Old Friends, A Holiday Story

This story that refers back to what was my "final post" can be found here on Medium. Enjoy!

Mickey, Jerry, My Dad, and More

August 31, 2015

August is my most difficult month and this was my most difficult August ever. Thankfully, the legendary artist Paul Simon nailed it when he wrote and sang with Art Garfunkel “August…die she must…” For me, this is a month marked by possibility, death, destruction, sadness, and a dramatic turning inward. Let’s start with 1995.

On August 13 Mickey Mantle died. Like so many other boys growing up in 1950’s and ‘60’s, I idolized “the Mick”. Who knew, until Jane Leavy’s book came out what an awful man he was?  I really thought his liver transplant and concomitant period of confession would allow us to witness a rebirth, a sharing of wisdom about self-awareness and the importance of how we treat others as Mantle’s true legacy. We can overcome the demons that plague us and leave behind a legacy that makes the world a better place. We can ask for forgiveness and whether it is granted or not, we can express gratitude for the life we have. We can recognize the truly heroic among us. We can hit that dramatic home run, living into old age a changed and better person, wiser, humble, giving, and present for others. I guess, though, to quote the songwriting team of Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia, “he had to die”. When Mickey died, in many ways, it marked the end of my childhood or at least reminded me that I wasn’t a “kid” anymore; I was forty years old.

In the fall of 1970, I was visiting my brother and his roommate at what was then SUNY Binghamton. It got late and my brother’s roommate put “Live/Dead” on the stereo. As I fell asleep, on the floor, and Dark Star transitioned into St. Stephen, the Other One, and Turn On Your Love Light, something in me changed; unaided by any other intoxicant or stimulant, I was enveloped in a sense of serenity and peace that I had never experienced before (what we might call “presence” or “mindfulness” today). Every note of the guitar struck a chord deep within me.

So, when Jerry died a few days before Mickey, on August 9, I was devastated. I found out about Jerry’s death when I arrived at work. My boss told me. I was surprised that this very straight, reverent and socially conservative man knew who Jerry Garcia was, let alone that I was a “dead”icated fan. I wonder to this day, whether he shared the news with a certain level of satisfaction intended to repudiate the Dead lifestyle and philosophy or was simply passing it along.

I made it through the day and when I got home went for a drive to cry and process the meaning of Garcia’s death. Meanwhile, just a few miles away, at the Hampton Beach, NH Casino, Bob Weir and RatDog were getting ready to perform. I thought about going as I drove through a scenic area in my town but decided to stay put. I couldn’t get the lyrics and refrain of “He’s Gone” out of my mind as I drove with tears streaming down my face, while RatDog was tuning up just down the road, “He's gone and nothing's gonna bring him back…” Jerry’s death represented the end of my adolescence, that sense of invulnerability, and living according to one’s own rules, peacefully and righteously, in spite of the ever-present demons, trolling to get their hands on you, waiting for you to slip up with no “help on the way” (Garcia/Hunter).

As I think about it, I guess it makes some degree of sense to have your adolescent view of life snatched from you and then your childhood one, especially as one looks back at one’s life. That was a tough week; at age forty, I realized that I was an adult. I remember during that week, my oldest son Mick (named for Jagger, not Mantle) was home and my father-in-law was staying with us. It is ironic because, August actually starts with Jerry’s birthday on August 1 and my father-in-law’s on the 4^th. August starts out with such promise, a full month until summer’s end, to enjoy the best life had to offer, or so I used to think.

I have written plenty about my dad previously and won’t repeat any of it here, other than to say I still miss him. But, my August angst continued. He passed away on August 16, 2009 and the adulthood that began fourteen years earlier only made me begin to realize those demons would not let go of their ever-tightening grip. I truly thought he would make it to August 18, my mother’s birthday. That would have allowed me to see him one more time as Karen and I were planning to drive down to Florida on the 16^th and get there the following day. I thought he would surprise my mother for her birthday and join her in heaven on the 18^th. However, as a friend often says, “If you want to make God laugh, have a plan”.

At his funeral, I was able to share my thoughts and memories of the “dad” of a happy childhood (thanks, Mickey), the “father” of those adolescent years (kudos to Jerry), and finally as a “friend” (thanks Dad). With my father’s death, I began to ponder my life, as a husband, father, brother, uncle, and friend. I wasn’t feeling too good about any of those roles and was without a fulltime, steady job.  My demons slowly tightened their grip on me.

Over the years, my personal August includes:  my sister-in-law’s near fatal auto accident; my brother-in-law’s heart attack; Hurricane Katrina devastation of a city we had come to love (my older son was in New Orleans then and returned that October; both sons, Mick and Ben, and their families live there today); our beloved next door neighbor from our days in Swampscott, Nana Lena’s passing; confirmation that Lena’s daughter, our dear friend and inspiration, Maureen has ALS; just last August, the doctor treating me for a back injury told me to stop running which served as my personal “Fortress of Solitude”.

Last year, Robin Williams committed suicide in August. I learned about it as I began to say “goodbye” and thank a truly great group of students who took my summer “Child Growth and Development” class at Middlesex Community College in Lowell. In many ways, that was my best class.

I finish each class with a small ceremony, based on Helice “Sparky” Bridges’ “Blue Ribbon” (“Who You Are Makes a Difference”) ceremony. If you aren’t familiar with it, please look it up; the video is only three minutes long and the Difference Makers website will tell the full story. I show the video and then give each student a small, blue elastic for his or her wrist; the elastic symbolizes many things; when we snap it, it can serve as a reminder that we are focused on the trivial and negative; it is a circle, representing life; it is flexible as we must be; and if it is lost or loses its elasticity, it can easily be replaced. The blue represents a tip of the hat to Sparky and life’s contrasts (blue sky and the blues, for example).

So, just as I was beginning to make my big “finish”, a student announced Robin Williams’ suicide (I relaxed my cell phone policy several semesters ago). We shared the moment in awe and silence. I left the room for a couple of minutes, deciding whether to do the “ceremony” which includes a reference to suicide. I decided to go ahead with it. When I returned to class, a student asked me if I was “all right”. Little did they know that, as someone who has struggled, I could feel the demons tighten their grip, ever so slightly, but palpably. I said I was “okay”.

I concluded that it is August, not April that is the “cruelest month” and dread its arrival.

A couple of days ago, on August 29, author and spiritual advisor/self-help guru, Wayne Dyer, who counts Oprah and Ellen among his biggest fans (one of his books, “The Erroneous Zones” sold approximately 35 million copies) passed away at age 75. In many ways, his passing, as sad as it was, turned out to bring a certain amount of clarity to me. In fact, his last book, which I shared with Mick, is, “I Can See Clearly Now”. Just a few days earlier, in one of his last Facebook posts, he wrote, “I have a suit in my closet with the pocket cut out. It's a reminder to me that I won't be taking anything with me. The last I wear won't need any pockets.” Perhaps, I should ponder and remember this.

It’s August 31. It is my second grandson’s third birthday. Thomas was born in the midst of Hurricane Isaac; for some strange reason, the house he lives in never lost power; it seemed as if that was the only street in the Crescent City with power. While my older son and I were trying to figure out how to get his generator restarted, (I was home in MA) guiding him as I read instructions from the Internet, his brother, just a little over a mile away, was fine, electricity and air conditioning running as if nothing was happening outside. So, Thomas came into our lives three years ago today. His birth and birthdays should serve as a reminder of the good, the potential, the coming new school year, and the fact that I’m still here.

What has been perhaps the most difficult and emotionally wrenching month of my life is over. As I think about the month of August, I realize that I think I have finally learned the power and importance of gratitude. I’m grateful to everyone who reads this. I’m grateful that I have people I can reach out to at the times of despair and celebrate with at times of joy. I’m grateful for my friends and family who are a constant reminder that, even at the worst of times, I matter. 

I’m grateful that I’m still here.

(This is an excerpt from "I'm Still Here", a work in progress.)

A Final Post

I think this will be my final post here. Time to move in another direction.

This is a true story and I will keep it brief; for the full version, you will have to get in touch with me. It was back in 1977 probably near the start of the holiday season and I was teaching at the Melrose Day Care Center. A local printer donated some high quality paper, just about the kind used to make greeting cards. So I cut the paper into small sheets, about 5 x 7 or so and put them out with water colors for the kids to paint on. The results were amazing! Each painting was a kaleidoscope of colors with much more depth than the typical white paper or recycled paper we usually used. With my limited knowledge of art, it looked to me that they could have been painted by Picasso. The kids must have made about fifty of them. Realizing how nice they looked, I recognized the potential to fold them in half and use them for greeting cards. So, I admit, I took some home. Back then, I wrote poetry. So, I took a poem I wrote for the holidays and with my shaky handwriting wrote out holiday cards to a small number of friends using these Picasso-like water colors. A few years ago, I got a Christmas card from my old friends, Jeff and Trish and in the card, addressed to an "old friend", they told me that every year at Christmas, they would take out the card and read it. Last month while in New Orleans at my son's wedding, I got an email from my friend Eric; he told me that while cleaning out his attic, he came upon a card that I had sent him many years ago. Eric and I were student teachers at Melrose Day Care and the only two men in the Wheelock grad program in 1975-76. I knew right away what he was talking about. Some of you may have the original (if you've known me since then); hold onto it, it might be worth something! For the rest of you who have somehow found your way into my life, here goes (Happy holidays with love and friendship):

Old Friends

Old friends come home again

As the change of the seasons

And the loving seems to quicken

For a wide range of reasons.

There can be softness in the winter air

There can be quiet in the midst of storm

There is peace with the words of those who care

There are arms in which to feel safe and warm.

In the shadows of the memories

There are simple pleasures

And in the patches of grief

We find strengths to later measure

Wintertime thoughts of spring

Remain a simple treasure.

Old friends come home again

To the cities’ lonely winter reaches

And the loving seems to quicken

With tales in rhyme of distant beaches.

There are scars from other years

And scenes replayed in other words

In worlds of sunset flocking birds

And wondrous highs and vivid fears.

Old friends come home again

To listen close and take your hand

And the loving seems to quicken

With visions of a magic land

Old friends come home again

As the change of seasons

And the loving seems to quicken

For a wide range of reasons

.

Is There Ever Really Any Closure

My father has been gone for almost six months now. I think that I finally adjusted to life without his physical presence. At times, it hasn't been easy.

His funeral was more of a memorial service than a traditional Jewish service. A number of people spoke. My brother and his son Alex spoke. His close friends, Stewart, Pedro, and Denise talked about his influence on them and his never-ending belief in them. Ron was a little bit shy speaking in front of an audience, but I know that he shared their feelings. The mayor of Tamarac spoke about my dad's commitment to the city he grew to love. Several of the Sheriff's deputies spoke about my dad's love of service and the joy they had going to lunch with him. His niece spoke about how important he was to her and her family. Julia, his VITAS hospice nurse, and one of the VITAS social workers spoke about him. When they first met him, they thought he volunteered at the nursing home. Only after he started receiving hospice services did they learn that he was a resident. The administrator of the nursing home came; a party planned for his departure was postponed for a couple of hours so that he could attend. My friend, Tom, who has been commuting back and forth to West Palm Beach, was there. I will never forget seeing him in the back row; it made me feel a connection with my friends at home.

I had the chance to talk about the "dad" of my young childhood, the "father" during those turbulent years of the Generation Gap, when we disagreed about many of the big issues, especially the war in Viet Nam. Interestingly though, my father never wavered in his belief in the rights of all. Finally, I spoke about the "friend" I came to know and love, mostly through the relationships with people who came to the funeral, people that I would not have had the opportunity to get to know if not for my father. In becoming friends with them, I got to know my father in ways that I would never have been able to. I appreciated him in ways that started as an obligation and ended as a privilege. As proud of me as he was, or said he was, I became all the more proud of him. Yes, he was stubborn and to some extent selfish, but I learned that people really loved and cared for him, very deeply.

I wished that I had been there for the last few moments of his life and I struggle to remember our last conversation. I think he told me to stop calling so much as I kept waking him up. I promised to call only twice a day.

There have been many days where I felt lost without being able to physically talk with him, to see how he was doing, help him in some small way, tell him that I loved him, and hear him tell me that he loved me and "Keep doing what you're doing."

I try to keep in touch with some of his friends. When I went back down to his condo for the last time, several of us got together at Ron's. I call them from time to time. They are very special people. I draw strength from those relationships as I do from thinking about my father.

For the first few weeks and several months, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. There was a part of me that was missing, whether it was the role of the "good son", the daily phone calls, the occasional argument, the plan to visit again, or just the sense that someone needed me that made it hard to accept his passing. I experienced some very difficult days. Then I started teaching at a local community college. I have been enjoying it. My "professional" life has some passion, again, after quite some time. I am thinking about going back to school, something that my wife says is "about time" and my father would be proud of. (A few years ago, while going through various papers and documents, I found a copy of a letter he wrote to President Bush (W) about me. I never heard from the President, but I realized that my father was, indeed, proud of me.) I think, in fact, I know, he would be proud now and I wish that I could tell him. Then again, I realize that he already knows.

Now, finally, I can think of him and miss him for who he was to me and not for who I thought I was to him. It has taken about six months. And, while the tears may be streaming down my face, there is great joy behind those tears.

Thanks for listening, dad. And, please give mom a hug.

Dad Lives On in Memory Part I

My dad passed away on the morning of August 16 at at about 3:03. It has been several weeks and those weeks have been without the usual manifestations of time, memory, or movement. I know that I am getting used to the physical world without my father, but he lives on in the memories of many.

I am very fortunate in that I was able to spend a lot of time with my dad, especially in the 8 years since my mother died, and even more so, since his cancer and general health resulted in his placement at the Tamarac Rehabilitation and Health Center in March 2004. Until recently, I kept the calendar on the refrigerator in his apartment at Concord Village, just the way it was that day when I was in Florida to help him resettle in his apartment after a stay at the Health South rehab center nearby. He was never able to stay at Concord Village again. He truly loved Concord Village, serving as the president of his Building 4 for about twenty-three years and also serving on the Recreation Board that oversaw the entire complex. On the refrigerator were an invitation to his grandson's Bar Mitzvah, a photo of my dad and mom at their wedding, and the calendar that detailed his various meetings, doctor appointments, and other commitments. As a family, my wife, my brother, and sister-in-law, we had to figure out what would be best for my dad. We discussed trying to get him to either Massachusetts or New Jersey. We paid little thought to having him stay in Florida. But after talking with several of his friends, it became apparent, at that time, that if he pulled through, why not Florida, and especially Tamarac, a city he loved. After all, it was his home. I wound up staying in Florida for about a month and returned to home and work in mid-April. I still remember saying goodbye that day, wondering why I chose that particular day to get on an airplane and go back home. While I had tears in my eyes, my father, from his wheelchair told me that he would be "all right." and advised me to simply "do the best you can." Earlier he told me about how he saw my mother waiting for him to join her, but it wasn't time. Just about every day, my father and I talked on the telephone and the new phase in our relationship was underway. My dad surprised everyone by putting on weight and getting stronger. He resumed his work with the Broward County Sheriff's office, city of Tamarac, and various other volunteer efforts. The local paper chronicled his work from the rehab, as he was able to come and go. He, in many ways, thrived with the support of friends and the great staff at Tamarac. As a WWII veteran, he especially loved going to the Memorial Day activities.

When I went to Tamarac in February 2007, with his condition deteriorating, once again, our small family had discussed our options and it made the most sense for me to head to Florida and prepare to spend time with him and try to identify what options we had. In the last few weeks of 2006 and at the start of the new year, he began to talk about giving away the few possessions he had and two of his close friends alerted me to how bad his condition was Just the day before I left, the nutritionist called me to inquire about a feeding tube. As it turns out, I flew down during a major snow storm and arrived in Florida without luggage and without sufficient clothing for a very cool few weeks. I wound up buying some sweatshirts and other items at Walmart. I remember calling my brother and a very close friend trying to figure out what I was thinking in going to Florida for the duration. I wasn't sure that I could handle it. When I finally got to see my dad, he was asleep in his room at the nursing home. Prior to this, we referred to it as the "rehab", but now in this condition, it was the "nursing home". His cancer doctor estimated that he had three to six months and so, we prepared for death. Hospice services were put in place, a psychologist began to visit him weekly, and I decided to stay for the duration. My original leave of absence turned into a resignation. My younger son flew in from New Orleans and spent several weeks helping me out, visiting his grandfather, and getting to know him. Fortunately, he was able to experience "Sam Schwartz day" in Tamarac on February 28, 2007. At the Tamarac city hall, he received proclamations from the city of Tamarac and the Broward County Sheriff's Office for all of the work he did on their behalf. At that time, we thought for sure that his volunteer efforts were at an end.

Dad Rests

I am in Florida, in the waiting area at the nursing home where my father is asleep. Fortunately, there is a wifi connection here. Unfortunately, the signal is very weak in my father's little room, one that he shares with another man.

On the way over, a car passed me and there was one of those stick-on messages on the car's rear window. The message was "In memory of my dad". So it got me to thinking a little, about my dad. He spends most, if not all, of the day in his bed. He goes in and out of sleep. He weighs just under one hundred pounds. His skin is very fragile. When I came down for his birthday, in June, he was very weak, but stayed awake most of the time. Also we were able to go out for dinner on his birthday to Scrubby's, a barbecue and rib place that he loves. Now, just a few weeks later, and I don't know if he will ever get out of bed again. It certainly seems as though we won't be able to get out of here. His skin is too tender and he is just so frail. And yet, he still wants certain things, like certain foods and to be around certain people.

The other night, I picked up some Chinese food and his friends, Stewart, Ron, and Denise stopped by. Last night, it was Nathan's hot dogs, courtesy of the Miami Subs place on University. Today, at Ron's suggestion, we will gather here at 4:30. Ron is a great cook and when I spoke with him yesterday, he was well on his way with some barbecued chicken, macaroni salad, potato salad, etc. I hope that Denise will be able to join us as Stew and Ron (of course) already confirmed. Pedro, my dad's other close friend, will also be here.

As we draw closer to the end of my father's life, I realize how much I will miss him. I realize how important he makes me feel, simply for doing what it seems like I should be doing. Over these past two and one-half years, each time, my father's condition deteriorated, he bounced back, putting on weight, and through sheer force of will or stubbornness, depending on your perception, he put death on hold in favor of whatever life offered. I know that there were several times when I thought we would finally lose him, but this time, I know it is different. I hope he is comfortable and I hope he is not afraid. I gotta get going now.

Alabama Get Away, One Down 999 Places to Go

As promised, all about our time in Alabama. The ride from New Orleans to Point Clear took about two-and-a-half hours. Point Clear is a beautiful place. Our vacation spot was right on Mobile Bay. We could see Mobile in the distance and we experienced the blessings of beautiful sunsets and the awe of summer thunder and lightning. A few days of swimming, fishing, and enjoying some real summer days was just what the doctor ordered. We also spent some time exploring Point Clear, nearby (about a half hour) beaches, and Fairhope. First, I should tell you that the water in Point Clear is brown; it is clean, but it is brown. From our small dock, we could walk our literally hundreds of yards and the water was still only up to our shoulders. One day, we drove towards Gulf Shores and spent an afternoon at a wonderful beach, with great sand and the blue-green water we associate with the beach. In fact, the sand was singing, reminding those of us from Massachusetts of Singing Sands!

We fell in love with Fairhope. What a great place to visit or live! It has a very nice commercial district, a small French Quarter (mardi gras started in Mobile), and exceptionally friendly folks. The original Double Mint Twins grew up in Fairhope. We had a great lunch in a small pub, walked around and spoke with lots of very nice and welcoming people. We also learned about the Jubilee. Mobile Bay is also known for the Jubilee, a phenomenon that you can learn about here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mobile_Bay_jubilee ; it seemed that all of the conditions were ripe for us to experience the Jubilee, but, alas, we did not. I did, however, purchase a Home of the Jubilee in a Fairhope store.

As it turns out, this area of Alabama, including Point Clear and Fairhope, is in the book, One Thousand Places to Visit Before You Die http://www.1000beforeyoudie.com/m/