Posts filed under ‘Life Preservers’
Kiss Me, Baby!
Every August, from when I was 6 months old until I was 18, my family and my cousins’ family rented a cottage together at a place called Sandy Lake. It would take a gazillion hours to tell you all about it, longer still for me to stop talking. But, in honor of the time of year, let me share a glimpse.
One day during our 1975 vacation, my Dad went in to shave. When he was all lathered up, he dashed out into the cottage and yelled, “Kiss me, baby!” The rest, I think you can figure out for yourself.
Here’s to surprises and revenge and tradition. Here’s to the funniest people I know. And, here’s to Sandy Lake, still my favorite place on Earth.
Note: Yes, it was the first place I ever wore a life preserver, and, yes, it’s the inspiration for this blog.
Happy Birthday America
Soon as I got up today, I went out on the side porch to hang the flag. Realized that the once-a-puppy dogwood tree growing next to the porch had grown so much that the flag would drape over the leaves and branches.
Went down to the garage and got clippers. Hacked away for a while and realized that, without a chain saw, I probably wasn’t going to be able to make enough room for the flag to fly properly.
Went down to the garage and got my sonic screw driver. Unscrewed the screws that hold the brace to the porch railing and moved the brace a foot or so to the right. Attempted to reattached the screws.
Went down the porch stairs to retrieve the brace and screw; then, went down to the garage to get a hammer and nail to make starter holes. Voila! Two of three screws are back in perfectly snug and the third is halfway in and stripped. But it holds the flag just fine.
Might seem like a lot of effort . . . but, of course, relatively, that was nothing — less than nothing — less than 1/1,000,000th of nothing — compared to the brilliant and brave who gave us our land of the free and those who have kept it that way for more than two centuries. To the U.S. soldier who sent me this flag and all our founding father and military life preservers, I say:
I pledge allegiance to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for which it stands,
one nation, under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.
Happy Birthday America.
Good-night, Flo McCluskey
“Blink the lights when you get there.”
That’s what I put on the card. For the flowers. For the funeral home. For my friend Florence (Flo), who passed away last week.
She used to stand at her door to watch me home safe, until I blinked my porch lights. This was not so much a safety precaution as a gesture of friendship, an affectionate tradition, one last good-night. I only had to cross the street.
It was of course the same street that Flo crossed — arm in arm with her husband Win — to welcome me to the neighborhood 16 years, 10 months, and 1 day ago.
Despite a 40-year difference in our ages (and the loudness and lateness of my move-in party the night before), they seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. And, it is not sugar-coated hindsight to tell you, I adored them immediately.
It’s rare, but liking some people is like that: Easy and quick. And, rarer still, unchanging. I crossed that street many times over the years, to chat, to give out Halloween candy, to enjoy a home-cooked meal or a glass of lemonade. I crossed that street to borrow a cup of sugar. (I swear it’s true.) I crossed that street to borrow a magic snow shovel. (I swear that’s true, too.)
When I crossed that street, more often than not, I came home with more than I’d arrived with, be it fresh-picked tomatoes, a cute scented candle, or a new wish to have such a bright mind, such mischievous eyes, such a smile, such a positive attitude — or such a well-kept house! — when I am in my 90s.
I crossed that street to say good-bye to Win before he passed, four years ago. And I crossed that street on Monday, after Flo’s funeral, to spend time with her family.
For the past few nights, as I’ve turned out the lights and walked through my house on the way to bed, I’ve lingered a moment at my dining room window (half hopeful, half cynical, and wholly embarrassed to admit it) to see if any lights blinked on and off across the street.
No. They didn’t.
Last night again, I was standing at the window. It was midnight. There were no blinking lights inside the house across the street.
But, above that house? Well.
I saw a flash. And another. And another. It took me a moment to realize I was seeing lightning from a distant storm.
There wasn’t a sound. No thunder, no rain, no wind. The lightning wasn’t in jagged streaks and electric, sparking forks. It was within the clouds, lighting things up from the inside out.
This was not a typical storm. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like fluffy, monotone fireworks. Like fireflies in a jar of cotton balls. Like flickering streetlamps lost in a swirling fog. Like flash bulbs going off underwater, snapping black and white photos of a wild and fantastical sea. Bright-as-day clouds billowing behind pitch-black silhouetted clouds. Appearing. Disappearing. Reappearing. On and off, again and again. And, just when you’d think it was over, again and again and again.
I stood there for an hour — jaw-dropped, teary-eyed, goofy-grinned, and goose-bumped.
This was not lightning striking. This was lightning laughing. This was lightning dancing. This was a midnight party.
This was a celebration in the heavens.
Good-night, Flo. And thanks for everything.
The Scoop
A clean out fever sometimes strikes my Mom. Over the years, I have trained her to wait a tick before tossing or donating, to give me a chance to peruse and scavenge. If I had saved nothing else over the years, I am glad I got my hands on this ice cream scoop.
This is the ice cream scoop my Dad used when we were kids. (Dad is fine by the way; he just got a new scoop.) But this is the one he used when he’d make us special sundaes or ice cream cones. It was an event that made us happy, in part, because, well, it was ice cream but also because serving ice cream was something my Dad got such a kick out of. He’d put joy and creativity into the effort. And he had a system.
I can picture it. Clear as day. My Dad, standing at the kitchen counter, looking down at me, smiling. He’d fill a small cup with warm tap water and dip the scoop in the water before digging into the ice cream, explaining, teaching, sharing a secret, this makes it easier to scoop.
Dad making ice cream sundaes or serving up ice cream cones was a tradition in our house, and everybody who has ever visited has had at least one of them.
There was a time when an ice cream shop up the street went up for sale, and there was talk in the house that maybe he should go into business. I was much too young to understand having a job or being the bread-winner or the risks of small business, but it made me sad that he didn’t do it.
Even very young humans are astute enough to recognize the things that make other people happy and to feel something, even if we don’t yet know the words regret or sacrifice, that feels a little sad, something that is a little less than perfect about being a grown-up.
Flash forward to me as an adult, and this same ice cream scoop reminds me of when my nephew Alex (now a 6-foot-something 16-year-old) was a tiny little human. My brother was in the Navy and his family was in town for a rare visit. We gathered at my Mom and Dad’s house. It was the first time I’d been around Alex that he could talk and walk. He was about 3 years old.
I walked from the dining room to the kitchen with a promise of getting him some ice cream. He came dashing in behind me, saying, “Wait! Wait! I have to tell you something.” I was at the kitchen counter, holding this scoop, looking down at him, smiling.
He told me to get a cup of water. He told me that if I dipped the scoop in the water, the ice cream would be easier to scoop. He added, oh-so-proudly, “That’s how my Dad does it.”
One of my favorite sweet, funny Circle-of-Life moments.
So, yeah, things are just things. But some things, unremarkable, everyday things, are more than utilitarian. They are memory triggers. Every time I use this scoop or even just see it in the utensil drawer, I feel a little jolt of happiness. I also feel a bit covetous and secretly lucky to be the kid who stayed in Pittsburgh and got the best hand-me-downs. This ice cream scoop is a mini-life preserver.
And, that, my friends, is my rationalization. Sometimes, winter doldrums and grown-up worries are easier to bear — if you eat a little ice cream on a Wednesday.
Rooting for Peyton
When it comes to the Super Bowl, it’s more fun to have a horse in the race. This time, mine’s a Bronco.
Let me state right up front that I’m from Pittsburgh, and Terry Bradshaw is and always will be my favorite quarterback of all time, but Peyton Manning is my favorite active QB. And not just this week; I’ve been saying that for years.
Why?
- I like Peyton Manning because he’s a great player who makes for some really exciting football.
- I think he’s hilarious. If you haven’t seen him on Saturday Night Live, google for video. If you haven’t seen his commercials, move out of your cave.
- I like him because he does a lot of work for charity.
- I like him because he is humble and self-deprecating. He’s a good sport.
- I like him because he wears his heart on his sleeve.
- I like him because Tony Dungy likes him.
- I like him because family dinners at the Manning house are rowdy and hilarious but also loving. They hug a lot. They laugh at farts. And post-dinner charades are epic.
Okay. I’ve never actually had dinner with the Mannings. And I can’t back up what are, obviously, my own inferences about a man I’ve never met. But I am also rooting for Peyton Manning because of one undeniable fact: He’ll be in MetLife Stadium on Sunday.
Despite major surgeries – on his neck. Despite lingering nerve damage – in his throwing arm. He’ll be there.
He’ll be there despite a kick in the teeth from the people who knew his work ethic best. Jim Ersay won’t be in East Rutherford on Sunday. But Peyton Manning will be there.
I want the Broncos to win — not just because I’m a Peyton Manning fan but also because it would be a life preserver moment. I’d like to see that, sometimes, that’s how Life works.
I’d like to see perseverance and courage pay off. I’d like to see the odds beaten. I’d like to see Ersay’s kiss-butt public relations dance. I’d like to see the Broncos’ faith rewarded. I’d like to hear their quarterback talk about a great team effort. I’d like to see him have that chance to be gracious and proud and happy.
I’d really like to see the nice guy finish first.
And then go get a Super Bowl ring sized for his middle finger.
Welcome Back, Baseball
If you’re an older Pittsburgher, you were kind of spoiled as a kid when it comes to sports. And, beyond the thrill of winning, beyond the community pride, beyond the bragging rights, a part of you forever yearns to relive those days.
Not, as outsiders may think, because you’re part of an obnoxious fan base that always expects to win. But because your love of sports is forever entwined with the past, when:
- Your grandparents (and for some, your parents) were still alive. You learned about sports because they loved sports. You love the Pirates because they loved the Pirates. You watched games together crowded around a small TV or radio. And you miss those days. You miss them more than a World Series appearance.
- Gas stations still had attendants. A man would pump your gas, wipe the windshield, and hand you the latest Pirates give-away, like a drinking glass or a glossy 8×10 of a player.
- If you were lucky as me, you had a big brother who let you and your sister sit in his room, where he used a team photo poster to help you memorize every name and number.
- There was no ebay. Kids lined up to get autographs for the pure joy of having the signature of a player they adored.
- It was nearly impossible to get tickets to Opening Day.
- Team budgets weren’t hamstrung by greed.
- Baseball players were baseball players, part of one team, part of the city where they played the game.
- Pittsburgh wasn’t a small-market town struggling to make payroll. It was your whole world.
Somewhere, in the same brain that now wrestles thoughts of mortgage and clients and deadlines, you still have Manny’s smile, Steve Blass’ leap, the towering-fame/guy-I-could-have-a-beer-with dichotomy of Bill Mazeroski, the grace and heartbreak of Clemente, the grin and grit of Danny Murtaugh, an enduring crush on Richie Hebner, the mustache of Phil Gardner, the crazy arm of Kent Tekulve, the reassuring presence of Willie Stargell.
As we have a tendency to view most of the past from a distance: It was better then.
As we have gotten older, as we have been forced to let go of the ways of childhood, it felt unfair to also be asked to give up Our Team. To handle years of losing. Years of disappoint. Years of expending deep empathy for the young men who tried. Years of watching bright sparks fade away. Years of feeling like hostages to folks who did not appear to share our beliefs, who did not seem to care, who did not behave as if they had a clue about baseball in this town. Even a couple of years when we very nearly lost baseball altogether.
And then.
Changes were made. A cog shifted and the wheel of a plan we had ceased to believe in began to turn. The gate creaked open and in that rush of air, from that collective gasp, a roar went up. A resonating, goose-bumping, awe-inspiring roar in the hearts, in the homes, in the stands, and in the town where the Pittsburgh Pirates play baseball.
Something in each of us came alive again. We believed again. We hoped again. And that’s a fairly miraculous phenomenon, a life preserver for those of us of a certain age. Even if the season didn’t have a movie script ending. The current run may have ended last night, but — for at least a year, and maybe more — baseball returned to the City of Pittsburgh.
A very Pittsburgh-y group of men led by a very Pittsburgh-y coach gave us an awesome gift.
It was not 1992 all over again. It was not the last hard kick in the pants that pushed you into adulthood.
It was something else.
Lessons Learned
This past weekend, I attended a Zeta Sigma Tau sorority reunion back on the UPJ college campus. It has me thinking about lessons learned.
Life is incredibly random. Embrace it.
Once upon a time there were some administrators in some offices, sorting forms, directing college freshman into dorm rooms and classrooms, affecting who would cross my path in September of 1981.
There are many paths. Be willing to explore.
I had planned to play volleyball and become a teacher. Instead, I joined a sorority and became a writer. If I had it to do over, the only thing I’d do differently is not stress over either decision.
Look up and say hello.
You’ll sit down next to a lot of strangers in your lifetime. One or two might be destined to be a friend for life.
There are parties going on. Attend one.
At 18, I was shy. I was nervous. I was kind of a nerd. I was not a snappy dresser. But I left my dorm room and went to a party. That one brave deed led to Zeta Sigma Tau, which became the center of my life at 18 and the catalyst for a poignant, hilarious, joyful, just-what-I-needed weekend at 50.
Everything changes. Some things never change.
From 18 to 50, we slowly, steadily transform. But it’s not like squashing and reforming a lump of clay. It’s like weaving a broader and more intricate pattern. There is always a thread that ties us to our starry-eyed, stumbling, happy youth. An unsnippable, indestructible, soul-saving thread.
A shared perspective is magic.
It is good to take a long look at the past with those who were there. Not to white-wash or candy-coat but to see clearly from a distance. To put an arm around then and an arm around now and embrace it whole. To understand at a deep level that, warts and all, you are one lucky so-and-so.
Bonus: A group of aging brains remembers more great stuff than one aging brain.
At 50, adult humans become capable of time travel.
Don’t ask me about the science, but it’s true.
Stages of life.
There will be drama. You’ll have good acts and bad ones. Sometimes the script will suck. Sometimes you’ll be confused or scared. There will be those who shout. Or throw tomatoes. But, ultimately, Life is an exquisite comedy. Find a great supporting cast. And stick around for the whole show.
It’s funny . . .
Sadness and happiness get murky. Anger and joy wane. Achievements and disappointments fade away. But funny is funny forever.
It’s never about the stuff.
True friendship is not about popularity or possessions. It is about who giggles at the same dumb stuff that you do. It’s about hugging someone who hugs back. It’s about who picks you up when you fall (from hard times or too much grain punch or a skid across a dance floor). It’s about being able to join the conversation in a heartbeat, whether you’re returning from a hard day of classes or from a 30-year absence.
Graduating and grief.
Leaving your college friends at graduation is a lot like the grieving process. Over time, you cry less, you get passed how much you miss them, you get on with life. But there will be moments when that sweet ache stops you in your tracks. And you miss them all, all over again, more than can be expressed.
Women are kind, beautiful, and amazing.
If you don’t believe this one, find new friends.
This post dedicated to my sorority sisters, some of the best damn women I have ever had the privilege to know. Til next time, don’t forget for one moment that you are brilliant and lovely and funny as hell. I loved who you were. I love who you’ve become. You have a place in my heart forever as uniquely qualified life preservers.
Mac > PC
I am (finally!) the proud owner of my very own Mac. I could tell a crazy story: The brain-frying, hunch-backing research; the frustration of computereeze; the joy of smart and patient translating friends (thank-you Nancy, Robin, and Steve!); the highs and lows; the anticipation and disappointments; the ebay bidding; the problems, the fixes; the fear and relief; that final trip out to buy another mfdvi monitor adapter. I could tell the story of how this Mac ended up here. But the beginning of this story is better.
My fascination with Apple’s Mac started in the late 80s, when companies were making the transition to desktop computers.
I worked with a woman named Lynne. She was a colleague, a friend, a humorous human, and an all-around good egg. She was given the opportunity (in corporate parlance, was empowered) to decide whether or not the company’s design team would get PCs or Macs. She did the research. She involved the team. With conscientious attention to detail, all due diligence, and an open, honest, for-the-best-of-all approach, decided that, for current and future needs, the Mac was the better fit.
There lived in this village a Much-Higher-Up who had a penchant for PCs and a predilection for getting his own way. He was her boss’ boss’ boss. She didn’t stand a chance. She was bullied. She was lied about. She was pressured. She was expected to cave.
She stood her ground.
It was traumatic and dramatic stuff back then. She was my friend. It was unfair, and it was disillusioning. I felt really bad for her. But, most of all, I admired her chutzpah. I guess it showed because I was pulled aside and oh-so sincerely, oh-my-how seriously warned not to associate with her. All of the things that were wrong with that conversation couldn’t fit in a blog post, but Lynne and I laughed about it many times.
Things were never quite the same for her after that. Eventually, she got tired of fighting the lies and sick of playing the games and she got another job elsewhere. We kept in touch for a year or two, but then we lost touch. I got a call from her Mom one day, about 8 years later. Lynne had passed away. Suddenly. Tragically. She was 30 years old.
In that quirky, strange way of the brain, I realize that my fondness for the Mac is entwined forever with my fondness for Lynne. So, of course, the telling of a tale of frustration in getting a computer set up seems inconsequential. And having a heated debate over which is better — Mac or PC — is foolish.
‘Cause Macs are better. It’s what they use in heaven.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
I Got a Charge Out of It
When iPods first came out, I did want one. However, as the current or former owner of two portable record players, three transistor radios, approximately seven different clock radios, two boom boxes, a stereo (with tuner, turntable, cassette player, CD player, then dual cassette player, then five-disc CD player), a Walkman, three different portable cassette players, a portable CD player, a CD player-radio that hangs on the wall, a TV cable package with stations that play uninterrupted music, and two computers able to operate iTunes — not to mention a piano, a harmonica, an accordion, and a decent singing voice — I wasn’t exactly camping out or breaking open the piggy bank to be among the first to own one.
In fact, I only got an iPod Shuffle about five years ago. Thanks to Apple’s annoying habit of updating iTunes so often that sorting out which computers had which music and which version to sync with, it was actually 2013 before I had an iPod — with music on it.
I used it exactly once. And forgot to turn it off.
So, the next time I went to use it, a couple of months back, it would not play. I read the instruction booklet and realized I needed to charge it using the USB cable that it came with. Hmmm. I checked the box it came in. I searched the drawer where the box was stored. I searched the rest of my home office. I searched other rooms and other drawers and even dragged from the living room closet the big, bad basket of tangled, writhing, Indiana-Jones-awaiting, possibly-useful-but-unlabeled gadget cables.
I did not find it. I could not think of where else it might be.
To be fair, my thinking is done with a brain old enough to have bounced in my skull as I danced in the backyard with my little sister and a transistor radio playing that cool, new hit single, Benny and the Jets. My memory being what it is, I couldn’t be sure enough to call Apple and say it hadn’t come with one; I couldn’t be sure enough that it had come with one to justify additional searching. Feeling a bit despondent about the charger — and my mental faculties — I gave up.
After stumbling over the big basket of miscellaneous cables for a couple of months, I decided to sort out all of The Things that creep and crowd into the living room closet when I’m not looking. (And the things I cram in there when company is coming.)
As any one who has owned a home for more than two years knows, efficient, effective clean up is all about moving your stuff from one place to another. And, so, I decided to move all board games from the closet onto some living room book shelves. (Think of it as a game of Blockhead and Jenga and Old Maid cussing.) Among the stacking and fitting of various (why the hell can’t the board game people decide on a standard size?) boxes, there was a card box. Just a little wooden box, decoupaged by my Mom back in the Elton John days, to hold a deck of playing cards. The last time I recall opening the box was when I placed an un-used, souvenir deck into it and closed the lid, probably eight years ago or so.
I truly do not know what compelled me to open the box. Sentimentality? A Pandoric curiosity? Some not-dead-only-sleeping brain cell? Who knows. But, I opened it, and, lo and behold, it held: a deck of cards. And the iPod Shuffle charger!
How in the heck did it get there? I’ve had no Eureka moment, no recollection, no memory. Nor can I think of one reason why, on any given day, in any situation, I would have considered a deck of cards as the right spot for part of my Shuffle.
Today’s life preserver is: The giggle-inducing discovery of an unintended pun.
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June 5, 2014 at 6:29 pm Leave a comment