Night Flight

One fine Sunday evening a few weeks ago found me washing dishes while my family watched television in the other room. A song, one that I hadn’t heard in well over a decade, began bouncing around my head. The song was called “Bedtime Stories” by Justin Hayward. For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Hayward’s oeuvre, he is a guitarist and sometime lead singer of the band The Moody Blues. My brother Greg was a huge Moody Blues fan and he picked up all of the Moody’s solo efforts as well. Sometime in the early 1980’s, he picked up Mr. Hayward’s solo LP, Night Flight. Circa 1982, I came into possession of a cassette copy of the album, and for a brief time it was in heavy rotation in the tape deck of my 1982 Toyota Celica. It was the soundtrack of more than a few nights of high-school hijinks. I loved the album, and I think my friends, who happened to be in the car with me, tolerated it. They didn’t demand I turn it off, and they even learned the lyrics for some sing-along action (we were really crazy kids, I tell you).

Anyway, “Bedtime Stories” was running riot through my brain, and I decided I needed to listen to it at that moment. This being the age of instant gratification, I logged onto the computer and went to the iTunes store. No luck. I tried Amazon, but they didn’t carry Night Flight either. Since I prefer to acquire my music legally (rebel that I am), I went to eBay, found a copy of the CD for six bucks and purchased it.  I can’t recall the last time I bought a CD. About a week later, it came in the mail. Talk about instant gratification delayed.

I immediately burned it into iTunes so I wouldn’t have to deal with the physicality of the music-distribution-device again. I listened to the album in its entirety while trying to get some work done around the house. Instead of being swept away to nostalgic nights of grade-eleven mischief – furtive drive-bys of Kelly’s house, going way too fast down Beaumont Avenue (why do they allow 16-year-old kids to drive?), late-night winter walks up Upper Hill Drive (damn, I was a veritable delinquent!), and ceaseless trips to the video arcade --  I was instead put into a very dark and somber place. My wife came into the room, and I practically snapped at her.

“What’s wrong with you?”

I had a revelation. “It’s this album. It’s putting me in a bad mood.”

“Then turn it off! Why would it put you in a bad mood?”

“’Cause it reminds me of Greg.” Yep, this album was inextricably entwined with my memories of the brother who taped it for me in the first place.

“I like to smoke,” he once told me when I was young and naïve and thought that pleading with someone to stop smoking might actually make them quit. I idolized my older brother. He was a really good guitarist, a decent athlete, pretty good looking, had a way with the ladies. He was pretty much my antithesis. He was 10 years older than I was, and let me just say that the highlight of my young life was a week I spent with him when I was fifteen and he lived in Chico, CA in a house with a couple of roommates who didn’t mind a fifteen-year old kid hanging around them for a week. That week should be its own blog post one day.

So when my talented brother who had his struggles in life, overcame them, and became a loving and dedicated husband, father and the best damn manager that Pizza Hut ever had, succumbed to lung cancer at age 54, a piece of my personal history died with him. He lived 2000 miles away from me, we spoke on the phone five times a year, if that. But you could not say that we weren’t close. He was the only one of my three brothers that I remember living with at home. The others are twelve and fourteen years older than I am, and they were in college before I graduated from kindergarten. Greg was the only person to whom I could say, “A Wurlitzer spinet for 688, a Baldwin for 777, a console for 988 and a baby grand – 1888,” and be rewarded with paroxysms of laughter. Damn, I really miss him. More than I ever thought I would.

Greg and my brother Doug would always whip out their guitars and sing at family events. All the classics – Beatles, CCR, Trini Lopez (naturally), and a lot of Moody Blues. When Doug would take a break, I’d fill in on vocals and Greg would play some more contemporary tunes (Doug believes that good music ceased to be produced after 1979). We did a heck of a great version of Nick Heyward’s “On a Sunday.” One of the songs in our small rotation was “Penumbra Moon,” a sappy, sappy love song from Night Flight. I think we both liked the fact that Justin Hayward used the word “penumbra” in a song. I suppose my days of performing those songs are over now.

When I last visited with my brother Doug a couple of months ago, he told me that he hadn’t picked up the guitar, played the piano or sang since Greg’s funeral two years earlier. Music had lost its appeal to him. Suddenly, I saw that happening to me. Instead of making me feel good like it used to, Justin Hayward’s album made me angry and morose. “No! This will not stand!” I said to no one in particular.

So, on a long commute one day not long ago, I listened to Night Flight again. And I sang along, remembering every single word. And I rediscovered why I liked it in the first place. And I felt glad that Greg liked it enough to make me a copy of it back in 1982. God, if only he didn’t like smoking.

Happy Father's Day, Dad

I originally wrote this in 2005 for what would have been my dad's 75th birthday. This morning, in the shower, I was thinking about Father's Day, and this popped into my head. So, I'm posting it here. Miss you, Dad.

One hour. We missed him by a lousy hour.

If only the plane hadn’t been delayed out of Fresno. If only K. hadn’t had a meltdown in the middle of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport right after our arrival. If only the line at Budget Rent-A-Car wasn’t so long. If only. We might have made it.

But, when my cell phone rang as we were walking toward our rented rainy-gray Hyundai Santa Fe, I knew we’d missed it. My sister-in-law just asked where we were, she said nothing more. But I knew from the tone in her voice. I stopped rushing. We stopped at McDonald’s right off the freeway for a bite to eat because I knew we were no longer in a hurry. J. didn’t understand. She still thought time was of the essence, but I knew.

We pulled into the driveway at my parents’ house and piled out of the car. My brother D. met us at the car, and after a quick embrace, he broke the news. “Dad passed away about an hour ago,” he said. I hung my head low. J. had been holding it together pretty well all day, but she suddenly lost her composure. K. was bouncing around, excited to see all her aunts, uncles and cousins. She was oblivious; maybe that was a good thing.

How could this have happened? Today was Wednesday, December 1, and I was right back in Texas again. I’d just left on Saturday. I came down, by myself, on Thanksgiving day for what I’d thought would be my family-as-I-knew-it’s last attempt at a holiday together. Unfortunately, my dad was in an “assisted care” facility, recuperating from a bout of pneumonia, so he wouldn’t be attending our turkey feast. Four of us piled into my dad’s Cadillac and headed to the nursing home. The first thing I thought when I saw him lying there, gazing listlessly at the television while my mom held his hand, was “why the hell isn’t he in the hospital.” He was barely communicative. He hardly acknowledged my entrance into the room. He seemed to be struggling just to breathe.

But, he was not sick enough to be in the hospital, they deemed. And not well enough to go home, either. So he wound up in this godforsaken land of purgatory, college football games flickering on the Sony in the corner of the room. As his family gathered around him and regaled him with stories of their latest successes and challenges, hoping for a burst of clarity, a glimmer of recognition, I wondered if he’d make it through the night.

Thanksgiving was a pretty sedate affair. My brother G. offered a prayer that was the most heartfelt and genuine expression I’ve ever heard from his lips. “Dear Lord,” he began. “Please be a Father to my father,” he continued. Some of us furtively wiped tears from the corners of our eyes as he finished his blessing of the meal.

But the next day, he seemed better. And on Saturday, he seemed better still. He began telling stories of his halcyon days, back when he was a kid growing up dirt-poor and scratching out a living for himself. “My father needs a Father right now,” G. said in his prayer on Thanksgiving. Fitting, for my dad’s father died when he was two. Tuberculosis. He grew up without much of a father figure. A stepfather entered his life several years later, and to this day I know nothing about him. My dad never ever talked about him. I can only imagine the horrors that went on in that home. My grandmother divorced that man in the 1940’s when such things were absolutely unheard of.

After Dad had finished telling a story about how he worked in a grain mill and bagged animal feed in bags that were sewn together with equipment from the Fishbein Manufacturing Company in Michigan I felt better about his prospects for recovery. Dad was always a storyteller, and the fact that he felt well enough to retell that old chestnut was encouraging to me.

My flight back to Fresno was leaving soon, so I reluctantly took my leave. I gave Dad a hug and a small kiss on the cheek. It was the first time I recall ever kissing the man. I told him I loved him and that I’d see him soon.

“Wait,” he cried out. “Did you ever hire someone?” I had needed to hire a new person for an open position in my department, and Dad and I had talked at length about interviewing and looking for qualities in prospective employees.

“Yes,” I replied. “I hired one of the ladies I talked to  you about.”

“What’s her name?” he asked. You could tell he was getting weaker the more he talked.

“Lisa,” I replied.

“Lisa. That’s a nice name.”

I said goodbye again and walked out the door. Little did I know that those would be the last words that my Dad would ever say to me.

In my window seat in aisle 23 on the American Airlines MD-80 jet that flew me home, I dozed off listening to some exceptionally melancholy music on my portable CD player. My face was to the window, looking out at nothing but the blackness and emptiness of the night sky and the vastness of the unpopulated American West. As I dozed, my mind was blank, taking a vacation from the emotion of the previous two days. Suddenly, a bright flash awakened me. I whipped my head back quickly, unsure of what I had just witnessed. Was it an engine exploding?  A lightning strike? No, it was just the moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered Rocky Mountains. It bathed the airplane in a warm white light. The sight filled me with peace.

But four days later, I would be confronted with the sight of my Dad’s body lying lifeless in his bedroom at home, his mouth agape, whiskers sprouting from a chin that never went unshaven. How could this happen? Sure, he was sick. He had cancer, but, while it was painful, it didn’t seem that bad. They couldn’t even find the primary cancer in his body. He had a spot on his spine which caused him tremendous pain, but all the diagnostics in the world couldn’t pinpoint the primary cause. There was no cancer running rampant through his body that they could see. The cause of death on the death certificate read “Cancer: Unknown Primary.”

The Monday after Thanksgiving, the doctor began discussing physical therapy to help his mobility, and perhaps a transfer to the M.D. Anderson clinic in Houston, the Mayo Clinic of the southwest. By Tuesday, he was begging to go home. And late Tuesday night, he was under home hospice care. Wednesday morning, my sister-in-law D. called me and said that we’d better get out there as soon as possible. J., K. and I caught a plane that afternoon. Too late.

According to D., the last hour of my Dad’s life consisted of him going through a variety of gesticulations; his arms and legs moved randomly and crazily. He was no longer cognizant of his surroundings and no longer communicating to anyone. D. said that it was him “preparing his things to move into God’s house.”

The whole of my family who had managed to assemble on very short notice coaxed and urged my dad. “Hold on, Dad. A. and J. will be here soon.” But, he didn’t hang on, and died sometime while we were waiting in line at Budget Rent-A-Car.

“He didn’t want you to see him that way,” was my family’s attempt to smooth over our regrets for not making it there in time. I had at least been able to say “I love you,” and “goodbye,” when I saw him after Thanksgiving. But poor J., who just wanted to tell him that she loved him and appreciated his being more of a father to her than her own “father,” was deprived of that chance. So, we said our goodbyes over a lifeless corpse; a shell of what was once my father. That her goodbye went unsaid still haunts J. to this day.

After shedding some tears over the sight of my dad’s dead body, I managed to recover my emotional bearings and remain stalwart and unmoved. There were things to do, things to take care of. There was no time for tears. The funeral home people wheeled my dad’s body out the door. Three days later, that body that had done so much in 74 years of life would be reduced to a jar full of ashes.

I maintained my brave face until Saturday morning. The four of us brothers had decided that we would each give a eulogy at the memorial service Saturday afternoon. J. had already written his, but D., G. and I  procrastinated as usual, so we met at Starbucks at 7 AM and drank coffee and composed our epistles. Suddenly, the words that were so difficult to even think about began to flow effortlessly from my pen. The tears that I had repressed began to flow effortlessly, too. My own words, spilling onto the motel stationery in front of me were just too much for me to bear. My caramel macchiato grew cold in its paper cup as I furiously finished my composition.

As I expected, my eulogy went well. It was funny. People laughed. It was poignant. People cried. But, after it was done, I realized that I had written that eulogy for an audience, not for my father. My brothers had delivered much less polished, but much more genuine eulogies.

Since my dad wasn’t a part of my daily life, it’s been fairly easy to continue with my life without his presence. Sure, every now and then I’ll read an article in the New Yorker that I think would rankle his right-wing sensibilities. I encounter situations at work that I would love to be able to get his sage advice about, but mostly, I’m just me, carrying on my mundane existence, trying to get by.

Father’s Day sped by last week. It was the first Father’s Day that I had no one to call. I felt a bit empty, but I survived. My wife and daughter made sure that Father’s Day was special to me this year. But, Monday the 27th would be my Dad’s 75th birthday. That’s not a day I can disregard. So, Dad, in honor of your birthday, I will write a simple eulogy just for you:

Dad, I am so glad that I got to know you for 38 years. I only wish it could have been longer. My brothers all got to experience you in three different stages: The Father, The Mentor, and The Friend. I feel that we were just beginning that third stage, Dad, and I’m not going to lie, I’m sorry that I didn’t get to share that with you. But, you were an excellent father and mentor. You instilled in me a good moral backbone, a love of learning, and perspective on events in my life. You passed on to me a knack for remembering excruciating detail and a love of good popcorn. You were a terrific father-in-law to my wife and a fantastic grandpa to my daughter. Even though K. won’t remember you, your memory will be passed along to her. Thank you for all the sacrifices you made for me and for our family. You will never be forgotten. I love you, Dad. I know you’re having a great time playing bridge with the old pros up in heaven, but I want you to know that you’re still missed down here. Happy birthday, Dad.

--A.J.

New Year's Greetings

It seemed almost fitting that, ninety minutes into the new year of 2012, I needed to replace the toilet paper. This was not a standard changing of the rolls, either, but a full-fledged effort to open the new thirty-roll pack that we purchased at Target on Thursday. For a minute, I imagined the possibilities that awaited this new roll of bath tissue. Sure, most likely every sheet of paper on that roll would meet the same ignominious, albeit utile, fate, but possibilities awaited. Perhaps some squares might be used to heroically stanch a nosebleed. Perhaps a celebrity might drop by and need to blot their lipstick (and before you scoff at that possibility, just remember that Ann Heche stumbled into a farmhouse about forty miles west of here eleven years ago).

It was surprising the number of things I had to replenish on January 1st. We were completely out of Bounce dryer sheets, so I had to open a new box. Liquid dish soap -- empty. So, I uncapped a new bottle of Palmolive (love the green apple scent). It got me thinking about the meaning of New Year's Day. It's not a blank slate -- too much carries over from last year. It's not a day of renewal -- nothing is different except the calendar. But perhaps it should be seen as a time of replenishment, of restocking ones life with the things that are running low. So whether it's re-establishing communications with neglected friends or family members, recommitting to that lifestyle change or rededicating to that job search, now is the time.

Yeah, I know. This year will probably be just as crummy, just as good, or just as nondescript as last year. But, you know, maybe some starlet will need to blot her lipstick at your house. Have a nice, replenishing New Year.

It's Been Like, Forever

I can't believe I haven't written a blog post in over two years. Well, I guess I can. It's not like I ever got totally into it or anything. But, it was kind of fun, so I'm going to pick it up again, at least temporarily.

I guess the big news, if you're a loyal follower of this blog (and who isn't?) is that the Shangri-La diet didn't work! I'm still hovering around 276 lbs., but I've recently been motivated to take better care of myself. I'm hoping that just doing something simple like that will get me on the right path.

Oh, there's tons more that happened to me in the past couple of years, but I won't bore you with it all at once. I'll be happy to expound at great length for your reading enjoyment at a later date.

I'll be talking more to you soon!

278.8

Wow. That was my weight on Monday, July 21. That was the most I’ve ever weighed, and it represented a gain of over thirteen pounds just in the last four months. My doctor has been after me for a couple of years now to lose weight, and I often asked him, “How?”

He would reply to eat healthier and get more exercise. But how, exactly, are you supposed to do that? I mean, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. I know that a nice, fresh peach makes a far healthier snack than a bag of Cheetos. It’s easy to say (especially for someone fit and trim, like my doctor), but the psychology of it is overwhelming. For example, I’m hungry when I get off work. Am I going to snack on celery sticks? No, I’m stopping at the EZ Food Mart and picking up a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. If all I have in the house is healthy things, I’m more apt to eat nothing, or to grab the car keys and head to the Zip ‘n Go for a bag of Tostitos and a jar of Salsa con Queso. (Okay, now I officially blame Frito Lay for making me overweight. Is there a lawsuit here?)

So I heard about a diet called the Shangri-La Diet which claims to reduce your hunger while you don’t have to change what you eat. You just feel fuller, so you don’t eat as much. It sounds like a bunch of garbage, especially when you consider that the way you quash that hunger is to throw 300-500 calories worth of oil or sugar-water down your gullet every day. Yet, as crackpot as the theory behind it sounded, it made some sort of sense to me, and so, with really nothing to lose except my high-blood pressure, high cholesterol, and a not-quite-there-yet-but-give-it-some-time-and-you’ll-be-diabetic blood glucose level, I embarked upon the Shangri-La Diet one week ago today.

275.0

That’s my current weight. Did I do anything different besides consume a bunch of olive oil? Aside from walking on the treadmill once, I did nothing special. I ate fast food, like I normally would have. I even craved and ate Doritos. The difference was that I didn’t eat as much. And, because my appetite is down, my cravings for certain things are down, too. When we went to Carl’s Jr. last week, I skipped the fries – I just didn’t want them – and I was perfectly satisfied with just the sandwich. And I’ve begun to desire things I never thought I’d want. I was upset on Saturday that we had no fresh fruit in the house, and I was excited that there were some raw carrots on an hors d’oeuvre platter at a party we attended Saturday night.

Time will tell if this is just some crazy placebo effect that will wear off in two weeks or if it’s really something. Therefore, beginning today, I’m going to be posting my weight on this page weekly (I hope). I figure if people are actually looking at my weight, the less chance I’m going to have to stray.

But what I’m not going to do is turn this into a weight-loss blog. To me, nothing could be more tedious. So, check back often to see how I'm doing. Hopefully, you'll be seeing a lot smaller number in that box to the right in the near future.

An Easy Way to Post a Blog

A thinly veiled challenge from Liz, so I'm lifting it directly from her.

The rules say you can only type one word.

1. Where is your cell phone? charging
2. Your significant other? febrile
3. Your hair? thinning
4. Your Skin? splotchy
5.Your mother? aging
6. Your favorite thing? family
7. Your dream last night? wistful
8. Your favorite drink? Diet
9. Your dream/goal? relaxation
10. The room you're in? kitchen
11. Your ex? Nonexistent
12. Your fear? fire
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Here
14. Where were you last night? sleeping
15. What you're not? ambitious
16. Muffins? Buttermilk
17. One of your wish list items? confidence
18. Where you grew up? suburbs
19. The last thing you did? dishes
20. What are you wearing? pajamas
21. Your TV? annoying
22. Your pet(S)? kitties
23. Your computer? archive
24. Your life? harried
25. Your mood? pensive
26. Missing someone? Sigh...
27 Your car? utile
28. Something you're not wearing? socks
29 Favorite Store? Online
30. Your summer? bittersweet
31. Like someone? Yeah
32. Your favorite color? puce
33. When is the last time you laughed? evening
34. Last time you cried? January
35. Who will/would re-post this? Nobody!

-----

Okay, the challenge is out there, you strange reader who just stumbled across this page by hitting the "Next Blog" link! Post it on your blog! Put it in an e-mail and annoy your co-workers!

And, it's very hard to answer some of these questions with ONE word. Last time you cried? How can you distill January 2006 into one word that would convey the month AND the year?

My Future Trip to Culver City

If you glance over to see what books I'm reading right now, you'll see that I've picked up Prisoner of Trebekistan by former Jeopardy! champ Bob Harris. This is because I received an e-mail today from the friendly folks at Sony Pictures Studios inviting me to a contestant audition on March 14th. Yikes! Guess I passed the online test, though.

I figure reading the book can't hurt, although it might psych me out a little...