Category Archives: Family

The Yard That Aaron Left

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Our backyard  stadium was built by love and mystery.  The love was not a mystery, but the mystery was built by my brother who existed only on paper; not in pictures.  As a ghostly like character, our brother, Aaron, happily haunted his six brothers and six sisters from time to time.

The mystery of my brother, Aaron, goes on and on, much like the furthest ball I’ve ever witnessed hit in our backyard, winding up in our front yard. Perhaps, like the house in New York that Ruth built, this was the house that Aaron left, and he did it with great style.  There were no apologies necessary, no diseases to deem him as the luckiest man on the face of the earth like Lou Gehrig; this character just ran his own way.

At that time, he was the most mysterious man on my earth, and remains to this very day.  There will be no picture of a man named, Aaron.  He only existed in the eyes of those admiring him……..and for only a brief moment, those eyes belonged to a boy tossing a ball to him before he left us.

Looking at this picture, I remember a child throwing a ball to Aaron knowing where the ball would reside.  It was with bitter sweetness, because the time you spent with this ghostly and sometimes mythical character was cherished.  There is a reason you don’t see the batter in this picture, just like you can’t find one picture of a leprechaun or a unicorn.  They don’t wish to be captured.  And, they never will.

I’ll never know him as much as I always wished, but I always admired him for being, much like a novel, that chapter you can’t wait to finish reading.  Throwing to him in this brace depicted in the picture, I was tossing a baseball to my brother, knowing that when he hit it, he and the baseball would never return.

The brother I still don’t properly know, but indeed love, was the only man to hit a ball out of Gannon Stadium. To hit it out of our stadium,  it must cross over the Red Monster, (our center field fence) travel further over the house on a red ball flight, and land in our front yard located across from the house many of us occupied from time to time.  Depending on the wind, proper attitude, altitude, matched with skill, cunning, and shear talent, this was quite a feat.  But, with our brother, Aaron, his exit was far more impressive than his God given skills.  It’s difficult to decipher which one I respected more.

Not even rounding the bases, or grass and tree roots, he found the ball in the front yard,  left with the ball and we were all wondering when the ball would come back.  It never did.

Remembering the ball and the man, when that ball left our park, we knew the ball and the man would never return, but that was the magic of my brother, Aaron.

Aaron was one of the two brothers out of seven to hit right handed.  I think he just did it to agitate my father. That was typical Aaron, but ever so intriguing.  Because of the great Mickey Mantle, my father taught five of his seven sons to hit left handed, even though we were born righties.  Our mom was the only lefty in the group, but she wasn’t destined for the big leagues.  Our brother Aaron, with magnificent talent, was on a mission not to make it to the big leagues.  He just wanted to have a good time and happily mess with life.

When Aaron played baseball, he was an enigma.  As a very talented player, he just showed up in time to play, or piss my dad off.  At the age of five, it was the first time I heard my father teach me the term, “lollygagger”.  He was a bored centerfielder only willing to run to a fly ball at the precise instant it was about to touch the ground.  I never witnessed him missing one of those balls, but I did witness my father going into cardiac arrest. It was then, when in high school, Aaron would laugh, ending the inning, knowing he was coming  to the plate and smash a home run.  It was also when dad would shake his head in disbelief, wondering why he deserved such torture.  Aaron would then leave the park after hitting a home run, and nobody knew where the hell he went after hitting it out of the stadium.  He never touched home plate.  Aaron just hit the ball and without properly running the bases, much to his younger brothers’ dismay, simply ran off to Montana, Utah, Idaho, or Missouri with the ball.  He was that fast.

Running into my brother, or as I’d like to characterize him as a “true character”, from time to time over so many years, it is always a gift. In my dreams, he has the same smile, and a glimmer in his eye, making you want to know what he is thinking, but, you will never know.  That is why I think of him often.

Still, to this wonderful sunny day, there are times I don’t want him to exist.  I wish for him to remain that fictional superman I remembered flying out of our yard one day.  Rather than feeling I was cheated by his lack of presence in our lives, I choose to focus on all the tremendous memories.

 

 

An April Fool (opening days)

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Strike Tree!  You’re outside!

Once maintaining the status of being an April Fool, you can see this picture is no joke.

Turning a gun into a bat seems like it should be fictional.  It’s not……..not where I grew up.  Where I grew up, everything I touched turned into a bat.  Brooms, branches, rakes, fence posts, t.v. antennas….. I’m telling you, I was a magician when it came to turning anything into a baseball bat.  Once, I even turned a rabbit into a bat after pulling it out of my frizzy blond locks.  However, one can argue that turning a gun into a bat was my greatest trick when baseball’s opening day was lurking in our backyard midst.

In the picture, it is unclear whether whatever I was swinging was a toy gun, or a worn down bebe gun, but I do know that I’ve never shot anything in my life, nor had the desire to do so. According to my mother, I was using this gun as a baseball bat while attempting to chop down our cherry tree. She never told a lie.  Since I was only about four, axes were not allowed to be in my hands, nor were they allowed to be in anyone’s hands in our neighborhood, unless you were actually chopping wood.

My mother and I had a wonderful relationship.  After all the siblings were off to school, she did her best to keep me busy.  Keeping me inside the house was not an option.  Playing card games such as “memory” could only last until about noon.  That was usually about an hour before baseball’s opening day began for me.

Cable was not available in those precious days, so my mom made certain her youngest son would live it in our backyard.  If you look closely at Gannon Stadium, you can recognize an old school ball yard.  We had it all.  First base was the root of a tree.  Second base was a thorn bush, which is why mom always kept a first aid kit handy.  Third base was the cherry tree which is depicted in this picture.  Evidently, home plate was anywhere I wished it to be, because if you look at the landscape of our home, there was a centerfield home run fence known as “The Red Monster”.  (It was our west coast version of “the Green Monster” located at Boston’s Fenway Park) Judging from the direction I was swinging the gun, a centerfield homer was not an option, so the scouts in our yard taking this picture had serious doubts about there being anything in between my ears and beneath that ghostly white hair.

I have absolutely no idea why I was trying to chop the cherry tree down with a gun, but I was outside in the spring with a mother who just tried to keep me occupied before the rest of the gang came home for dinner.

My mother, Margaret, loved the game of baseball;  she just had never played it……..until I convinced her that no matter where she threw the ball, I’d swing at it.  I recall running across the yard, fifteen feet out of the gunner’s box attempting to hit her dangerous attempts to toss it across home plate.  Sometimes, I would end up in one of our neighbor’s yards.  That didn’t bother me or my mother because one of the neighbors would always smile while providing me with the carrots she had planted months prior to the ball mom planted in their dirt, knowing my mom needed a bit of a break.  Food, even vegetables at that time, was the only deterrent to baseball, but only on a minor league level.  This neighbor was lucky not to have planted onions.  They are far too similar to a baseball.  The carrots, I could eat.  The onions were far too tempting not to hit, unless of course, they were sautéed.

Last night, I watched a baseball game with my brother, Mike, because mom wasn’t around.  She was too busy sleeping, dreaming about a day where she could balance baseball with “Dancing With the Stars”.

Last Monday, our official opening day, I called my mom and reminded her of those very special days when she displayed such kindness and affection.  The bond remains, and she has definitely earned the right to change the channel from a game to dancing.  Neither of us are April Fools, but we are foolishly in love with this time of year.

 

 

 

The Mighty Quinn (21)

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It’s sad to say that I was twenty one once, and only a few guys remember me on that day.  One of them isn’t me.  Still friends with the other guys, I don’t believe a word they say about January something, but if they are stating the truth, I’m glad I wasn’t there.

I think it’s sort of funny.  I’ll bet there are billions and gazzilions of stories recounted by others regarding a twenty first birthday.  This may have been part of the inspiration behind the “Hangover” movies.

My nephew, Quinn, just turned twenty one yesterday, and I’m proud to say that I’m proud of him. After a reminder from my brother, I called my nephew and wished him a happy whatever. (Unless it’s my mother’s or wife’s birthday, I believe you should only have one….when you are born.) This story has a happy ending, because he has won.

Quinn was a good boy and I have witnessed him become a man.  It wasn’t always easy, but the story is quick.  At the age of about six, Quinn began his wrestling saga, or dramatic explosion for the likes and dislikes of his thirteen uncles and aunts. Shortly into this adventure, he was demoralized and beaten by a girl, perhaps four years of age, on a wrestling mat.  My brother and I were equally demoralized witnessing this crushing event held at the Spokane Coliseum amongst five thousand others.  Tom and I were both old enough to drink the pain away, but we couldn’t forget that Quinn had to wait fifteen more years to drink that pain away.  Losing to a girl?  That’s as crazy as seeing a name like Romney or Sasquatch on a Presidential Ballot! Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait until he was twenty one to forget, which is why I have the utmost respect for this man.  He decided, at a very early age, and much to the dismay of one Homer Simpson, alcohol is the not the cause and solution for all of mans’ problems.  He made this strange and oblong decision to train his body, harnessing his horse from within, while sweating, and suffering through thousands of practices, rather than abusing the drink….unless it was Gatorade.   Quinn never lost to another girl (on a mat anyway), and at the age of seventeen, became a two time state wrestling champion…. only wrestling boys I might add in the state of Washington.  Tom, my wife and many others didn’t miss a second of any of those matches in that Dome.  Quinn may not have been a formidable gladiator at the Spokane Coliseum, but he never lost a championship match at the Tacoma Dome.  And, just like many stories must end, it took a girl to provide the inspiration and perspiration to do it.

Quinn received a college wrestling scholarship, but has since chosen to join the Armed Forces to help maintain our freedom.  Just one more reason to respect him.

Jitterbug Rules

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My mother has had many nicknames over the past eighty some years.  Most have pertained to her eyesight and hearing issues, but others have regarded her technical skills, or hatred there of.  There’s Helen, or HK.  Most people would find this to be a magnificent nickname because of Helen Keller’s remarkable quest and breakthrough to communicate.  Mom only rolled her eyes when we’d refer to her as Helen.  This just after  a waitress asking her if she wanted eggs with her toast, her reply might be, “No, I don’t want legs with my host…..that’s ridiculous.”

Ma Barker, another nickname she despised, was only derived from a history book her seven sons didn’t read.  We were too busy playing baseball and football in the backyard.  When we were instructed to do homework, our idea of reading a chapter was reading the bold letters introducing the chapter.  “Did you do your home work?”

“Yeah, we read about Ma Barker.”

Little did we know upon non further review, Ma Barker was a murderer and common thief.  Our mother, quite the antithesis.  Ma Barker  had four sons who committed most of the crimes she convinced them to commit.   Since we weren’t into details, when we’d refer to her as Ma Barker, she would become uncommonly angry and say, “Do you even know anything about her?”  I think my mom’s seven sons could only assume Ma Barker was the mother of the great Bob Barker from “The Price is Right”.  Wrong.  We should have guessed that was the wrong answer when the next chapter wasn’t titled, “Son of Ma Barker”.  It was titled, “Death and Imprisonment”.

Mom received other lesser known titles such as Amelia Bedilia, Mither, Mommy Fearest or Dearest, but she is entitled to two further nicknames providing her essential identity and capturing the love which has never emptied her tank……especially when her children were running on empty.  The first being Jitterbug, and the last being Mom.

Even your mother can use the Jitterbug cell phone.

Communicating with our mother via anything was a disaster.  Many of my sisters have sought counseling over not being capable of saying the words, “I love you”, because she, literally, or perhaps deliberately, can’t hear them over a cell phone.  My mom is pretty sharp so literal and deliberate take on different connotations regarding her prowess.  Many of my siblings gave up.  When “I love you so much”, comes out like, “I’ll shove you so much,” it becomes verbally taxing.  Then along came Jitterbug.  The answer to all our communication prayers.  Lord knows we wouldn’t take the time to write this glorious woman a letter.  That’s Blasphemy in today’s tech world!

Like an 8″ by 12″ picture frame, my mom can hang this Jitterbug cell phone on the wall and clearly see each number while pressing the keys with the palm of her hand.  It’s cutting edge technology.  And, much like my mother, it’s cool.

When I call my mother on the Jitterbug, I use her most mysterious nickname……Mom.  She’s earned that one.

 

 

A Pony’s Tale (I’ll have another t-one for the road)

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Most of my writing consists of stories regarding my life or others’ lives.  They are observations and sometimes manifestations of everyday occurrences.  My life is a bit mundane, but when you are truly fascinated with a man you believe shouldn’t exist, you are compelled to write about him.  I’m a writer.  Therefore, I love writing about a man I know quite well.

Writing about him a year ago, you may remember him as T-One.  Not pronouncing his S’s properly, when in school, upon asked about his name, he was not “Stephen”  He was T-One.   T-One is his alias just prior to entering his phone booth, which also maintains an alias……His Tavern.  This is where T-one becomes Steve…….or Tooperman.

My life has been blessed by this man who, when entering a room, can light up the atmosphere like a nineteen seventy joint.  His smile is genuine, his laughter is sincerely infectious, and his love for those surrounding him is real.  So is HE.  He’ll make an effort to stop at any crosswalk for any form of life.  However, when someone chooses to disrespect him, he runs into a tavern, changes his clothes, turns a shade of green, and places those who have cross walked him into another shade of green.

This is folklore for the boring life I lead.  Steve is a man amongst gentlemen.  He’s one of the finest gentlemen I’ve crossed.  But, I wish those who read this take heed, for the most kindest, forthright, and generous of human beings can change his kindness channel to the rage channel with the flick of his wrist.

Here’s the lack of punchline.  A man wearing a pony tail (that’s funny right there)  walks into a bar and proceeds to drink a beer and talk at the same time.  He gurgles and gobbles while the owner of the bar, who maintains his true identity known as “Steve” watches and waits for him to shut up.  It never happens.  Therefore, Steve tells him to shut up and drink his beer.  The patron then proceeds to approach another Tooper Hero known as Turner.  Pony Tail patron tells Turner he is going to beat Steve up.  Turner turns to him and says, “you may want to rethink that, buddy.”  Pony Tail then decides, with no infinite wisdom to approach, accost, and alleviate my brother, Steve, from his simple world.  That’s when Steve enters the barroom bathroom, takes off his hat and becomes Tooperman.  Tooperman then, over the course of maybe five seconds, escorts this patron out by the use of his Pony Tail.  Tooperman always finds a weakness in anyone, just so he can enjoy the weekend.  The Pony’s tail was this guy’s Achilles heal.

As a man who doesn’t approve of violence (not quite a pacifist), Tooperman decided to use this pony tail as his weapon of mass confusion.  He whipped him around the bar like a carnival pinwheel while, without hurting him, stated, “You don’t come into someone’s bar and try to get in a fight with a pony tail!”  The man was escorted by Tooperman out with not a person or Tooper Hero getting hurt.

The A moral to the story is………and lack of punchline, don’t enter a bar with a pony tail anticipating a fight when it’s not the owner’s first rodeo.  You will lose.

Enough about anger and good management, let’s watch some baseball.  Now that’s FUN!

 

 

 

 

An Ode to Bud and the Garden of Stephen

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Some traditions and memories are etched in stone or a garden in one’s mind.  Stories told  by others are equally influential, even when you may have been two or three years old when they actually occurred or, perhaps listened to the stories twenty or thirty years later.  The stories may be tall, but upon research and definitive evidence, they sometimes result in the stone age cold truth.

I began writing this with the ambitious thought it may be about a character and a goofy or fun story, but as I think of the man I write about, it became more relevant to speak of a man’s past, his present (death), and his future.  His name was, and shall remain, Rosco Bud Weiser.

Bud was the king of my father’s friends.  Not recalling his height, weight, girth, and cap size, I can only recall that, in my eyes, he was ten feet tall.  He was the Paul Bunyon of Moses Lake, Washington, and he was the mountain of a man with which you climb and reach the pinnacle only to be relieved to acknowledge, upon reaching that peak, how magnificent the feeling was to discover a man who was just an official number two to your own father.  All thirteen of us children loved him.

Bud was from the South.  He carried his South to the Great Pacific Northwest.  Southern hospitality is one thing, but carrying words commonly used in the South is another.  He had no problem using the “N” word, although to him, it was to us crackers much like using the word, “toe head”, or, “pecker head”.  To him, it seemed to be a term of affection.  Blond headed, I hated being called “toe head”, and red headed, my dad hated being called a “pecker head”.  We all are offended in certain ways, one way or another, but there was something special my father witnessed in Bud: Kindness towards others, a fondness of life, a great sense of humor, and acceptance for all.

When my father first met Bud, I believe his initial reactions, since he used the “N” word, were to think of him as an uneducated redneck from Missouri.  Quite the exact way my father and most of my family can recognize a bunny from an ape.  We know people and animals.  We know good people.

For some odd reason, my father befriended Bud while Bud was delivering milk in Moses Lake.  Since, at that time, dad and mom had a family of about ten, (before a few of us were born) , we required many gallons of milk each week.  Both charismatic chaps, they immediately developed a bond.  Legend has it, while dad was inquiring as to why Bud would use terms such as the “N” word, or “monkey”, Bud just described it as “that’s the way my mama told me.”  Dad replied, “Then, why do you leave those gallons of milk on said individuals’ porches without asking for a cent?”  Replying quite timidly, Bud said, “It just seems like the right thing to do, Pecker Head.”

Bud didn’t hate anyone.  He loved life and for some unfathomable reason, Bud loved our family.  After a few years of delivering milk, Bud became a farmer.  And, he was a good one.  Upon harvest, Bud delivered excess crops to anyone in need of assistance.  Our family was very enormous but not in need of sustenance.  But the King of Kindness would show up with acres of corn and oodles of potatoes for our family.  That’s when we left the spiritual city of Moses Lake, to the orderly city of Spokane, because of our father’s occupation as a hospital administrator.  Dad and Bud remained friends.

My brothers and sisters weren’t welcomed into many homes.  Doctors, their phony wives, debutants, and the bourgeoisie of Spokane weren’t terribly inclined to host our family of 13 young ruffians from the lower middle class.  We were well behaved, (please and thank you) but when a simple fight broke out, chaos ensued.  Eventually we learned to simply leave Christmas gifts of scotch, brandy or beer on the Doctor’s porches and run like hell, avoiding any reluctant offers to enter their parties.

Bud was the only one to invite all of the Gannons to his 4th of July party, his home located just ninety three and half miles west from Spokane, Washington.  This was a station wagon vacation!

Mr. Bud Weiser had a pool.  For middle to lower class civilians, this meant only one thing: millionaire.  We were going to rock that party like it was ninety seventy nine.  That would make me about five.  Traveling from Spokane to Moses Lake was akin to venturing to the southern most part of the United States, Key West,  only we were just traveling west, not south east.  It’ didn’t matter.  There was a pool and a Bud.

His pool came with a garden.  This was a glorious garden, draped with gardenias, daffodils, roses (white red black and blue) lilacs, and a wrestling mat.  Strange how things grow with the proper maintenance.  Apparently, Bud received a two for one discount in exchange for his wife, who showed up at this party with disgruntled lips and sinister eyebrows, knowing this would become the demolition garden of men.

Bud’s introduction was always a poignant one leaving an impression on your ears.  He would laugh and say to our father, when seeing one more Gannon,  “look, another one!”……He’d then elevate you up by your ears and look you over to see if you were worthy of drinking his garbage can full of soda or a garbage can full of beer.  Those sodas led me to temptation, much more than the ears being pulled to the sky, therefore, the pain wasn’t an issue.  Bud would laugh and say, “gotta another one here, (directed toward my dad) you gonna have anymore…..NO?  Well then drink up, eat up and swim just after, cuz my wife aint’ lettin’ y’all in our house.”

It was just then when the garden party erupted.  I don’t know which one of the four brothers started wrestling in the garden, but I can, with great and utter conviction, write the garden must have been Stephen’s………(that’s a synonym for destroyed). After demolishing the garden, the party digressed.   Proceeding to throw everyone, excluding the chicken, into the pool, we all had a great laugh.

My mother was mortified.  My father only looked at Bud and said, “well, you got what you paid for”……Bud’s reply..  “I sure do love your family.  I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”  That’s where we’d host Bud and his X wives’ deviled eggs.

The party never ended with this man.  He found joy surveying our laughter and rambunctiousness as well as the love we all felt from him when he picked us up by our ears and welcomed…….all of us, to his home.

Annually, Bud would visit us with a truck load of turnips, acorn squash, corn, and many veggies I can’t quite recall, other than the potatoes.  (Those would soon be our artillery when mom couldn’t cook enough).  We relished those visits because he seemed to be our dad’s last friend, living ninety some miles ago.

Bud died years later, and each of the brothers and sisters visited and thanked him for what he provided for us……..not the food, the beer, the soda, or even the pool.  We knew how much he cared for our love of life, and we thanked him for being a part of it.

My father taught him how to say the Rosary on his death bed.  Someone I don’t know read him his last rights.  It doesn’t matter.  He was my father’s friend, and my dad was his friend until the end.  That’s what matters.

But, I prefer to conclude with a happy note:  The happiest place on earth, other than our backyard, was ninety miles away at the home of a great man with a pool.  This man didn’t just welcome our family for years, he embraced us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s OK to Bleed at a Family Reunion, Isn’t it?

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A couple of weeks ago, our family celebrated our reunion.  This is not a blog to bore everyone about a family no one really gives a crap about, other than us, of course. Rather, it is an educational piece which can be used by those who don’t properly know how to celebrate a reunion…..especially on the 4th of July, and if you have twelve brothers and sisters, their wives, husbands, children, grandchildren, uncles, aunts………yada yada you get the picture. Here’s the honest picture which bleeds 1000 words, but only one fist.

As a rule of thumb, or in this case, “fist”, the first way to make a grand entrance to your family reunion is to punch your nineteen year old niece in the nose, thus making blood and tears flow.  Reunions are much like writing; your introduction must develop interest in the remainder of the story or weekend.  We also call it a hook.  This was more of a left hook.  Before my readers hate me, I shall explain properly why it was completely accidental.

Located on a beautiful plot of land in Big Ape Country (Montana) upon arrival, I anxiously awaited siblings throwing out a red carpet or just welcoming us to their home.  Initially, I was welcomed by two of many rambunctious nephews, one about three years of age and the other six, urging me to watch them display their boxing skills on a backyard heavy bag.  Happily, I complied.  Pounding their tiny little fists into that bag made me remember our brotherhood rumbles in our basement.  Pure nostalgia.  I couldn’t help but ask them if I could hit the bag myself.

Tossing a few weak punches just to make them giggle, I decided to show them my left hook.  Now little did I know, one of my nieces was hiding, much like camouflage, behind the black and yellow punching bag.  My left hook hit the bag which then swiftly cracked my niece in the nose. This happened ten minutes after my arrival.  Some people thought that was pretty good for me to go that long before making a girl cry.  Most people had bet it to be no longer than five.

Much like a Stephen King “Carrie” moment, her nose bursted out with blood.  It was everywhere according to my wife while consoling her.  Honestly, I wanted to cry.  Evidently, the blood was like a red deluge flooding her face, shirt and shorts.  This was not one of my crowning moments. When my brother, Tom, arrived to hear the story, compassionate soul he is, could only shrug his shoulders and ask, “Did anyone get a picture?”

Uncle Ben did this to me … accidentally.

The accidental incident made me realize a couple of things though.  One, I’m a klutzy fool, and two, unless I’m fighting a five foot tall girl, I should stay out of the ring.

My niece, Josie, and I made amends shorty after she showered off the blood and changed her clothes.  She was a real trooper about it……..mostly, it just scared her mother, and everyone else at the reunion, thinking she was bleeding out of her eye sockets and surely the victim of some kind of 3rd of July terrorist attack.  Therefore, I thought since all was forgiven, and my introduction completed, I’d move on to the body of the reunion.  This body came in three forms: a tent, explosives, and a rib.

(Let me preface the following by writing that my wife, Brittney, is completely, utterly and enthusiastically responsible for the following)

On my bother’s property, many people were pitching tents because he and his wife, Molly, didn’t have room for one hundred people infecting their home. It was nice to recognize so many families enjoying this little camping trip reunion, except for one particular, unique group. Witnessing from afar, three morons just slightly smarter than me, unsuccessfully attempting to erect a thirteen by ten foot tent seemed as though I should provide some immediate assistance given they’d been at it for 45 minutes.  These three clowns were fumbling and fighting with this tent like three female beavers bickering about how to construct a dam.  It just didn’t seem to be working.  Their attempts to erect the tent were much like a ninety year old trying to get an erection.  Hopeless.  Now, let’s keep this straight, I’m not a mechanical person, but if I can lend a hand, even if it is to hold a pole, well, I’ll be there for you.

This is where my wife, BRITTNEY, enters the equation.  I looked at her and said, “As funny as this is, perhaps we should help them.”  She peered at me and said, “I think I have a better idea.”  My reply:  “yeah?”  Brittney looked at me as though I needed to save her from some ferocious Montana Grizzly and said, “Why don’t you go mow down what they have left of that tent?”

I don’t take her dares lightly.  Dropping my beverage, I sprinted about thirty yards and dove through that tent like I had to jump out of a burning building.  No one was injured, there was no blood, but the tent went down like the Titanic.  It collapsed just like we had planned.  The plan took five seconds to devise, but we took it down in one.  Luckily, the three stooges thought it was funny, and Britt and I helped them to resurrect the nylon Taj Mahal.  In retrospect, I really do believe she saw that the implosion of that outdoor abode as necessary for its reconstruction.  It worked, much like fireworks.  They look scary at first, but the results, unless they fly at your face, are magical.

You just can’t celebrate the 4th of July without fireworks and the solid possibility of someone’s face being severely burned.  I’m the type of guy whose idea of fireworks are those little black snakes which can only cause damage to concrete, unless they grow like ivy and envelop your once green yard with a long black snake devil. (you have to be careful which Indian Reservation you choose)  That to me is a firework.  You light them on fire, and they always work.  Explosives, heavy artillery and mortars are a different story.  They  are fantastically majestic unless approaching your face with terrific velocity.  These are the forms of fireworks some of my pyrotechnic nephews, as well as our hosting brother provided for the reunion finale………about five thousand dollars worth.  They put on a display I will never forget, but although the detonations were breathtaking, you were ready to duck or dive at any moment.  I knew someone had to go down like a courageous soldier putting his life down for the men and women who have fought for the USA.  We were not disappointed.  My brother in-law, Denny, turned out to be the brave soul, or unlucky soul, sacrificing his face for mine.  None of us saw much at first…….it happened far too quickly.  We did though, hear two sounds, the wizzzzz of something which sounded as though it may be coming in everyones’ general direction.  Then, distinctly, we heard, “I’M HIT!”.  Right in the face, our brother, Denny was hit.  Trying to hide our laughter, we made sure he was ok, and luckily, he was wearing glasses or firework proof goggles to deflect this bottle rocket.  He only received a minor burn which will last forever.

We stuck around for the grand finale and it was, indeed, fantastic……..mostly because there were no casualties.  I think Denny excused himself to the port-a-potty upon orders of the MASH Unit which was on hand.

The fireworks really didn’t scare me much.  However, one of my sisters did.  All of my sisters scare me, but this incident over a BBQ rib really terrified me.  At a reunion, along with five thousand dollars worth of fireworks comes five thousand dollars worth of food, thus resulting in five thousand hours of cleaning in the kitchen.  We all chipped in with the cooking and the cleaning, but my timing was a bit askew while looking for a leftover rib in the kitchen.  I didn’t know she had skipped most of the fireworks to clean a very large kitchen.  This rib caused a rift.  She bursted open fire on me like I was on enemy territory.  “If you think you’re going to eat another rib, you had better clean up after yourself!”  I was just going to eat a rib and throw the remains out onto Greg and Molly, our hosts’ yard after angrily devouring it.  But, the look on her face made me think, I should just get the hell out of here.  We later laughed and all was well…….I hope.

Concluding a reunion can be tough.  This one really wasn’t.  There was blood, buffoons, burns, ammo and lots of ribs….I feel like we had it all.  (I’m just sad I was too much of a coward to eat one of those ribs).  I also have to say, there was a whole lot of love at Greg and Molly’s place.  It was fantastic.  There are even memories and scars to prove it.

That was a pretty weak conclusion.  The introduction and conclusion should be the best and it’s always the toughest.  That would be our mother.  Even while shaking her head, she was there from the beginning, and she lasted up to the end.

 

Mortal Sins

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Sometimes, or let me rephrase this, I always stew about my writing….  just like a Sunday Slow Cooker recipe.  Sometimes, it turns out wonderful, and sometimes it tastes like shit……just like my writing.

I’ve been stewing about writing some important stories about my life and others’ and quite  genuinely, those are the most difficult to express.  When you send something out to the world, also known as A Corner Club (my brother’s tavern), it puts you at risk.  So, now I’m going to try to write something fun.  Please, don’t find it boorish.

My father was not a Jew. (Bless their hearts, brains and money).  My father was the provider of thirteen Catholic boys and girls.  He always made certain food was on the table, a tent was over our heads, and we always had patched pants mom would provide.

Growing up in the Catholic church became a bit confusing for the youngest of 13.  I did my best to discern the difference between mortal and venial sins.  Other than loving my family unconditionally as a young boy, and basically just playing in the yard, I didn’t know how to confess my sins; I really didn’t have any (yet).  This is when I began my lying career.

I am no saint, and I ain’t no angel, but I lied my ass off in those confessionals.  I couldn’t think of anything I did wrong.  I didn’t use profanity in those days, but I lied to the priest saying I did.  This was extremely taxing…….making up bad stuff just to be absolved of my sins.  I was honest when I said I was thinking bad thoughts about some of my siblings……meaning, since I couldn’t beat them up, I’d just hide their wallet, containing nothing other than a condom they would never use.  After the concussions, it seemed the only way to get back at them.

We learned from our father what the really egregious sins were.  He began making pretty good money to support us, and, one day, other than giving to charity, he wanted to know what was on our wish list.  I wanted a bat.  My siblings wanted a pool.  Determination?Venial sin. Out of the question.  Dad knew that was a recipe for Gannon Disaster.  Then, he asked what was second on our wish list.  Knowing this was a Mortal Sin, we sheepishly replied……”call waiting?”

That’s when the shit hit the rotary phone, and I was not allowed to talk to the girl in the eighth grade I’m currently married to.

Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from call waiting.  We decided to stick to rock fights and good food.

 

A Mother’s Day Hangover and 65 Cents

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When you hit the age of somewhere around twenty five to forty, you hear hangovers can last upwards of two full days.  This hangover I’m speaking of has nothing to do with alcohol.  It’s about all those mothers we have to please on Sunday.  It’s exhausting making the one, and the other ones you love so much, feel that love.

I only have one mother.  Her name is Margaret.  She is an exceptionally special person.  Yet, men and women alike choose to make phone calls to other mothers who have made a difference in their lives.  It doesn’t always have to be the one carrying you around in her belly for nine months, shooting you out of her hoo ha, and then still takes care of you and her other twelve children forty years later.  You may have outlaws…..sorry, in-laws visiting you on that weekend.  It may be your mother in-law and Grandmother in-law. (Two wonderful people) They only require two things:  Breakfast and Scrabble.  This is where a girl like me becomes a man.  I lay down the (in) LAWS.

Capable of convincing anyone on a Sunday Mother’s Day that all restaurants are closed on said day, I am equally capable of making them a hearty breakfast in our humble home for less than ten dollars and less than a thirteen hour wait in line at an “I HOPE I never eat here again”.  It’s a famous chain.  My pancakes, bacon and eggs take a mere twenty seven minutes.  This makes the mothers happy, and Ben a happy man.  Then, I beat the hell out of them in a friendly game of Scrabble.

Church:  Also closed on Mother’s Day.  Most elderly women don’t want to believe this.  In my world, Church is always closed on days such as Christmas, Easter, weddings, and most Sundays.  I’ll make an exception for a funeral.

Cards are really nice, but you have to leave that for your one and only mom.  Again, this is my world.  Phone calls are far easier than writing a sarcastic letter to your true mother who deserves so much more.  The letter I sent my mother only cost HER sixty five cents.  I placed the incorrect postage on the letter.  The mailman did deliver it ONE FULL DAY before Mother’s Day.  He just wouldn’t give it to her before she scrambled around looking for sixty five cents.  Now, I have great respect for men and women who deliver mail in rain, snow and are willing to charge my mother, (eighty five years of age, mind you) extra cash because a letter weighs over four ounces.  She paid for the extra postage, but made the postman, holding this heavy letter, wait about four minutes.  She has a great sense of humor.  Evidently, he was none too pleased with the weight and wait.  What the postman forgot to do, bless his heart, was open the mail to see if there was any money enclosed.  Indeed there was.  I also included with the letter thirteen dollars, representing mom’s thirteen children.  She called me on Saturday, and she couldn’t stop laughing.  It is the best medicine, and it made my day.

I recovered from the weekend hangover.

It takes Two to Rumble

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It does take two to rumble, and, quite often, it’s with your wife.  Scrabble, Monopoly, the Game of Life; they mean nothing compared to TV and Mother’s Day.  We have no children so I have had a heck of a time trying to get our dogs and cats to write a Mother’s Day card for her.  They can eat tennis balls, which I can’t and never wish to do, but they are incapable of using  the pen and paper I toss them.  I even provide the card.  All they have to do is write down the address, including area code, and, with their paws, give a signature……..Am I asking too much?  I think not.  The dogs and cats look at me as if I am insane.

I had their nails cut today, cleaned that gooey stuff out of their eyes, explained basic English skills, and even let them know that it’s ok to make an error……unless they’re playing third base or centerfield, or miss Mother’s Day.