My father was an educated man but very humble. We didn’t always have the prettiest tree on the block. It was Charlie Brown Central at our house, and I loved it. His eccentric sense of humor has been biblically passed down to me from heaven.
This is our happy and humble Christmas Tree. The squirrel is happy eating bulbs, and sadly, Frosty is dead. Initially, we thought he was just passed out.
Happy Holidays!
October, the month of candy, brought out the worst in all of us on the block.
Roaming the streets of our neighborhood back in the day was crazy “yo” during Halloween. (That’s my street cred vernacular) This ain’t no G rated story, kids. This time, Ben’s going third person hardcore: BG 13.
If you can refer to Halloween as a holiday, this one became vicious, not just because of the candy, but how long that candy could last within a square mile of four gangs: one for each block. For us, Halloween was similar to Hanukkah because the candy lasted, at the most, eight days….if you were lucky. Our Halloween Hanukkah was not about giving and receiving gifts for eight days or lighting candles, it was about coveting your pillowcase full of candy you received the night of Halloween and protecting it for the following seven days.
October 31st was not the most threatening of these Gangsta days, because you were usually with and protected by your gang. As the youngest and easiest target for a pillowcase candy raid, I probably required full-time back up from our gang of misfit boys, but I was too young to follow those instructions. Strolling down those Fall streets when darkness blew in, and when candy was the drug of choice at the age of eight, walking alone wasn’t a settling or intelligent idea. I could be a rogue during the day, but on that night, I was told to remain with my pack. Sure, I had my own weapons if our gang was busy kicking in pumpkins when I’d rather be ringing doorbells and collecting the goods at each house. Some of our members were for tricking before treating. That’s not the way I rolled. I was in it for the “stuff”. Therefore, while my gang was tricking, I’d meander a house or two down the road, which doesn’t sound too dangerous, but in this neighborhood, we had all kinds of predators waiting for the weakest of the tribe risking his candy when going alone. If you’ve ever watched The Discovery Channel or read National Geographic, when the cub leaves its pride, or the goose leaves its gaggle, it’s never a happy ending. The candy…..it’s an addiction, and you are willing to risk all the candy you have just to get more of it.
Traveling as a bindlestiff, or Hobo, I carried the stick to ward off any older boy dressed as a ghost. Making sure my stick was made by an older brother in a junior high wood shop class, one of them would make certain it was made of either mahogany (one of the heaviest of woods) or rattan. My choice was rattan. (The same used when fabricating a Singapore caning stick) Light, smooth, not deadly, but vicious enough letting the teenage ghost draped in his mother’s bed sheet know that even a ghost can have a lacerated ass. An additional weapon was the bag attached to the cane. Sugar sharks never saw that one coming. It wasn’t loaded with what they thought was useless pillow stuffing, (marshmallow placebos) but rather, hard candy. When ringing the doorbell of any old lady down the street, I provided the proper “Trick or Treat!” as well as “Thank you” and then received the useful ammunition: thirteen year old peppermint bullets to protect myself from imminent danger. Quickly, stuffing the peppermint bullets in the bindle, I created a diversion from the good candy in my pillow case. This bag of hard candy felt like a bag of rocks when swinging it like a wild hobo. My predator’s teeth would look like Chicklets in his bag if my aim was accurate. Forceful, and directed at his yellow grill I could easily spot through the soft whiteness of his silky smooth Downy sheet, he would feel pain and shame at the precise moment of impact. Sadly, for the phony ghost, the flowery scent gave him away; right away. Those sheets were far too fresh to believe a corpse was hiding beneath. The last weapons were the two apples in my baggy trousers used to fend off a candy predator. These must be used with extreme precision. If you do not get a direct hit, meaning right in the nose, you will be rendered helpless, and your pillowcase full of the good stuff will vanish like an ex wife…..only you aren’t happy about it. Now, you may be wondering why one may not utilize the pillowcase as a last resort. Absolutely not. In candy wars, that’s considered a candy war crime. Have you ever eaten a Milky Way without caramel? (I guess that’s called a Three Musketeers Bar, and they suck.) Have you ever eaten a Snickers when all the nuts have fallen out? Have you ever tried to eat a Twix and there is no cookie crunch……only sandy rubble? These precious treats must remain intact before you make it to home base. You can only allow the ghost or candy burglar to pry it from your cold, wet, and freezing fingers. So, after learning my lesson, I did need a gang.
After a little hazing, my brothers and their friends let me join. It was harmless. “Get me a glass of milk. Go out and fetch the Sport’s Illustrated Swimsuit edition from the mailbox, and don’t open it until I let you. Also, there better be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich waiting for me…….and none of that stinkin wheat bread!”
I would oblige, and thus be sworn in as a certified member of The Gannon Gang. We were also known by some of the neighborhood parents as “The Melting Pot Roasts”. Although Irish and Catholic, we welcomed others with open fists and bags requiring only loyalty for one another and candy. The three true Gannons were my brothers, Tom, Greg and myself, all Irish Catholics who could be forgiven for mostly anything after this night. We also had a Chavez. He was Tom’s good friend and also a Catholic. He played rough. This Latino could only be forced to go to church when he HAD to be forgiven. Once, I watched him steal a maple bar from a rival gang member just to throw it in the dumpster before Halloween! This would get the maple syrup warfare juices flowing, so I understood his tactics. That’s a waste of sugar. I prayed for him and that maple bar that night.
There were a couple of Lineruds in our gang. (I could only assume they were Scandinavian because of their smell of pickled herring and stench of loyalty.) One was tough, but the other was just crafty. The latter was so stingy that he’d hide Jolly Ranchers in places of his body where nothing should be jolly; Perhaps crude, but indeed shrewd, none of us would trade candy with that dude. They both fit in.
We were a group of semi pacifists running around with a white shadow: me. You couldn’t hide my white afro with a sombrero. I was a hobo. I didn’t have money for a haircut or a common hat. Nothing could hide my locks on that evening. I was like a Halloween Baby Nuisance. Because of me, I made our gang an easy target.
The other gangs and unusual suspects:
The Carbones:
Some of the gangs we could only identify by their breath and weak use of the English Language. There was the notorious “Carbone Clan”. They ran the local carnivals and were easy to spot, yet difficult to diagnose. Guilty of crimes such as letting a ride at the carnival go too long or stop too short, they knew we had a weakness for their profession, but we knew they had a weakness as well; They were wildly spooky, because they’d turn on themselves just as soon as they’d turn on us. Our gang would fight amongst ourselves over the last cracker jack, but we had a code. At dusk, you stick by your boys. With the Carbones, even at dusk or the carnival, it was every rotten tooth for himself.
Their family did indeed run the carnivals. And by ran, I mean ran the rides. When I’d show up to a carnival and a Carbone was running the Sizzler, Hammerhead, or the Zipper, I’d choose the baseball bottle toss. I’d lose money, but I’d be safely grounded. The toughest part about this gang was that they had a Carbone Godfather and Godmother. If we messed with the Carbones, we were messing with their parents and anyone else working the carny circuit as well.
Since our diet of candy only consisted of a few Ding Dongs a year, we weren’t dependent upon Halloween during those times much like a lion must have a drink in the Serengeti when a drought annually nears. Luckily, we had potatoes each night to fulfill our starch requirements. There would never be another Irish Potato Famine in our house. Candy was the Carbones’ staple. Living in a carnival atmosphere, once you go cotton candy on someone’s ass, you can never go back. At this time of year, they became sugar zombies, only surviving by eating the flesh of a Mars Bar or Charleston Chew. Apples for us came in handy with these ruffians. Pin point precision wasn’t necessary with an apple they looked upon as a nutritious grenade. Yank that stem out with your mouth and toss the apple up in the air and they’d scatter like a loft of pigeons. We outsmarted them. Lord knows, I couldn’t outrun those hyenas dressed as scary clowns.
The Castor Oil Gang:
The Castor Oil gang was different, because they were strangely indifferent. I guess you might consider them the agnostic gang on our block. They’d be happy to throw a rock, rotten potato, or grab a wad of milk duds from your stash and throw them at you at point blank range like an automatic beebee gun, but they’d laugh doing it. So, we were cool with them because we were similar. There was no hint of danger, just some pain. Our fights would end with a white flag and a shake of a greasy hand, but they weren’t rough, just tough. And if we needed anyone on our side, we’d summon the Castors. They were just as nervous about the Carbones as we were. Since the Carbones recruited adults from any valley carnival, we were outnumbered. That’s when the Castor Oils and The Gannons would unite. We’d always win. You see, the easy way to beat a Carbone IS on Halloween. I don’t know much about drugs, but I do about candy. Have you ever witnessed a guy on crack settling for just a couple beers? I haven’t, but I’ve seen one try on t.v.. It doesn’t satisfy their desire. The Carbones were trying to come down from the most sacred of spun sugars, cotton candy, and thinking a mere tootsie roll could relieve them of this sick desire was preposterous. Apples, Laughy Taffy, Baby Ruths, and if you were lucky, a Mr. Goodbar could be waved at them like it was Carbone kryptonite. Game over. To the victor goes the candy.
Latter Day Neighbors (LDN):
Our most formidable foe, the Latter Day Neighbors, were hot on our candy trail. I take full responsibility for this rivalry and misgivings amongst two gangs who can coexist, just not when you are an eight year old moron like I was, believing the only difference between Latter Day Neighbors and Catholics was a football team.
I didn’t realize this until much later in life, but the Latter Day neighbors’ insatiable desire for candy far outweighed Irish Catholics’ insatiable need for beer. Forgive me Father, but I was only eight. The Mormons made the Carbones look like hummingbirds…..harmless. Scaring the living holy ghost out of me, they had the entire Morman Tabernacle Choir on our ass like we were to be their next wives! In attempts to steal our candy, Greg, our generally focussed commander would shout, “It’s every Gannon for himself! Let’s get the hell out of here before they bring Brigham Young himself! Ben, RUN, you little goofy bastard”, (he used to affectionately call me that even though I did have a father, but he was looking out for me) I ran like heaven and we all made it back to home base. Our attackers stopped at our house as though it was some sort of forcefield. Many of them realized they weren’t wearing their protective pajamas. Peacefully, they strolled back home. They were very good people and we made peace. I once traded one of my dad’s beers for one of their Nestles’s Crunch. Fair deal. All was well outside the house, but not within.
The aftermath was more like a sigh of relief, but you had to still take extreme caution for those next seven days where you’d hoard, hide, trade and yes, even steal amongst your own. It was like smelling napalm the next battle friendly morning. Nothing was over until the candy decides it is.
You awakened the next morning not with a candy hangover, but feeling as though you conquered a block. You and your bag had a mission. You think the mission is accomplished. It’s candy euphoria, but you also awaken to the most evil, and sinister of vices…..candy paranoia. Candy can bring out the worst in anyone. These brothers, friends, and loved ones stared at your bag as thought it was filled with gold. They didn’t stare at me. They stared at the bag. When your own brothers are willing to steal your gold, this is where a hunted mouse like me must fight the food chain with his brain, since he has no braun. You set traps for the cats.
You begin when all your older brothers and members of the gang are tired from the pumpkin smashing and praising their bags like common popcorn ball pirates. (I only liked the red ones, and it was my one candy weakness, because I knew they wouldn’t last, and there was only one trustworthy neighbor who distributed them minus the strychnine.) While eating their popcorn balls like it was a giant sphere of sticky rum, I’d hide my candy in places of our house and outside our house no one wished to venture. We had closets, an attic, vents and a chicken coop. Chickens don’t eat packaged candy. My candy was safe.
The Candy Stones:
The Silverbacks and the Goldsteins beat us all at our game of candy warfare. Although not related, they figured outsmarting the Gannons, the Castors and the Carbones was the only way to win this battle. They knew we would exhaust three quarters of our candy before they could snatch the last quarter up. We called them the Candy Stones. Initially, I didn’t understand the term, but remembering the hard candy rings draped around their fingers, it made sense. They also wore silly hats which didn’t have a bill. We sometimes referred to them as the Candy Hoes. It seemed as though they were pimping candy for a profit, not a cavity. This was a gang who had money and wanted to make more of it. They wandered down to our side from the North Side only when our legs were weary and our bellies were full of sugar. The Candy Stones didn’t know how to fight, but they knew how to barter, and more importantly, they knew we could never get enough sugar. And, that’s exactly what they needed…… desperation. It was Silverback and Goldsteins Guerrilla candy warfare. When we ran out of candy, they knew we still contained pennies in our pockets, and they wanted all those pennies. The Candy Stones didn’t fight with their fists, they fought with their brains and their wallets, and could sense the smell of fear and money simultaneously. Sweet and Low packets they’d permanently borrow from the nearest International House of Pancakes were shrewdly used by them as candy currency. They would sell packets to us for any penny, nickel, dime or quarter we had left.
After that week of Halloween, and eventually running out of all our sugar as well as our change, the gangs would unite in a backyard or playground to play baseball or football. The sugar highs and lows would wear off, and we focussed on using our energy the right way. It didn’t matter if we were Irish, Latino, Scandinavian, Jewish, Mormon or Carbone, we recognized our differences, ultimately laughing about our differences and embracing them.
Happy Safe Halloween.
My father began this story, a couple of my brothers interrupted, and, beautifully, my father finished it.
“There’s no crying in baseball.” Sadly, for me, there was crying in baseball; I just had to do it in my bedroom. Additionally embarrassing, as a youngster, I wore a plastic blue helmet to bed representing my favorite team, the Los Angeles Dodgers, a team currently facing extinction in the 2013 playoffs.
1970 Spokane Indians (Triple A team for the Dodgers)
Growing up in my hometown far far away from the city of Los Angeles, California, I lived and cried for the Los Angeles Dodgers. My father simply described Dodger history; The Brooklyn Dodgers packed their bags one day and flew to L.A….by way of Spokane, Washington. Dad spoke of the ball players gracing our city in the minors, for only a moment, and he told me I should pay attention to when they made it to the Major Leagues, because it would be something special. It was. Baseball was and still remains my favorite sport.
My brothers liked baseball, but they didn’t love it like me. That presented a problem when the Dodgers were in town on our television set, minus a remote control. I was always hoping the bottom of the ninth inning would arrive before they did. Sometimes, that didn’t always happen.
In the bottom of the ninth inning, with the Dodgers winning a meaningless game (to some) by three runs, the Braves had the bases loaded with two outs. As usual, clutching a bat during a ballgame, I thought the Dodgers had it won. That’s exactly the moment my brothers entered the game. Just like extraordinary relief pitchers, they ruined my day. Sweaty from football practice, they walked into the living room wanting to change the channel while I was squeezing my bat and wearing my plastic helmet. Manually, they turned the channel to some popular cinema classic such as “Creature Feature”. Enraged, that’s when I turned Dodger Blue and was fortunate enough to be carrying a Louisville Slugger. Using my bat, I changed the channel back. The channel by channel slugfest began. Almost precisely at that moment, I watched a man playing for the Atlanta Braves hit a Grand Slam against my Dodgers to win the game. My brothers couldn’t have been more pleased, and I couldn’t have been more pissed. Turning the channel to anything, such as the news, my two brothers, laughing, turned the channel back to the ballgame. Even with a bat, I was overmatched. They were excited about the grand slam, and I didn’t wish to see all the replays. Retreating to my bedroom, I remember wailing about this silly game which seemingly meant nothing to anyone but me.
Soon, my father would be arriving…….just on time. He entered the house after working for many hours and could smell mom’s cooking, hear me crying, and sense my brothers and baseball had something to do with this mess. With a discerning look on my father’s face, he simply asked, “What’s going on?”
Snickering, my brothers responded with a less than convincing response, “Nothing.”
Dad, not convinced by their response, asked, “Nothing, huh? Then, why is Ben crying?”
My brothers, Tom and Greg, could not mask their grins.
Knowing me well, my dad inquired, hoping to avoid further controversy, “Did the Dodgers lose today”?
I could hear their response, even from my bedroom with tears streaming from my face, “Yes.”
That’s the point where your dad eases your suffering. Walking into my room, I didn’t allow him to ask any questions. I formidably screamed, “IT’S NOT ABOUT THE DODGERS!” He responded with such compassion and convincing fashion to an eight or maybe nine year old child. “I know it’s not about the Dodgers…..are you ok?” Wiping away tears, I could only respond with a simple, “Yeah.”
Looking back, I was expecting my father to give me a lecture about it just being a game. He didn’t. He knew it was more than a game to me. For some reason, the way he put out the fire made me feel safe from the embarrassment I was anticipating at the dinner table that evening.
I still like the Dodgers, but I don’t cry about games anymore. I just throw remote controls and listen to my wife’s profanity. And, now I can admit, it was about the Dodgers.
Sunday, October the 13th, will mark the fortieth anniversary of my wife’s birth. Guess who cares? She doesn’t. That’s why I planned a surprise birthday gift, providing her first class escort service to the University of Washington Medical Center where she could receive her monthly medical treatment. “Go Dawgs!” Isn’t that terrific?
I guess that wasn’t enough. Exhausted and hungry, my wife only wished to go home after receiving medical care. When someone mentions those two words, “exhausted and hungry”, the first thing I do is take them to a bowling alley. I had such a wonderful time picking out a 13 pound ball for her while she tried to hold back the food. It was the best and last frozen pizza we ever had.
My wife’s mother sent her flowers and a balloon. That was sweet. However, it doesn’t compete with a son-in -law taking her daughter to the hospital, followed by a therapeutic session of bowling. As a gentleman, I even found her a pair of fungus-free bowling shoes. Bowlers. We are so snobby.
While returning a call to my dear mother last evening, it was quite simple recognizing when she doesn’t recognize the voice of her youngest son, or when her hearing aid is beneath the couch cushions. On the other hand, perhaps, she was just messing with me.
(She picks up her phone before the first ring ends. Even at the age of one hundred and something, she still has cheetah like quickness when answering anything…..and that’s when it all began sinking into the cellphone call abyss)
Mom: Helloooo!
Me: Hi, mom, this is Ben!
Mom: Who?!!
Me: Ben!
Mom: Who?
Me: Ben! Your youngest son!
Mom: Oh, hi, Anne! (one of my older sisters)
Me: (taking a deep breath) Put in your hearing aid, mom!
Mom: Hang on, Anne, I’m going to go put in my hearing aid.
Me: (giving up) Ok.
Mom: What?
Me: (screaming) Ok!
Now, I was beginning to chuckle and think about whether I should play what remains of our phone call off as my sister, Anne. Then, I thought further, and questioned, at the age of forty, did I miss puberty all together? How could I sound like one of my sisters?
For years, I have been a pill, (mom’s word replacing A-hole) because I could carry entire conversations with her while impersonating brothers Tom, Greg, Aaron, Glenn, Steve or Mike. This next conversation left me perplexed. Never once had I held a conversation with mom feeling compelled to portray the voice of one of my six older sisters. Deciding to reclaim my true identity, I thought I should play it straight, mostly because Anne wouldn’t want to talk about the baseball playoffs as much as me……and I knew that’s why Mother had called me in the first place. Dead giveaway. Waiting for her to return, I also wondered why she didn’t look at her phone before answering to recognize it was Ben and not Anne making the call. Then, I remembered she is also illegally blind. (She needs to upgrade her Jitterbug phone designed for the elderly, replacing it with the new Helen Keller phone) However, finally giving her credit, sometimes, I believe she decides when to hear or see whenever she damn well pleases. She’s earned that right. Shrewdly, I think she was just getting back at all those years of me tormenting her. Bravo. She’s always maintained a keen and wonderful sense of humor.
Finally, we begin our second conversation.
Mom: Are you still there?
Me: Yes, mother.
Mom: Oh, this is Ben…….are you watching baseball?
Me: Oh yeah, here and there. (I had just planted my ass on the couch for nine straight hours of baseball, but I didn’t want her or my wife to believe I wasn’t working)
We went on to have a terrific conversation about the Pirates, Dodgers, Red Sox and the Braves. She loves her baseball more than me. Let me rephrase that so I can feel better about our relationship. She loves her baseball more than I love my baseball. Ending our conversation with the genuine “How is your wife, Brittney, and I love you” we ultimately finished with this.
Me: Ok, goodbye, mom.
Mom: Ok, goodbye, Glenn…………..Oh shoot! I mean Ben.
It’s always fun to end a phone call with laughter. Those are the best goodbyes.
(written and spoken with a Clint Eastwood tone) Don’t call me James. My name is Brittney. Don’t forget that.
Luckily, my wife doesn’t read my blog. Therefore, I know she’ll be surprised by the gift I shall deliver on her birthday, which is about to round third base and head home, thanks to the Fed Ex driver. She will receive a year’s subscription to Sports Illustrated, including a free tote bag and the annual swimsuit edition. (Sadly I won’t be gracing the swimsuit edition cover this year.) Hopefully, this will make up for the four dollars and ninety nine cents I spent on her three year anniversary gift. (She didn’t know that a coffee mug traditionally represents three years of semi bliss.) I will knock her out with this tote bag, representing twenty seven years of periodically forgetting how to spell her name. Or, perhaps, she will knock me out of the parking lot.
(perhaps this should be prefaced with a Kevin Bacon reference to six degrees of separation, but since we’ve all watched Footloose, you get the picture)
This picture is worth at least four degrees of generation.
The first degree: That’s my mother. She looks the most comfortable because she doesn’t have to give birth to another child. Evidently, thirteen was enough.
The Second degree: That’s my sister. She looks like she’s having fun. Do you know why? She has given birth to two children and is enjoying life knowing she never has to give birth to another.
The Third degree burn: That’s my niece lying flat on her face because she is realizing her beautiful baby, Emma, will someday become a teenager.
The fourth degree of generation: That’s my grand niece hoping I will live long enough to tell her the story of how cute all of them were on this wonderful day of recognizing generations.
The first degree took a nap while the second and third degree went on a walk destined for the beach. The fourth degree just took a stroll with a glorious smile on her face after dipping her toes in the Sound known as Puget.
At zero degrees fahrenheit, our dog, Etta, and I took a swim in the Sound and a picture of these terrific young ladies.
So, I was thinking about writing a blog regarding my friend’s summertime explosive diarrhea, but then I thought twice about it. Who wants to read about a man on a tractor in the middle of somewhere who can’t hold his prune juice? Therefore, I chose to write about a friendlier summertime topic.
I was a fly fisherman once. By that, I mean one day. And, on that one day, the river, the rod, the raft, the flies, fish, boat and fellow mates were all against me, and there wasn’t a steroid around to enhance my performance.
Starting at an early age, my two brothers and I had been bobber fishing, bass fishing, and deep sea fishing before with respectable success and maximum fun, but we’d never been fly fishing at all as a trio. It was to prove, once again, that I will try just about anything once.
Looking forward to enjoy the beauty of Montana’s Bitterroot Valley as well as the company of my two brothers, Tom and I began our journey to the campsite where brother Greg and the instructor would await our arrival. I must write, the drive to the campsite, followed by an evening of laughter, campfire grub, adult libations and a night beneath the stars is always my favorite part of a trip with my older siblings. I can’t speak for Greg or Tom, but I can guess they look forward to both the night before fishing just as much as the next morning of tossing in a line much like one looks forward to Christmas Eve and the big day which follows. Brown trout, silvers, and rainbows swim in their heads because they know how to capture these gifts mother nature so graciously provides, granted they display the proper techniques and terminology required to catch their limit.
Pretentious fly fishing terms and phrases such as “amphidromous”, “the bimini twist” and “the blue dun hackle” floated off their tongues as smoothly as our raft sliding into the five star fly fishing river of the Montana Bitterroots. Me? (I could only memorize these terms), while shouting out to my brothers, “perhaps this is my first time casting with the ten o’clock to two o’clock motion, yet my preparation and angling vernacular should earn me a seat on our guide’s raft.” Sadly, my thoughts could only be compared to taking the driver’s test for the first time. It’s a night filled with crops of excitement only to be suffocated by a plague of anxiety. It’s a Christmas Eve when you know you may not get your present tucked beneath that pristine honey hole filled with swimming creatures of the shallows, whose demise is imminent depending on which angler is casting. Your thoughts drift slowly into cold dreams.
As a part time prophet, I tried to interpret these dreams but could only come up with a crudely whispered phrase: “Fish safe, me….very very cold, yet belly remain full.” Ok, I get the first part. Looking like a fool in front of my brothers, I’m not going to catch a damn thing other than pneumonia. But, why am I going to be so “very very” cold? I just purchased two hundred dollars worth of crap to keep me warm on this trip, and furthermore, how the hell am I going to have a belly full of anything if I don’t catch my dinner? And, please, don’t give me any of that “belly full of life” garbage you might find while watching Holiday Season Classics. I need my sustenance, and beer doesn’t always suffice.
Waking the next morning, we were greeted by our guide. “Get your goat smellin asses out of those frog piss stained fart bags! It’s fly fishin time in God’s Country, NO, By God, this is Greg’s Country!” Much to my dismay, my most Reverend Brother Greg was to be our fishing guide. Tom, the middle brother, only laughed, but I had remembered lessons learned from Greg at a very young age. Much like the introduction to fly fishing, they started out bad, and then resulted in bruises, frostbite, lacerations, and a few concussions. Now, in my late twenties, he still made me a little nervous.
Before I could rub my baby blue eyes, Greg proceeded with his four o’clock a.m. motivational rant, “What the hell is takin you so long, you little snot rag?! Are you waiting for those fish to send you an invitation using their gills? How about I catch one right now and bring it over to your lazy ass and he’ll wipe those scummy boogers out of your eyes with his fins. Grab your rod and let’s hit em’ while their wet, and before they figure out how dumb you are!”
Tom looked at me, and spoke with confidence, “You heard the man, let’s get our gear.” Only because Greg was taking one himself, I did manage to squeak in a morning leak before he could zip up his rubbers. After retrieving my gear, we were all ready to “rip some lips”. (I don’t know, maybe I’m a bit of a softy, but that fishing phrase just sounds simply awful to me.) Lips or no lips, I made my way to the raft and settled comfortably into my swivel chair. Almost sounding magnanimous, Greg spoke once again, but this time with a simple question. “Everybody ready?” Instead of providing an equally simple answer such as Tom’s “ready”, I belted out a “ready to go a fishin tune”.”You get a line, I get a pole, we’ll go down to the fishin hole, do da, da do da, today.” Tom silently shook his head knowing this was a colossal breach of fly fishing etiquette. Not the poor singing, but the blasphemous use of the word pole when the proper term for this fish slaying device is indeed a “rod”. Enter Greg’s Rod Rage.
Beginning almost quietly, though vibrating with rage and breathing quite heavily, Greg asked, “What did you just say?”
Sheepishly replying, “What? Huh?”
Greg continued, “That thing you sang about in your hand. What did you call it?”
Dripping with sarcasm, I replied, “I called it a pole. I am truly sorry, God of The Bitterroots, but before I seek ultimate forgiveness for using such poor judgement, and prior to providing an act of contrition, may I ask why it’s such a big deal? Can’t you fit both of them in the same holes I’m looking at right now?”
Piping in rather quickly and sternly, Tom questioned “Can’t we just get the hell out of here and fish, you two idiots? And Ben, call it a rod for Greg’s sake…..please.”
The raft, (thank God I didn’t call it a boat) set adrift quite calmly and we began to toss our lines in accordance to where Greg deemed the fish to be sleeping. If I may give Greg credit, he was marvelously adept when it came to rowing us through some rapids which kept me at ease. Additionally, he was magnificently knowledgeable when it came to the art of fly fishing. Greg was an excellent teacher, but he was dealing with one pupil (me) who had mentally shut down before entering the river. Already an impatient man, (My wife once made fun of me for being “The most impatient man in the world”) I don’t do well when orders are barked at me when I am merely trying to stay in a chair within a sliding raft hovering above icy waters. One slip, and I am headed nose first into frigid temperatures.
The fish were slow to bite that day, and Greg was quick to bark. His barking began weighing on my nerves like a wet carpet on a spider. There was nowhere to swim, nowhere to hide. My shoulders, thighs, knees and brain were growing weary from his seemingly endless stream of “God Damn it, Ben this” and “God Damn it, Ben that”. Coming directly out of the mouth of a Reverend, this seemed to be bad karma for us, and good karma for the fish. They had nothing to be worried about. For a while, I think I was even casting without a fly tied to the end of my line, thus only allowing the line to go as far as Greg or Tom’s head. Laughing, Tom would wave my line off like it was a pesky mosquito while Greg stared at me with disdain and disbelief, waiting impatiently for a lunch break where he would blindfold me at shore, spin me around like a dreidel, kick me in the backside of my waders and send me back through the Bitterroot Mountains in search for our camp.
Lunch provided a terrific break from floating, casting, and The Fly Gospel according to Greg. Stopping at a river bank, Greg provided the Subway Sandwiches, and since I already knew how to eat, school was out for that half hour. It was then when we could all enjoy the glory of the Bitterroot Mountains without one lecture amongst the trees………only welcoming beauty. I quickly forgot the disappointment of not catching a fish and relished in the relative quiet since our mouths were full of grub, and our eyes filled with nature.
Honestly, just before setting out on the last half of the fishing trip, I was satisfied to float back to camp as quickly as possible, but Greg was determined to get a fish on my line before dusk. It never happened. However, Tom did catch a few fish, and it did look like as much fun as Greg and Tom both described. But, by then, I had shut down and just gazed off to seek more mountain goats, deer, eagles, and an occasional Sasquatch hoax. I was satisfied with the scenery, but Greg wasn’t pleased with my angling failure, perhaps because he placed some of the blame on himself. He couldn’t have been further from the truth. It just wasn’t my sport on that beautiful day, and I didn’t give a yankee dime about it. Greg wasn’t finished, but this is where I officially did.
“YA KNOW WHAT?” (The phrase and chapter defining a solid portion of my life.)
There comes a moment in a person’s life when one reaches a breaking point. Mine is quite clear. I have a signature phrase I use as a warning. The simple phrase is usually followed by a litany of adjectives, adverbs and superlatives displaying my displeasure with my treatment. It’s called “Ya Know What?” Now, people who know me recognize this phrase, and nothing of positive nature usually trails behind the particular tone with which I deliver it. After Greg’s last order, it was time for me to give him his last supper, figuratively speaking of course. He caught me paying more attention to the rugged mountain goats than the fish taking a day off of getting their lips ripped. In an offensive tone, Greg attacked me once again with a filament reel full of embarrassing comments using up all of his last verbal brutality points. Setting down my “ROD” quite loudly, I retorted, “Ya know what?!”, ……..and before I could reach into my bag filled with insults and arsenal of creative profanity, Tom, the brother of voice and reason, extinguished the flames just before they started to crackle and pop like a campfire. He didn’t tell us to shut the hell up. He didn’t even say, “alright, knock it off”, he began to laugh. It wasn’t knee slapping hysterical laughter. Rather, you might find it somewhere hidden between a solid chuckle and a great natured belly laugh. For some reason, Greg and I stopped bickering and listened to his laugh knowing exactly what it meant. Laughter is another one of Mother Nature’s gifts proving logic, reason, and common sense to prevail in even the most ridiculous of circumstances.
There were no apologies. None were necessary. Greg and I let Tom enjoy his last hour of fishing while the two of us struck up an even keel boat of conversation. While rowing through the rapids, although quite miniature, you still had to pay attention in your swivel chair, hoping not to fall into the frigid waters, while additionally, ducking for random bridges on the last mile of the trip. Guiding many guests on his raft over the years, I asked Greg if anyone had fallen into the great Bitterroot River. With a shrug of his shoulders, Greg said, “So far, not yet”. Almost simultaneously, we hit a small rapid, and I found myself, my hat and my beer hurtling in the air just to be dipped head and feet first into the drink. Tom and Greg had no need to panic. If you have ever been to Sea World and watched dolphins breach, my ability to thrust my body out of icy waters matched their grace and strength. I was back in the raft before they could say, “we’ll see you back at camp……good luck!”
They were laughing, and other than my frozen raisonettes, I was fine. Making it back to camp safely, thawed raisonettes and all, I did have an ace of a dinner hidden up my sleeve just in case I didn’t catch my own sustenance. This was certain to make Greg forget he had wasted a day trying to teach a young man how to fish. “Grilled Pork Tenderloin Garlic Boats with Sauteed Mushrooms”. It was a dinner fit for for three brothers. One, a surly, yet thoughtful instructor. One, a pot waiting to boil over, and one, a referee using laughter and wit, other than brawn to keep the two former brothers separated.
All fly fishing forgiveness was given.
Sometimes we must question life’s unwritten rules concerning kindness, generosity, leniency, genealogy and forgiveness. That’s a Crapload of rules. On an otherwise sunny day ago, I wasn’t up to the task. I buckled under the pressure of a nephew I didn’t even know existed, but it made me think, which is unusual.
I am not a father, but unfortunately, I am an uncle. (Secretly, I love being an uncle because I adore each and every one of my fifty three nephews and nieces, even though I probably don’t know a third of them) Caring for them as family and friends, I hope the feelings are mutual. However, I don’t enjoy surprises, and sometimes, having such a large family, it feels like there is a surprise in the mailbox every day, and the surprise has a dollar sign written all over it, but the dollar signs aren’t always written in blood. It is not always an invitation to to a blood related nephew or niece’s birthday party but perhaps just a friend’s child’s birthday fiesta.
An uncle is often required to perform certain duties. Although sounding cruel, this certainly should not be misunderstood as a negative observation, but rather, promoting the importance of understanding the wonderful but sometimes puzzling difference between family and friends. Let me give you an example.
The Setting:
An old friend you haven’t seen for quite some time greets you in a line at a local grocery store with his 10 year old son in tow. (This is an exaggerated version of something that has happened to me and many others)
Friend with son: Hey, Ben, how ya doin? Look Sigmund, it’s your Uncle Ben! Say hello.
Sigmund: (a forced and uninspired) Hey (ensues)
(Keep in mind the last time I saw this child was at the hospital where I delivered a ten dollar gift which was probably used as a dog toy upon return from the hospital, so I didn’t blame him for wondering why he didn’t know he had an “Uncle” Ben.)
Me: (After awkwardly greeting my brand new nephew, I turn to his father, Todd, really wishing to have spent more time in the grocery store latrine. We shake hands) Boy, it’s been a while, Todd. I thought you moved out of the state. How are you? Are you here on a visit?
Todd: Oh no, me and Siggy here got sick of the old lady so we made an agreement. I could have Siggy, and she could take the house. (sheepishly chuckling) Pretty good deal, huh? So, now we’re back living on the corner of 4th and McPhuket.
Me: Wow, sorry about the split…….hey, you’re a stone’s throw away from where I live on 5th and DePuke. (temporary lack of judgment)
Todd: Great! Do you have plans for the weekend?
(Shit. Having absolutely no plans but to watch some baseball, my rolodex of excuses was out of reach.)
Me: Not really, no. You?
Todd: Terrific! You can come to Siggy’s Birthday Party! Wouldn’t that be just excellent, Sig Boy?
Sigmund: I guess.
Friend: (Whispering in my ear) He just loves soccer, nudge nudge.
Cha Ching! Oh, why couldn’t he have loved baseball? At least then I’d have fun shopping at Big 5. I’m not a great lover of soccer, and after all, isn’t this about me and not this Siggy clown?
Trading phone numbers and exchanging phony smiles, as well as a firm handshake (I think I hurt his hand…… 🙂 we parted ways without so much as my new nephew acknowledging the toilet paper dragging from the bottom of my sneakers. (Little Son of a Nevermind)
Fulfilling my duties of purchasing a thirty dollar ball that people are only allowed to kick, and suffering through a dreadfully boring party, I felt my little uncle pity party should end because it wasn’t that bad. Thus, I decided to get bloody positive recollecting the fond parties I attended of my own kin over the last thirty seven years. (My first nephew was born when I was three years old. He did not receive a gift from Uncle Ben. I am the youngest of thirteen children.)
Now as an uncle, one is requested to perform certain duties. It’s a long list but we’ll start with the simple four requiring no financial responsibility whatsoever, which sometimes makes them the most difficult. You must remember names, and you must remember birth dates. Then, when those nephews and nieces develop into adults and deliver spawn of their own, you must remember more names and more birth dates. Those are the toughest four duties, but if you master forgetting them all, it can save you a hell of a lot of dough. It’s a rocky road of parties when the parents know your number and that you still live in the same town. It’s even a rockier or dirtier road when the parents don’t call to remind you, but the nephew or niece is making the calls. This is the point in the uncle/nephew/niece relationship when the uncle must find a new address in a foreign city or country thus escaping the straight jacket of uncle responsibilities. The uncle’s only cost? Marriage. In order to move out of certain cities in the U.S., an uncle must have probable cause other than ignoring his nieces and nephews. He must obtain a VISA which can only be granted if the uncle is choosing to live a life of wedded blasphemy, or bliss, overseas or just across the political boundaries of the State where the uncle currently resides. If the uncle survives the marriage for at least two years, he is granted full uncle sovereignty. He is allowed independent authority over a geographical area deeming it as Uncle Territory. Nieces and nephews are not allowed to cross into this territory unless they know his wife’s name and birthdate. However, upon visitation rights to nephew and niece territory, he is strongly recommended to attend birthday parties in said territory if it happens to arrive on the dates he is visiting. At the very least, if he is unable to attend, he must display a form of sincere shame.
Returning home, my wife and I decided we had time to calculate the amount of money I saved over the years by being a lousy uncle, but we did it just for kicks and out of curiosity. (Kind of like those times when you try to figure out the amount of money wasted on ATM charges; you get through about two years, throw up, and try to drink those memories away.)
ROUGH ESTIMATES OF WHAT I OWE OVER JUST TWENTY YEARS ASSUMING EACH GIFT IS THIRTY DOLLARS A PIECE: (This is rough because there probably are siblings floating around I don’t even know about because when I call my dear mother, she usually mentions a name and I respond with a “who?” and she says, “you know, your nephew, Pat’s new baby boy, Rocco! He’s your new Grand Nephew, you knucklehead! My last question, echoed with grand emphasis, “WHO THE HELL IS PAT!?” Unlike mine, my mother has a memory like a steel nap, I mean steel trap, of course.)
-Twelve Brothers and sisters: 30 children (nephews and nieces) total
-30 nephews and nieces: 23 children of their own (great nephews and nieces)
-A Grand Total of: 53 nephews and nieces
-53 times thirty dollars for each birthday: $1,590 dollars annually
-$1,590 dollars times 20 for the years I’ve stiffed them: $31,800 owed including Great Grand Nephews and Nieces without interest.
(Turns out I’m a pretty Great Uncle after all)
We can go further and provide estimates of graduation gifts, weddings, baby showers and bail, but we won’t. That I refer to as The Grand Slam of Obligations. You are lucky if you get one of those from me.
Fortunately, none of my nephews and nieces will read this, but if they do, please feel free to land on our doorstep with your head held high and hand outstretched, and be prepared to accept yet another UBOU. Uncle Ben Owes U.
My point is not that I am an inhumane beast of a man. It’s just that I have enough nephews and nieces to ignore of my own. I don’t need any honorary or fake ones to ignore as well. My friends know exactly how I feel about this issue, so instead of honoring my thoughts, they do precisely what I would do to them. They have their sons or daughters call me on Christmas Eve, and bellow, “MERRY CHRISTMAS, UNCLE BEN!” I respond just as the title of this piece states, “I AM NOT YOUR UNCLE!” Bless their souls, they laugh, and we all get a kick out of it.
The Kentucky Derby is right around the corner and on its home stretch, but I lived another stretch several times in Spokane, Washington. The stretch started with confession, followed by lying, and ended at a horse track known as (quite ironically) Playfair.
Probably seven years old at the time, I maintained morals and specific values. However, (forgive me father) I did sin at that pivotal age. I was willing to tell a lie, but two of my brothers and my father were not satisfied with my less than adequate fib. Nor was the Catholic Priest.
You see, at this age, I swear, my only sins were lying in the confessional. The priest asks you to reveal your sins.
Confess your sins, my son.
Is playing wiffle ball in the backyard a sin?
No, but did you intentionally hit anyone in the face with the bat?
Not intentionally.
Who did you “not intentionally” hit with a bat?
A neighbor.
Was he a good Catholic boy like you?
No. He was a friendly neighborhood Mormon.
Oh, that’s definitely not a sin!
Father, can you just give me another week. I’ll try my best to do some sinning?
Yes, my son. Do you have any plans for the weekend?
My dad’s taking us to the race track right after I get out of here.
Ok. That’s a great start. I see great and powerful sinning in your future. You will have much to talk about in our next meeting.
Perfect. (off to begin my life of sinning) I promise you… next week this conversation won’t be so BORING!
Good. Go in peace to love and sin for the Lord.
I did indeed go in peace, but, from my standpoint, committed a sin just hours after my dismissal.
Providing our mother a much needed break from some of her children, dad would take us to the race track for the last two races for two reasons: free admission and he loved gambling on the horses. (this was to be my first time to attend) Yet, there was only one reason my two older siblings, ages eleven and thirteen did not want me tagging along. I was only seven and to be allowed into one of the dirtiest racetracks in the nation, you must be ten. What terrific standards they set at the track when a boy must be at least the age of ten before witnessing jockeys, trainers, owners and many of the gamblers cheating. Seven? “No, wait until you are ten boy before you witness such heathen like behavior.” Since only seven at the time, I knew this presented a problem collectively for all of us going to the track. If I can’t get in, no one gets in. Not my dad, not my brothers and certainly not me. Bless my wonderful father, because, much to the dismay of my brothers, he wasn’t going to leave me at home, and he was going to teach me a lesson and provide material for my next confessional visit.
Dad said to me, “Ben, I want to take you with us to the track, but by the looks on your brothers’ faces, they don’t want you to be a part of this, because if you don’t learn how to tell a lie, we can’t get in, and I can’t leave you in the car waiting, even though your brothers wouldn’t mind me doing so, understand?”
“I guess, but what do you mean by lying? Is this like one of those phony fairy tales you weave before bedtime, or is this going to be a mortal sin?”
Patiently, and almost excitedly, dad said, “no, don’t worry about that mortal sin stuff, this is just a white lie, and it will keep you from getting beaten up by your older brothers who are begging me to leave you at home.”
My first chance at sinning, oh boy! “What do I have to do?”
“Well, you’re seven, right?” (I don’t think he knew any of his children’s ages, but he guessed right)
“Right, dad.”
“All you have to do, when we are walking by the booth, and some swarthy man is asking for your age, just tell him you are ten. Then, legally, he can allow your entrance. And, believe me, he doesn’t care. He just wants our money once we get in.”
Painfully, I had to think about this for just a few short moments, but this was my first negotiated lie. “Dad, I’ll tell him I’m nine!” According to me, it was my first lie.
My two older brothers looked at dad and me with disgust, hands in the air and eyes rolling, but my loving father quickly extinguished the flames by saying, “hey guys, how about going to Chico’s Pizza for some pinball and at least two pies?”
“Alright!”
Food was much more enticing to our family than gambling. My brothers never laid a finger on me, and I could admit at my next visit to the priest that I was at least willing to tell a lie.
Today, I don’t have to lie about my age, but when asked for age identification, all I have to do is take off my baseball cap. I don’t like telling people I’m forty.
Have fun watching the Derby.