Saturday night.
9:25 pm.
Lazing on my couch, as I have been doing for the better part of the day.
Crickets chirp outside the window.
Only moving to get more water.
Yawning loudly.
Harry Kalas' voice, smooth and always strangely calming, leaks out of the TV. The Phils are down 7-4 to the Braves in the bottom of the 8th. I flip between the game and Cops, and as I do, I realize I am becoming my Dad.
Summer nights with him were spent laying on the pull out couch in the living room. Huge pink pillows surrounded me. The single room air conditioner blasting, the sheet hung from the doorway to keep it freezing. We watched the Phillies game and listened as Harry narrated the plays and provided endless stats. Next to him, I drifted in an out of sleep, extremely relaxed and feeling the safest I can ever remember feeling.
Cops was a preferred show for him. He was hooked. Prostitution stings, drug busts, high speed chases - whatever the flavor, he was interested. Flashing lights, toothless women reporting domestic abuse, the infamous theme song (you're singing it in your head now), oh Cops was a favorite, a guilty pleasure perhaps. Or maybe, and I feel a little bad for feeling this way, he identified with the people on the show, as unfortunately his criminal record was far from perfect.
Different ball players on a new field...
Fresh episodes of Cops...
My apartment instead of our house in Darby...
Different but the same. He is still here.
The Phils are still losing, but now by 2, Dad. It's the top of the 9th. I'll keep watching. Harry keeps me company.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
My First
For a brief period of time in 2nd grade, we (my Mom, Jenna and I) moved out of the house and into an apartment. We lived in the Presidential Square Apartments on South Avenue and I attended Our Lady of Fatima. I was miserable. I was away from my friends and my school and stuffed into a 2 bedroom apartment, forced to share a bedroom with my younger sister. This didn't last long. Once it was decided that we'd move back home with my Dad, my best friend Kellie was ecstatic. She counted the days until I returned to BVM, the school we attended together since Kindergarten. It was the first time in my life that I remember feeling like I had a true friend in Kellie, that our sister-like bond was going to be around forever. Her anticipation was truly flattering.
Now, some 20 odd years later, my anticipation is mounting - anticipation of the arrival of Kellie's baby. In the 26 years of our friendship, we've shared almost every "first". We've done everything together, even down to the day of our own births. Kellie and I were both due on March 17th of 1981, St. Patrick's Day. Kellie was late (March 23rd) and I was even later (April 4th) much to the dismay of my Mom. We went to our first school together, All Saints Nursery School on Main Street in Darby. We were dropped off every morning and instructed to color a picture - a different animal each day. Kel and I made sure to match each other's colors and one day, when I colored an owl using every color of the rainbow, she was not happy. Have you ever seen a multi-colored owl?
The next 7 or so years were chock full of "firsts" as well. Second grade brought to me the predicament of the first boyfriend. A towhead boy named Billy told Kellie that he liked me. One day while walking home, Kel asked me if I liked Billy Scaggs.
"Sure, he's ok."
"No, but do you like him?"
"I don't know, what does that mean?"
And, in front of the gas station on MacDade Blvd., Kellie and I had our first like him conversation, followed by many more, I'm sure.
In 4th grade, Kellie got braces and presented us with our first instance of dealing with vanity and cruel 11 year old kids. She came to school and refused to open her mouth. With the help of a teacher, I convinced her that she'd have to open her mouth sooner or later and she might as well just get it over with. She was still gorgeous, even with the braces. Which were blue, if I remember correctly. In 6th grade, I got glasses and Kellie convinced me that wearing them made me look smart and she wanted a pair of her own.
Summer after 6th grade - my first heartbreak. It was not a boy who broke it, it was surely not Billy Scaggs, it was the news that Kellie's family was moving and she was transferring to a different school for the remaining 2 years. Shocked and extremely sad, I wondered how I was to survive undoubtedly the 2 hardest years of grade school, minus my sidekick. In 7th and 8th grades, you have to change classes! How was I supposed to navigate this daunting task without her!?! We had spent almost every day together since birth and now she was moving a whole mile away from me and attending St. Joe's. Surely, she'd find a new friend, tons of them actually, and forget about me.
Forget about me she didn't and we were reunited in the intimidating halls of high school. Faced with a brand new set of firsts (first locker, first formal dance, first make out session), Kellie and I found formed new bonds with different girls and groups. College brought more of the same. Our lives had taken us on different roads but that didn't change the fact that we started out in the same car. Through the changes, I always had a sense of confidence that she'd always be in my life. Not only in my life, but she'd always have the same familial role, the same deeply rooted connection, the same place in my heart.
Recently I have met the ultimate in firsts - the first realization that I am abruptly an adult. My friends are getting married and having children. Kellie is due on Sunday and very soon, she will be responsible for another life. She is no longer my childhood comrade, but my oldest and dearest friend whose life is about to drastically change. When Kellie broke her ankle in 6th grade, I was there to steady her, to hold her books and her hand. I'll be there this time to steady her, to hold her blankets and her teething rings and her bottles, and anything else that comes along.
Now, some 20 odd years later, my anticipation is mounting - anticipation of the arrival of Kellie's baby. In the 26 years of our friendship, we've shared almost every "first". We've done everything together, even down to the day of our own births. Kellie and I were both due on March 17th of 1981, St. Patrick's Day. Kellie was late (March 23rd) and I was even later (April 4th) much to the dismay of my Mom. We went to our first school together, All Saints Nursery School on Main Street in Darby. We were dropped off every morning and instructed to color a picture - a different animal each day. Kel and I made sure to match each other's colors and one day, when I colored an owl using every color of the rainbow, she was not happy. Have you ever seen a multi-colored owl?
The next 7 or so years were chock full of "firsts" as well. Second grade brought to me the predicament of the first boyfriend. A towhead boy named Billy told Kellie that he liked me. One day while walking home, Kel asked me if I liked Billy Scaggs.
"Sure, he's ok."
"No, but do you like him?"
"I don't know, what does that mean?"
And, in front of the gas station on MacDade Blvd., Kellie and I had our first like him conversation, followed by many more, I'm sure.
In 4th grade, Kellie got braces and presented us with our first instance of dealing with vanity and cruel 11 year old kids. She came to school and refused to open her mouth. With the help of a teacher, I convinced her that she'd have to open her mouth sooner or later and she might as well just get it over with. She was still gorgeous, even with the braces. Which were blue, if I remember correctly. In 6th grade, I got glasses and Kellie convinced me that wearing them made me look smart and she wanted a pair of her own.
Summer after 6th grade - my first heartbreak. It was not a boy who broke it, it was surely not Billy Scaggs, it was the news that Kellie's family was moving and she was transferring to a different school for the remaining 2 years. Shocked and extremely sad, I wondered how I was to survive undoubtedly the 2 hardest years of grade school, minus my sidekick. In 7th and 8th grades, you have to change classes! How was I supposed to navigate this daunting task without her!?! We had spent almost every day together since birth and now she was moving a whole mile away from me and attending St. Joe's. Surely, she'd find a new friend, tons of them actually, and forget about me.
Forget about me she didn't and we were reunited in the intimidating halls of high school. Faced with a brand new set of firsts (first locker, first formal dance, first make out session), Kellie and I found formed new bonds with different girls and groups. College brought more of the same. Our lives had taken us on different roads but that didn't change the fact that we started out in the same car. Through the changes, I always had a sense of confidence that she'd always be in my life. Not only in my life, but she'd always have the same familial role, the same deeply rooted connection, the same place in my heart.
Recently I have met the ultimate in firsts - the first realization that I am abruptly an adult. My friends are getting married and having children. Kellie is due on Sunday and very soon, she will be responsible for another life. She is no longer my childhood comrade, but my oldest and dearest friend whose life is about to drastically change. When Kellie broke her ankle in 6th grade, I was there to steady her, to hold her books and her hand. I'll be there this time to steady her, to hold her blankets and her teething rings and her bottles, and anything else that comes along.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Signs...
(No, not the Mel Gibson movie.)
A friend of mine has said in the past something to the effect of "it's amazing the things people will believe or think, just to comfort themselves." I think he was talking about religion, a topic I (after 20 plus years of friendship) refuse to discuss with him. However, his statement hit a chord and I often return to it. I am a self-proclaimed believer in signs and always have been. In the past 2 years since my Dad's death, signs appear everywhere. Or are they? Am I squinting my eyes and looking too hard into the universe?
Shortly after his death, after the shock, the mourning period, the short work hiatus and the return to normality, I found myself praying one night. I was talking to someone (God, Dad, whomever was listening) and I asked for a sign. I asked for something to tell me that he was ok. That he was safe and I could be sure that he was safe. The next day in work, I read online that Hurricane Dennis had hit Cuba. I took it as my first official sign that he was gone from this life but still with me. Like him, the sign was anything but discreet and I was absolutely sure it was him answering my prayer.
Jump to exactly one year after his death, Father's Day 2006. My Dad's first anniversary was upon me, and I had overwhelmingly mixed emotions. I found myself alone in my house in the morning and I didn't want to be. So I donned my bathing suit and hopped in my Acura and headed to the shore, more specifically to Sea Isle, to see Aunt Jeanne. A day on the beach chatting with my Dad's sister was what I thought I needed.
I drove over the Girard Point Bridge, aka the Double Decker, a bridge that reminds me of him. With the music blaring and tears dripping off my chin, I cruised barefoot over the Walt Whitman and onto the 42 Freeway into Jersey. While going about 80, I was completely lost in thoughts about him and the last year of my life. My car shook a little and my tires felt a bit unsteady, but I kept flying down the left lane. I remember the exact lyric of the Kenny Chesney song that was playing as I started to smell burning rubber. No sooner was I able to process the thought "burning rubber, I hope it's not my car" before I started spinning. The steering wheel was no longer in my control and I just yelled at the top of my lungs. The car and I spun to the left into the grass divider and then back across 3 lanes of southbound traffic. The traffic was not heavy, but certainly steady. Spinning, spinning, yelling, gasping for air. I landed on the right shoulder, facing forward as if I had pulled over normally.
All I could do was cry. I was stopped, safe, alive. Cars raced by me on the left, un-phased and unaware of the bullet I just dodged. As soon as I was able to pull air into my lungs again, I called my Mom in hysterics. She was heading to AC that day with a friend, they hadn't left yet. I tried to tell her what happened and, through my tears, she finally understood what I was saying. We spoke briefly, and then a truck was pulling up behind me. I told her someone was there to help me and I'd call her RIGHT back. We hung up. Shaking from head to toe, I carefully stepped out of my car and around to the passenger side. I looked at the back right tire and saw that it was all torn and separated from the rim. I learned the technical term later, a tire blowout.
A man got out of the NJ DOT truck and rushed up to me. He didn't see what had happened on the road. NJ DOT Emergency Services patrols the Jersey thoroughfares and helps people in need. When he reaches me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if I am ok. A rush of hysteria came over me again as I tried to explain what happened.
"Take a deep breath ma'am; I am here to help you. My name is Dennis."
Dennis was extraordinarily calm and collected as he put a donut on my car. I told him exactly what happened and he was in awe. We agreed that with all of the traffic that was on 42 at the time, this was nothing short of a miracle. No guardrails on either side of the highway, and if there were I would have slammed into not one, but both of them. As Dennis worked on my tire, I told him that he shared my Dad's name and this was the 1 year anniversary of his death. A slow smile spread across his face. "Now that's pretty weird, huh?"
Weird wasn't the word for how I felt about the incident. Amazing was more like it. I was fully confident in my Dad's presence as I evaded a serious accident and a possible tragedy. I drove home on the donut in silence.
After that, the second big sign that came to me and affected (really affected) me, there have been other, smaller ones. Earlier this summer on the 68th street beach in Sea Isle with Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Joe, as we settled into our beach chairs, a plane carrying a banner buzzed across the sky. The words read, "Hi from Dennis at Hair Cuttery." I smiled to myself behind my shades and magazine and felt the warm sun and his presence once again.
Signs of my Dad are absolutely comforting. And if they are what I need to handle the fact that he is gone, I will keep my eyes (and my heart) open to them forever.
A friend of mine has said in the past something to the effect of "it's amazing the things people will believe or think, just to comfort themselves." I think he was talking about religion, a topic I (after 20 plus years of friendship) refuse to discuss with him. However, his statement hit a chord and I often return to it. I am a self-proclaimed believer in signs and always have been. In the past 2 years since my Dad's death, signs appear everywhere. Or are they? Am I squinting my eyes and looking too hard into the universe?
Shortly after his death, after the shock, the mourning period, the short work hiatus and the return to normality, I found myself praying one night. I was talking to someone (God, Dad, whomever was listening) and I asked for a sign. I asked for something to tell me that he was ok. That he was safe and I could be sure that he was safe. The next day in work, I read online that Hurricane Dennis had hit Cuba. I took it as my first official sign that he was gone from this life but still with me. Like him, the sign was anything but discreet and I was absolutely sure it was him answering my prayer.
Jump to exactly one year after his death, Father's Day 2006. My Dad's first anniversary was upon me, and I had overwhelmingly mixed emotions. I found myself alone in my house in the morning and I didn't want to be. So I donned my bathing suit and hopped in my Acura and headed to the shore, more specifically to Sea Isle, to see Aunt Jeanne. A day on the beach chatting with my Dad's sister was what I thought I needed.
I drove over the Girard Point Bridge, aka the Double Decker, a bridge that reminds me of him. With the music blaring and tears dripping off my chin, I cruised barefoot over the Walt Whitman and onto the 42 Freeway into Jersey. While going about 80, I was completely lost in thoughts about him and the last year of my life. My car shook a little and my tires felt a bit unsteady, but I kept flying down the left lane. I remember the exact lyric of the Kenny Chesney song that was playing as I started to smell burning rubber. No sooner was I able to process the thought "burning rubber, I hope it's not my car" before I started spinning. The steering wheel was no longer in my control and I just yelled at the top of my lungs. The car and I spun to the left into the grass divider and then back across 3 lanes of southbound traffic. The traffic was not heavy, but certainly steady. Spinning, spinning, yelling, gasping for air. I landed on the right shoulder, facing forward as if I had pulled over normally.
All I could do was cry. I was stopped, safe, alive. Cars raced by me on the left, un-phased and unaware of the bullet I just dodged. As soon as I was able to pull air into my lungs again, I called my Mom in hysterics. She was heading to AC that day with a friend, they hadn't left yet. I tried to tell her what happened and, through my tears, she finally understood what I was saying. We spoke briefly, and then a truck was pulling up behind me. I told her someone was there to help me and I'd call her RIGHT back. We hung up. Shaking from head to toe, I carefully stepped out of my car and around to the passenger side. I looked at the back right tire and saw that it was all torn and separated from the rim. I learned the technical term later, a tire blowout.
A man got out of the NJ DOT truck and rushed up to me. He didn't see what had happened on the road. NJ DOT Emergency Services patrols the Jersey thoroughfares and helps people in need. When he reaches me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if I am ok. A rush of hysteria came over me again as I tried to explain what happened.
"Take a deep breath ma'am; I am here to help you. My name is Dennis."
Dennis was extraordinarily calm and collected as he put a donut on my car. I told him exactly what happened and he was in awe. We agreed that with all of the traffic that was on 42 at the time, this was nothing short of a miracle. No guardrails on either side of the highway, and if there were I would have slammed into not one, but both of them. As Dennis worked on my tire, I told him that he shared my Dad's name and this was the 1 year anniversary of his death. A slow smile spread across his face. "Now that's pretty weird, huh?"
Weird wasn't the word for how I felt about the incident. Amazing was more like it. I was fully confident in my Dad's presence as I evaded a serious accident and a possible tragedy. I drove home on the donut in silence.
After that, the second big sign that came to me and affected (really affected) me, there have been other, smaller ones. Earlier this summer on the 68th street beach in Sea Isle with Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Joe, as we settled into our beach chairs, a plane carrying a banner buzzed across the sky. The words read, "Hi from Dennis at Hair Cuttery." I smiled to myself behind my shades and magazine and felt the warm sun and his presence once again.
Signs of my Dad are absolutely comforting. And if they are what I need to handle the fact that he is gone, I will keep my eyes (and my heart) open to them forever.
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