master all these years. Yes, yes, I still use those old-fashioned, dentist office appointment-type scheduling books. And yes, I double-booked the trips.

What to do? Passover with family? Mets at Wrigley?

Call it a by-product of my personal Eldercation - I've come to the conclusion that, when given the choice these days, you know what? I want it all. So, that's the way it was gonna be. A few tweaks of the schedule and I put together a jet-setting kind of weekend. A flight to FL, some kisses, hugs - A nice brisket, matzos, wine, the four questions, (not to make light of this, but some really great time with my family. Another trip will come soon, minus the rush off to Chicago) - then it was off to Midway Airport early Monday morning.

Play Ball - That shot to the left ... sun setting, skyline in the background, the green field ... this is heaven to me. And up until the 8th inning of the Monday night game, the Mets hung tough, the score was 2-1, Cubs and I really thought the Mets would pull it out, just the way I figured it would unfold when I first thought about making the trip. Unfortunately, that's when all hell broke loose and the Mets ended up losing something like, I don't know, 7-1? It's a blur to me now. And let me tell you, those Cubbie's fans were going wild. There was no mercy for Mets' fans. You haven't lived until you sit in the middle of 40,000+ Cubs fans when you're rooting for the other team. The fact is, the poor Mets rolled into town and found themselves running into a buzz-saw of a hot Cubs' team. Enough said.

Already running on fumes - I hadn't really slept all that much in the prior few days - I didn't have much tolerance for how lousy my Mets looked during that first game. Still, I figured they'd regroup for the Tuesday game.

"We're going to see what this team is made of today," I told my brother as we grabbed some Thai food on Chicago Ave. "After last year's collapse, there's a pride thing happening. This group is different."

I was happy, feeling strong.
I was feeling confident.
I was wrong.

"Get Me Outta Here!" - The Mets were annihilated 8-1 on Tuesday and I think it was about the 5th inning when I turned to Stu and broke the news to him that I wanted to leave - and I never, I mean never, ever leave a game early. It sucked. Still, I have to say I'm glad we stayed for the 7th inning of both games so we could hear them sing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" Chicago-style - the way Harry Caray liked it and led by one of my childhood heroes, Ron Santo. The fact is, it was great to see Wrigley because it really is special, along the lines of Fenway which, because of my BU, Kenmore Square, Myles Standish Hall days, will always have a place in my heart. Like Fenway, Wrigley has that historical, intimate charm and I can see where the label "The Friendly Confines" gets its meaning. The gangways and ramps - the intricate pathways - I'd never seen such a labyrinth-like park. The above shot gives you a hint of the flavor of the traffic-flow. When Stu and I reached our Terrace Level, that's when I caught my initial glimpse of the field, the thin strip of green dotted by the tiny white uniforms darting across the infield. For a split second I remembered my first trip to a major league game. It was Shea Stadium in the mid 60's, of course, with my family as guests of my Aunt Fritzie, who had season's tickets right in back of the Mets' dugout. I think Fritzie was one of the original 1962 season ticket holders. Anyway, as I looked out onto the Wrigley infield and watched the players warming up, I still, to this day, am struck by how easy those guys seem to make those throws across the diamond. It's like the ball floats as it travels from mitt to mitt. It doesn't matter what park I visit these days, that same feeling washes over me. If it's baseball, I love it. And, for me, there is nothing like an urban context - those bleacher seats on top of the surrounding brownstones and buildings - you've gotta love that. Check out the day-night theme in these two pics.

Baseball romanticism aside, my near 18-innings of Wrigleydom was sheer torture from a Mets' fan's perspective. Downright painful. And man, do those people drink. I'm telling you, they really down that beer. I mean, c'mon, I've probably been to hundreds of games, all over; most of them in NY at Shea and Yankee. But I'm telling you, I've never seen so many people getting drunk at a baseball game before. Listen, I'm not passing judgment here and I'm not a Puritan; I like my beer and bratwurst, too. But I love baseball more. And call me crazy but I enjoy actually sitting and watching the game for more than 10 pitches at time before having to run to the urinal.

All in all, most of my complaining here is just to have some fun. The fact is I had a chance to be with my brother and see some friends. And the chance to be with my family for the holiday was priceless, as it always is.

One more funny and poignant memory of this latest adventure: while riding the subway back to Stu's car, we found ourselves in a train filled with what seemed to be about 80% Mets' fans. Apparently we weren't the only ones who needed to run for the hills. We ended up talking with a bunch of folks and commiserated with them about the two debacles we had just witnessed. The ride took about, I don't know, 20 minutes or so. And as Stu and I were about to get off at our stop, I stood, turned, and smiled at the folks in the car, most of them in Mets shirts and hats.

"Thank you," I laughed. "I feel much better. This was like a therapy session for me."

And with that good laugh, I was on my way to the car, to the Orange line, out to Midway and on a plane back to KC.

A good trip. Tiring, but certainly good.

I had had it all.

Still, one win would've been nice, you know?

Ring A Ding Ding

So, I was sitting in my cubicle yesterday ...

I still find the cubicle-thing funny, but let's not go there.

... and being on the top floor of my company's 5-floor building, my co-workers and I are in touch with roof-top action. Wind, hard rain, maintenance workers doing their thing, you name it, we hear it. I'd say it was about 3:00 or so, I heard a knock coming from above me. Then two or three more knocks - followed quickly by what sounded like 100 much louder knocks and bangs on the ceiling. I stopped typing and thought about it for a second. At first, I didn't know what to make of it. Was the roof collapsing? I had heard some thunder claps all afternoon and knew severe storms had been predicted but, was this perhaps beyond severe? Was this the Midwest moment I'd been waiting for? My first tornado? Listen, I'm not stupid enough to actually want to be in a tornado but there is a part of me that wants to see at least live one funnel cloud in my lifetime. Just a small manageable one that lasts for a few seconds and then dissipates before anyone is hurt.

Anyway, I popped up from my chair - that's one funny thing about working in a corporate multiple-cubicle situation. Heads pop up one at a time like that. And with the head-popping came one word - it's as though we all said it at once. H A I L.

The Gang's All Here - This wasn't the sugar-cube variety. I'm talking at least golf ball-size. Not as large as the hail in the pic on the left, but I thought that shot was kind of cool. The stones the other day were coming down pretty hard; I mean, they were pouring out of the sky - it was like snowfall. (Check out this YouTube Video - Amazing. At one point, our storm looked like this storm. You can see how dangerous this can be, so I don't mean to make light of it.)

Okay, so the second word, after HAIL, was - DEDUCTIBLE. Everyone at the office was thinking about their cars outside in the lot. These seasoned Midwesterners had been through this kind of thing many times before, you could tell. 'So much for my IRS rebate,' was all I could think as I headed toward a window to take a look. (That photo below is extreme, I know, but from what people were telling me, it's the kind of thing that can happen).

It's funny - since I bought my car, I've been careful (not crazy) about parking in carefully selected spaces to avoid other cars. I see people in parking lots all the time, whipping open their car doors, completely oblivious to the way the doors slam into neighboring cars, always leaving the mark of an a@*h#le. (sorry for the pseudo-profanity, but this stuff really gets me going) Of course, these are the types of folks who are often chatting away on their cell phones, so they rarely notice when their door inflicts that kind of damage to someone else's property. That kind of stuff drives me nuts so I choose to counter that scene by simply parking a little farther out in the lot and walking a few extra steps into the particular store or market. I mean, what's the big deal? And I'm killing two birds with one hail-stone - avoiding ding madness while getting a little more exercise. I call it good planning. Others would call it obsessive compulsive disorder.

With cars on all of our minds, a bunch of co-workers crowded into this guy Jack's office to watch the storm from his window, which, come to think of it, probably wasn't the smartest thing to do during such an event. I'd seen hail before, but this was different from the New England variety. The large white balls of ice streaked down from the dark gray sky, bouncing off the pavement and the cars below in the lot. It didn't look good.

"A few look like softballs" I heard one person shouting from down the hall.

Sure, most people were concerned about their cars (the folks who weren't lucky enough to have indoor parking) ... but in the back of my head, it wasn't so much my car I was thinking about. I was wondering - "Isn't this kind of intense hail the precursor to a trip down the yellow brick road?" I looked out over the horizon, watching for a dark wisp to drop from one of the the charcoal clouds. If I had seen that, I'm not quite sure what I would have done. Still, I looked.

Whew!! - After work, when I got close to my car, I kind of peered at it from a distance to see if I could see any unwanted dimples or, worse, but things appeared to be a-o-k. The fact is, so much rain water had collected on the car, I couldn't tell what was going on.

And that was that. I picked up a few hail-stones and started throwing pitches, doing my best to throw strikes at telephone pole about 25 feet away. I figured I had dodged a GEICO bullet and wanted to air out my arm a bit. It felt great.

Fast forward about 15 hours - heading back to work the next morning, listening to "Mike & Mike," driving south to Leawood and ... what is that? The morning sun doing something strange to the card hood's reflection in the windshield? I was hoping that was the case but hoping wasn't going to change the fact that, yes, those friggin' hail stones apparently didn't let me or, more importantly, my Vibe, completely off the hook. At least one of those things was large enough to speak its mind or, perhaps, it just hit at the right angle to push it's way into the metal and cause one of those beautiful dings.

And, sure enough, when I arrived at work and got out of the car to conduct a dry-version inspection, yep - there were a few more where that came from. Subtle - small - hardly noticeable at first glance. But, they were there.

Raising The White Flag - The moral of the story? If there is one, I suppose it's this: What's going to happen, is going happen. Wise words, huh? I mean, here I am making a little extra effort to practice ding-avoidance and look what happens. It's funny how mother nature has it's own way of leveling things out. There's simply no fighting what's going to find you anyway. That concept is becoming clearer and clearer to me each day that I live.

Having said that - what lesson did I really learn? I still chose to park under a tree that morning, figuring it might act as sort of a wind-break to provide at least, I don't know, a little shelter for the next hail extravaganza. Yeah - real smart. Under a tree?!?

Obviously, I have some ways to go - regarding the "no fighting it" concept.

Unmistakable

Today’s trigger?

A young woman wearing a navy blue sweatshirt with large yellow words on the front - "MARTHA'S VINEYARD." I spotted her waiting for coffee while on line at the Plaza Starbuck's. Add to that, my iTunes was playing Sarah Mclachlan's “Angel" at that very moment. These two things - actually, something else was in the mix. The fire roaring in the fireplace about four feet from my table, that was the third piece to the puzzle. The name on the sweatshirt, the music, the fire - it was like a perfect storm. I stopped my work, leaned back a bit and let my mind wander.

* * * * * * * * * *

I miss the water. More specifically, I miss the ocean.

The vastness of it, yeah, that always gets to me; another reminder of the abundance of it all. And I’m not simply talking about water. I’m talking about abundance, in general. Then, of course, there's the smell – it’s that first whiff that hits the nostrils, sometimes from many miles away - that's the thing that really lets me know I’ve arrived. I don't know if it's the seaweed? I think that may be what I'm talking about here. It's a kind of fishy smell, unmistakable. And the salt air - there's nothing like that. (btw - that's a Vineyard photo above)

I’m heading to Florida this weekend and will make sure I make a stop at the beach; I need a follow-up to an experience I had a few weeks ago while in Fort Lauderdale.

My brother and I took an early morning yoga class and were relaxing at our table, people-watching from our "Floridian" (great, cheap diner on Las Olas) seats.

“Where’s the ocean?” I asked as we were finishing up. I had a plan.

My brother pointed over my right shoulder.

“How far?”

“Two minutes.”

And that was that.

When we got close, I rolled the window down and, there it was. The whiff. And as we made the turn onto, I guess it's "A-1-A" – the strip that used to be notorious for its “spring break” chaos, but since way toned way down by the local authorities. As we made that turn, I asked Stuart to slow down and pull the car over to the right for a second.

“What the f….!?” my brother started to laugh.

The next thing I knew I was out the door and hopping over a small wall, pouncing onto the beach. The sand was pretty hot, which felt great on my toes, exposed through the open sandals. I made a beeline for the water. Knowing my brother was parked in a “no parking” zone, I knew this was going to have to be very much the compressed beach experience.

Lots of folks were out enjoying the hot sun, listening to radios, playing Frisbee, all that beach stuff. This was something I hadn't seen in, God knows how long. Perhaps since I got married at Montauk Point. And that would be ... 1998? A decade already? Now that is just plain old wrong. To think I've stayed away from something I love like that for so long. That is something that needs to be rectified. This jaunt was a start at doing just that.

I ran directly into the water, sloshed around for a bit and then stood there, looking out over the Atlantic. It was misty out. Sunny, but misty. I took in a few deep breaths, listening to the seagulls doing their thing. Then I bent down and, using both hands, scooped up what amounted to a small cup of water into my hands and lifted it up where I let the salty liquid run over my face and down my neck, wetting my shirt. “One more for the road,” I thought as I bent down again and scooped up another load.

I turned, ran back across the sand and then, up and over the wall and back into the car.

That was that. I think the whole thing took maybe about 83 seconds, tops.

“How was it?” my brother asked.

I smiled, wiping away some water from my chin, lifting my fingers to my nose to check out that unmistakable smell. Next I raised one finger up to my mouth, giving it a bit of a taste.

Man, do I ever miss that.

"A Little Dab'll Do Ya"

Doing this kind of work has served to open up all kinds of doorways to the Harry Getzov mind. I can be sitting with someone during an interview and that person will say something, or perhaps I'll smell something cooking in their kitchen - just about anything like that can serve as a trigger. Suddenly - a mind-shift. And, for a split second, I'll have traveled some place else.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a gentleman after an Eldercation interview and he mentioned something to me about heading out to the barber. He loved getting his hair cut and started to tell me some stories about going to the barber as a young boy. And when he said this to me - just like that (snap!) - a face popped up. It was as though someone clicked a web page link and a photograph loaded in front of my eyes.

That faces was Gus's.

I don't think I've thought about Gus for 35 years.

* * * * * * * * * *

Special Moments - I loved Saturdays when I was little. Something felt different about that day. Actually, the different feeling started the night before - the excitement would already be building as I'd shut my eyes so by the time those eyes would open next, by then, my lord.... I can feel that happy feeling even as I write this. It felt great.

Saturday's meant one ... well ... actually, two things to me back then. First of all, there wasn't school on Saturdays so that certainly worked. But it also meant I would have the chance to head into downtown Springfield (MA) with my father. And that weekly routine pretty much consisted of two main events: lunch at the Californian, followed by a walk to Gus's barbershop where my Dad would get a haircut. I know that might not sound all that exciting now but, man, it was to me back then. Those Saturdays and those two activities, in particular, were such a huge part of my life. In the earlier years of the routine, I'm talking around 1962, 63 or so, I think Gus's shop was somewhere in the old railroad station (now, just a dark, dilapidated shell of a building). I can sort of picture the scene now and the first thing coming to mind is that it was really dark, not at all lively. Even then the railroad station seemed spooky to me. But I remember going in there and my Dad getting his haircut; that minimized the spookiness factor.

Gus. I can see him so clearly in my mind. Tall, silver rimmed glasses, clefted chin, very handsome and proper. I recall him being German, but it's possible he was from Austria or even Switzerland. I'll have to ask my dad if he remembers where Gus was from. I remember how Gus always wore a spotless white smock or apron - a kind of barber's uniform. And then there was his hair, every bit as white as the the color of the apron and always, I mean always perfectly coiffed and combed backward, slicked down, no doubt, by any one of the many hair tonics lining the counter in front of the barber chairs. It looked as though if you touched Gus's hair, the outside coating would crack as you pushed your finger in. It reminded me of freezing rain on top of fresh snow.

Come to think of it, I bet he used Brylcreem since I remember the way Gus used to rub his hands together, ready to apply the small spot of white cream to my Dad's hair.

"A little dab'll do ya." Anyone remember that?

(Note: Did you know - Fred Flintstone's famous "Yabba Dabba Doo" is derived from the Brylcreem jingle? FYI, the actual lyrics are: "Brylcreem, a little dab'll do ya, Use more, only if you dare, But watch out, The gals will all pursue ya,-- They'll love to put their fingers thru your hair." Take a look at this recent print web ad. Can't imagine something like this back in 1964 but, then again, check out the slogan under the rugby player? Hmmm.)

"Good Morning, Mr. Getzov" - The greeting was always sort of abrupt, staccato-like, but not in a short, cold way. Gus was as warm as could be. As a matter of fact, it's people just like Gus who I realize now had a huge effect on me when I was little and, in some ways, it's my experiences with folks like Gus in those earlier years that have led me to do the work I'm now doing. (Note: I only wish I had a good photo of both Gus and his shop. I saw something online the other day and it reminded me a lot of his downtown place. See the photo below, to the left).

It was obvious that Gus enjoyed those Saturday mornings as much as I did, greeting his customer's little sons and daughters and loving those visits almost as much as he enjoyed working his craft. Come to think of it, those mornings were pretty much about fathers and sons - this was a man thing, I'm pretty sure.

So, after downing the best roast turkey sandwich in the city, (with the best Russian dressing I think I've ever tasted to date, by the way), my Dad and I would walk over to the train station. And as soon as we'd round the corner, approaching Gus's, I'd smell the shaving cream, freshly cut hair, Vitalis, Brylcreem - that fresh, soapy clean barbershop smell. And if there had been any doubt what day of the week it was, that doubt was most assuredly wiped away at that very moment. Sometimes, if the timing was right. I'd hear the massager from all the way down the long dark station hallway. Ahhh, yes - the massager. I loved that gizmo. Have you ever seen one of those? Do you even know what I'm talking about? (Check out the picture below on the right - that's it! I know, I know, it looks like something you'd find under the hood of a car. But that's almost exactly like the one Gus used). The barber would wrap a strap around his hand, with the metal, "command module" part resting on top. When the switch was clicked on ... "Good Vibrations" is about the best way I can put it. The barber would then run his vibrating hand over and all around the customers head, giving him the most relaxing head massage. Gus usually ended this service with his special finishing touch, allowing the weight of the massager (it was actually pretty heavy from what I can remember), drop his hand onto the customer's shoulders and upper back, where he'd let it do its thing for another 30 seconds or so; a barber's 1960's version of a "happy ending," I suppose.

For the most part, when it came to the whole head massage thing, I was a mere observer but, sensing my curiosity, I remember the first time Gus signaled for me to hop into the chair, where he then gave me a sampling. I think my teeth chattered for ten minutes after that go-round but it was fun; I'm sure I was giggling uncontrollably at the time. It was just a giggling kind of experience. How could a person not giggle getting shaken around like that?

A few more memories: There was a pretty blond women in the shop every week, too; the manicurist. Very sweet. You know what? I'm now 50 and, as unbelievable as this might sound, I don't think I've ever had a manicure in my entire life. Something to put on my list,. I suppose.

Okay then. Vitalis, manicurist, crazy metal vibrating massager, warm shaving cream ... But now, to the star of the show. To what came to be the centerpiece of those visits. At least for me, it was the centerpiece.

The magazine rack.

Learning About The Rack - Okay. So by now, you've probably already glanced below and saw the photo I included, so the mystery is now gone. But here's how this part of the story goes:

So - when I was 5, 6, 7, 8 or 9 (a lot Saturday mornings came and went along the way) - the reading material in Gus's place didn't mean jack to me. But, when young adulthood started its move - (I'm talking biology here) - all I can say is - ooohh, la, la.

Suddenly, even though the turkey sandwiches and special moments with my father remained important to me, the rack started to take on a whole new significance for me - in more ways than one.

Strategy Is Key - It's funny, but I think even at 12 or so, I was wise enough to not merely bolt over to the waiting area and immediately grab 3 or 4 Playboys for my reading pleasure. I have to say, I remained cool, calm and collected, first accepting Gus's warm greeting and then slowly, purposefully gliding into one of the red leather, silver studded waiting chairs lining the back of the shop, behind the barber stations. Then, after scoping things out a bit, waiting for my moment when Gus would be perhaps applying some shaving cream or brushing loose hair away from my Dad's eyes - then, I'd make my move. And there was a definite skill involved here - sort of a pre-Star Trek, "cloaking" device technique, I like to call it. It worked like this: I figured out a way to take, I don't know, a "Sporting News" or "Life Magazine" - it had to be something large, "National Geographic wouldn't do the trick - and I'd then carefully slip a Playboy under the larger magazine, so the "disguise" magazine would then become a kind of book-cover. And that was that. I'd then return to my chair,sit back and then read to my heart's content. Well - I wouldn't exactly call that reading. It was probably more like staring, ogling. Perhaps a bit of drooling? Seriously, I was still careful enough to keep one eye peeled on my father and Gus throughout this entire process, peering over the top of the magazine into the mirror, just to make sure they didn't know I was up to. One eye fixed on them, the other peeled on ... well ... All I can say is "Thanks, Hef."

"Did You Know?" - I'm blessed, I understand this. Even with my folks' health issues sometimes rearing their ugly heads, I am quite the lucky man to still have my parents around; I really am. And I'm saying this during a time when I've been hearing about the deaths of several of my closest friends parents. But not to dwell on that here; that's actually a subject for another essay I'm writing now. The point here is simply this: my Dad is still very much alive and, after writing this entry, I thought it might be fun to find something out; to ask the obvious question listed above. My best guess? Come on - there is no way my father didn't know what I was up to back then. What do you think?

I haven't listened to Pandora in such a long time. But, for some reason, last night - it was Pandora for me. And it was good. First of all, for those of you not familiar with it, Pandora.com is an innovative radio station website - created as part of the Music Genome Project. Without getting overly technical here, they have somehow concocted a site that plays music according to your particular tastes. The user creates different radio "stations" by genre. And once the user sets up various stations, the system then selects songs that fit pretty much within each particular genre. The whole system is based on the actual make-up of the music and production - (e.g., guitar and bass lines, string arrangements, etc...) One thing I particularly love about Pandora is that I can have it on and be piddling around in my apartment or doing work and all of a sudden I'll hear something I like and have no idea what it is. I'll glance at the laptop and see what's playing and the system gives me the complete info injection - title, band, writers, album , etc ... That's all a throwback to me. I remember the days of listening to the radio when the good DJ's used to actually tell you all kinds of info about the last played song. Remember that? It doesn't happen any more. Then again, how would I know? I haven't listened to music on the radio in a about a decade.

Last night, at one point on my "Crosby, Stills & Nash" station, The Traveling Wilbury's came on - "End Of The Line." I love that song and haven't heard it in a long time. And, one by one, first it was George Harrison's voice. Then Tom Petty's, followed by Jeff Lynn and then, of course, Roy Orbinson. I know Dylan was in there some place, but I don't think he had any solos on that track. Anyway that, of course, got me thinking about how much I miss the Beatles and how I especially loved George Harrison and his writing. Nothing against Lennon and McCartney, or Ringo for that matter. But there was something special about George ... the "quiet" one. Something spiritual that seemed to shine through.

Just a thought for the night.

"While My Guitar Gently Weeps" just came on Pandora.

Right on cue, of course.

Memories of Mr. Tippett

"Mr. Tippet."

I'm smiling as I write this. I'm smiling because when I think about every young man who grew up in Longmeadow, Massachusetts during the 60's, then into the 70's ... and I think about them hearing those words uttered today, my hunch is that as soon as the sound waves hit their ears, their minds immediately make a shift. And when that shift occurs, hunch #2 leads me to believe that the following words then follow, flowing from their mouths in a long, drawn out, monotone-like voice:

"Boys. Step away from the vices."

I hated metal shop. Wood shop, I enjoyed. But metal shop? No friggin' way. While the girls in middle school went to their home economics classes, it was two varieties of shop and mechanical drawing for us. I don't know how it's done these days but, back then, it was all about gender separation when it came to those so-called career-skills classes.

With wood-shop, at least Mr. Shube's classroom presented a lighter, more cheery environment. Was it the light pine or oak? Perhaps it was the smell - I loved the smell of the freshly cut wood, the feathery shavings coating the gray concrete floor. But metal shop? Whoa. Dark and grayish black, the stink of rust - that metallic odor wafting it's way up my nostrils every time I entered that place. It always smelled like something was burning in that room which, to me, always seemed a lot more dangerous than good ole' Mr. Shube's work space. I was always thinking a blow torch was going to sear off my eyebrows or a soldering iron was going to melt my fingers into the table top.

Trip To Bountiful - Okay. So it's not as though I think about metal shop a lot these days. But while home for Emma's birthday a few weeks ago, I had a chance to take a look around the old neighborhood - actually two old neighborhoods. I've done this kind of thing before but, for some reason, never seemed to have a camera handy. This time, with the Canon by my side, I decided to drive through Springfield and Longmeadow to take some photos. I figured it might be nice to share a few on here.

I loved the Springfield house. Whereas my younger brother remembers the next (Longmeadow) home better, this is the house I connect with my childhood. To me, this is the house. As I drove by to snap these photos, I opened the windows to let some of the crisp, cold winter flow into the car. I smelled burning timber - a familiar smell. I'm not sure, but I think there was always some kind of controlled burning area in Forest Park, located right across the street from our house. I remember that from when I was very little and smiled when I thought that now, some 45 years later, the burning apparently still happens, in that very same spot. As I closed my eyes, it could have easily been 1963 again. The birds chirping, the soft hum of the cars driving by on the noisier Dickinson Street side, the sound of melting ice cracking and dripping ... Yep. This is where I grew up all right. And there was the house - 499 Trafton Road.

I circled around to the other side and, after snapping off a few more photos, headed toward Tiffany Street and then past my elementary school, originally called, aptly, Tiffany Street School. Now it's named after a woman, Alice Beal, but, other than the name change, the place looks exactly the same. A quick memory: I was what? Five? Six? What age are you when you're in kindergarten? There was a hill outside, with a playground (both are still there, of course). I remember one day back then, heading back into school after recess and something about the lining around one window caught my attention. The building was brand spanking new and I discovered some kind of gummy sealant around the edge of the window, where glass met concrete. Of course, I started to play with it, digging my finger in as far as it could go; it was kind of like "Silly Putty." I made all kinds of designs in the gooey, mucky stuff and I'm sure they appreciated my arts & crafts contribution to the building. I remember checking out a number of the school's windows in the days that followed; it's a good thing the whole building didn't fall down with the chunks I was taking out of the place. Come to think of it, that's probably the single most destructive thing I've ever done in my life. And now, it's 2008 and I remember those windows; that's funny to me. Part of me wanted to get out of the car, walk over to the side of the building to see if my artwork was still in place. But I didn't go and proceeded to head to my next stop. Anyway, I'm guessing there have been some new windows installed since 1963.

"Well, We're Movin' On Up ... " - My family moved to Longmeadow when I was in the 4th grade. That was a strange year for me which I won't get into here. New home, new school, new friends - a lot happened in a very short time. 4th ... then 5th ... then on to 6th grade - it was time for a shift. But not just any shift - a pioneer-like shift, in a manner of speaking. That was the year Massachusetts changed their school structure with the concept of junior high becoming a thing of the past. 5th grade graduation meant it was time to head to ... middle school.

So, don't worry. I'm not going to recount every memory from my childhood on here. So, it's time to go back to the two words that triggered this entry - "Mr. Tippett."

As I approached Williams Middle School, I decided to take the turn down the familiar long driveway, lined by the ball fields where I played some of my first baseball games, with the Senators. I remember the navy hats with the big red "L." And as I drove up to the building, I found myself drawn to one side of the school, in particular. Then, I drove the car up to one door on that same side. Stepping from the car, I pulled out the camera and, after walking up to one of the entrances, carefully placed the camera lens up against the door window.

There it was. The hallway. This was the same hallway where I remember walking to gym a few times a week, yes. But that's not the reason I was peeking through this window, staring at this view. No, no, no. This was all about the route to a very different destination. This was all about that dark place. That gloomy, rusty gray-scale of a dungeon room.

"Mr. Getzov, where are your safety glasses? How many times do I have to warn you boys about your safety glasses."

I snapped off a few photos, then turned the camera to get another angle.

"And, don't forget the rivets. The rivets, boys."

For some reason, that line about the rivets popped into my head. I think it had something to do with a spatula which was, from I can remember, my first metal shop project. I'll have to ask her later, but I think my mom actually used that spatula in the house every now and then - to flip burgers or pancakes.

My contribution to the family. Manufactured with fire, sweat and yes ... rivets.

Thank you, Mr. Tippet.