The Call

Invariably, it comes at absolutely the worst possible moment. The message drives you to your knees. In an instant, your life is turned upside down. Decisions and actions that were of the utmost importance are relegated to some far away place in your brain as you rearrange priorities, battle guilt, struggle with fear, and are blanketed with gut-wrenching sorrow.

Barely able to return the telephone to its cradle, you suddenly discover rage boiling up inside of you. Stupid phone. Stupid damned phone. Goddamned stupid damned stupid phone! The cradle is no place for a stupid phone. Let’s see how it looks after it has bounced off a wall at 90 miles per hour. Why did I ever buy a stupid phone? Why did I ever allow myself to feel love? Why did I ever allow other people into my life? Why didn’t I run off and live a hermit’s existence totally removed from society, family, and friends?

Decisions suddenly come easily. I’m never going to feel pain again. I’m never going to let anyone into my world. I’m tough. Nobody is going to see me suffer. I’m going to focus on all that needs to be done. I need to be strong for the others. I need to set an example. No one will ever see me cry. I can get through this on my own…

Then, the questions. What do I do now? Who should I call? What about the arrangements? Should I go? Should I go alone? Should I go now? Can I get off from work? Can I afford the trip? Who will be there? What if I don’t go? How do I get there? Where do I stay?

Then, the commitment. I’m going… Right away! I have to be there. I’ll find a place to stay when I get there. Damned the expense. This is more important. I’ll sort out all of that when I get back. I need to be there for ________ (fill in the name of your choice). I need to be there; now!

There is a source for comfort in the most trying times involving the health of family members and loved ones. Little known and underutilized, there are small oases of comfort. Similar to a bed & breakfast, homes have popped up throughout the United States with one simple purpose: to provide affordable accommodations while you tend to the needs of those who are closest to you. Known as hospital hospitality houses, they are frequently affiliated or have close ties to hospitals and medical facilities.

The best-known facilities are the more than 270 Ronald McDonald Houses located throughout the United States and in 52 foreign countries. Started 35 years ago in Philadelphia, these facilities were created to offer families a way to stay together, in proximity to the treatment hospital where seriously ill or injured children receive care. Access to Ronald McDonald Houses is limited to parents of children under 18 years of age.

Similar services are available in homelike environments to families of adults as well as children who are hospitalized in medical facilities throughout the United States. Instead of sleeping in a hospital waiting room or even your car, you can stay at a hospital hospitality house where you can find rest in a warm and supportive environment, usually for a voluntary donation that is a fraction of the cost of a motel room. For more information and a directory of hospitality houses, visit the website for the National Association of Hospital Hospitality Houses (http://www.nahhh.org)

Thanksgiving

“Shoo-Fly Pie & Apple Pan Dowdy,” released in 1946, was Dinah Shore’s treatise on a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch delicacy: molasses pie, and a simple apple dessert.

Aunt Annabelle was born and raised in Port Jervis, NY, across the Delaware River from Pennsylvania. She became part of the Shannon (Mom’s side of the family) clan when she married my Uncle Booch (Robert), the youngest of seven Shannon siblings. One can only guess how my grandfather’s Irish heritage ever melded with my grandmother’s Pennsylvania Dutch (She was a Cristman.) background, but the union produced a feisty, fun-loving, passionate family that followed tradition closely: I have nearly 20 cousins! Few members of the family strayed far from their roots in the Delaware Valley or the family traditions.

Thanksgiving was half bedlam, half food. With rugrats clogging the corridors and carpets, adults setting tables, arranging chairs, and shifting serving platters, the clan would gather to share each wife’s contribution to the feast. Luscious aromas permeated the air, as idle chatter slowly focused on the reason we all gathered together under one roof.

A silence permeated only by Dad’s brief prayer was followed by a gentle crescendo of chatter as positive comments were made about Mom’s turkey, Jerry’s mashed potatoes, Aunt Millie’s dressing, the cranberries, gravy, beans, and brussel sprouts (Dad’s favorite). It wasn’t until the table had been cleared that people would begin to focus on the pièce de résistance: dessert.

As fresh, black coffee was poured into awaiting cups, a parade of pies made its way from the kitchen to the table. Pumpkin Pie, Apple Pie, Dutch Apple Pie, Mincemeat Pie, and Shoo-Fly Pie. Accolades filled the air as everyone proclaimed my Aunt Annabelle’s Shoo-Fly Pie to be the crowning touch to a perfect celebration. To this day, I can visualize her beaming smile, her glow of satisfaction. A simple, traditional dessert was the key my aunt used to open the door to our family’s hearts.

I have the recipe for that pie tucked away for safekeeping. I will never attempt to make one, however. Although I have hunted far and wide for a bakery that makes Shoo-Fly Pies (Believe it or not, there is one in Seattle of all places!), I have never bought one. I don’t want to cloud the memory of my Aunt’s creation with anyone else’s attempt at perfection. Aunt Annabelle’s Shoo-Fly Pie will always reign supreme.

Walt's Widow

At the intersection of Routes 202 and 206 in Bedminster, NJ, an insignificant Texaco gas station served as the home office for Walt Hansgen, one of the best road racers of the 60’s. Notably, the station also featured the U.S. Senator Harrison Williams/John Z. Delorean memorial telephone booth. Locals were accustomed to seeing long black limousines parked close to the phone booth as their famous, notorious occupants made calls from the presumably tap free pay phone.

Despite their public image, FBI agents are simply not that dumb. Not only had they tapped the residential phones of these local ne’er do wells, they also had all the local pay phones tapped and had a photographer capturing their furtive images inside Hansgen’s phone booth.

A horny high school student hitchhiked home from liaisons with his long-legged heartthrob along those same roads on a regular basis. Those experiences would have been forgettable, had it not been for the time that the free ride was provided in a late model, British Racing Green Jaguar “saloon” piloted by a raven-tressed, dynamic and spirited lady who stirred the manual gearbox with the alacrity of the Wicked Witch of the North’s potion preparations.

The Jag (not to be confused with “the car,” “the vehicle,” or any other mundane term) sang an ecstatic response to the driver’s delicate stroke: surging, pausing, surging, braking, leaning, gripping, diving, leaping with a fluidity of motion that belied it’s majestic proportions. This exotic, mysterious siren seemed to thrive on the energy she was able to coax from the highly refined driving machine.

Awestruck in the presence of incredible beauty, mesmerized by the intensity of pure passion, a young man who would in the not too distant future have all vestiges of innocence ripped from him in the violent struggle of military combat, could only sit silently and strive to understand inputs from senses that were on overload.

No gold and alabaster chariot pulled across the heavens by a team of 8 driven by Zeus himself could have elicited a more profound memory for this young man. A Jaguar was the ultimate expression of luxury and performance. That was a given in the minds of every boy over the age of 15. A Jaguar with a manual transmission was a mark of driving decadence. Only drivers addicted to performance lust for rising and falling engine tones played to the cadence of swift gear changes.

Who was this incredible vision of beauty and sexuality, this ethereal expression of all that is feminine and delicate who clearly thrived on danger, speed, and power? As in all singular moments, the answer came too late: my personal vision of pure perfection was the widow of one of the truly masterful, truly great sports car drivers in the world.

While others lust for wealth an power, the overriding goal in a long life containing innumerable successes and personal accomplishments has been to somehow capture the same raw emotions that filled a young man’s heart on that fateful day: to connect through heal and toe, hands and fingers with a mechanical thoroughbred, a purpose-built, refined automobile with the heart, power, and grace of a champion. Forty years later, every flick of the wrist, every whine of the synchros, every crisp and distinctive metallic click of the shifter brings light to a reality that seems more like a dream.

While Mrs. Walt Hansgen is long gone, her memory lives in the heart of a now old man as he strives in some small way to capture that oneness of man and machine, that synchronicity of thought and action which propelled us through the countryside with an impossible fluidity nearly fifty years ago.

Mark Foley :: In Perspective

I have never made a mistake in my life. I have never said something that I regretted for years. I have never unintentionally hurt someone. There are no levels to personal perfection. You are, or you are not. I am. Therefore, I am eminently qualified to pass judgment on Mark Foley and all members of society who have erred in their ways.

The exchange of inane sexually tainted banter with a juvenile is a very serious failure of morality, character, and integrity. How does it compare with the acts of Bernard Madoff, a man who has caused much, much more permanent pain to many, many more people? How does it compare with the acts of a wealthy local financier who was recently convicted of some type of sexual encounters with underage girls?

Now, consider the fact that Mr. Foley immediately and openly acknowledged his shortcomings and accepted a penalty that is extremely harsh. He resigned his high profile position as a United States Congressman and accepted the vituperation of his colleagues, his constituents, and society as a whole. Consider that after thorough investigations no legal authority found a basis to file charges. That is even more significant when you factor in the moral outrage directed at him and the investigatory authorities from all levels.

Although he has apologized profusely, his request for forgiveness has not reached my ears or eyes. He has acknowledged his failures and accepted mass condemnation. If you choose to forgive him and wish him well, then you are acting within the scope of the faith that taught you compassion and love. If you choose to scorn and rebuke him, then may you find peace in your life, for you are a troubled soul indeed.

Oh, that first paragraph? Just a dream… just a dream.

Scratching the Itch...

The phone rings in the middle of dinner. The phone rings at 7:00am on Saturday morning. The phone rings while I'm in the shower, under the car, or up to my eyeballs in a project. Always, always a question: "What time do you open?" "What time do you close?" How do I get there from ..." This pattern has continued for twelve plus years. There it goes again! Actually, that was my wife calling for me to pick her up, but you get the point.

Being a reasonably intelligent person, I have asked callers where they obtained the number they called. Through that process, I've tracked down a number of sources for the erroneous information and managed to get the error fixed. One would think that after 12 years, the problem would go away. After all, no reasonable publisher would print the same incorrect information over and over for that long, would they? Eventually, like worn out dollar bills and old tee shirts, the existing documents would go away. But no!

The calls continue. A major breakthrough has just occurred. I just Googled my telephone number and discovered that my personal home phone number is on page two hundred something of Fodor's USA, "The King of Guidebooks," according to Newsweek in the "Completely Updated (their words)" 28th Edition.

I have written to Random House, but there's not much they can do at this point. There is only the slightest satisfaction in knowing the source of my annoyance...

R o a d T r i p !

Next Thursday (9/24), I’ll be riding shotgun on a trip from South Florida to Alexandria, VA in a ’94 Jeep Wrangler. The last two attempts had to be aborted when the vehicle balked at the exercise. My son, John, will occupy the driver’s seat. This is the first road trip we have undertaken together in more than twenty years. We will fly back from the DC area on Sunday.

My son, Morgan, bought the Jeep during his last visit over Labor Day weekend and had to return home sans vehicle when the voltage regulator failed. Lacking that control, the alternator delivered an excessive charge to the electrical system, which caused a fuse failure. Absent a complete charging circuit, the battery was slowly drained. That caused the engine to fail.

Our arrival in Alexandria will signal the beginning of a long weekend that will be limited to a father and his two sons, a once in a lifetime experience. Morgan left South Florida nearly 10 years ago when he went off to college in Orlando. After graduation, he made several moves as he went from St. Petersburg to Tallahassee and ultimately to Alexandria, where he has lived and worked for the past year.

What a day!

This trip took us to Northern Illinois, not far from the Wisconsin border. The 1962 Chris-Craft Holiday we were chasing turned out to be in worse condition than expected. A complete trailer overhaul was necessary preparation for the high-speed 1,400 mile return to South Florida. That meant an extra day added to the journey, which Lee and I could ill afford. Just the same, our safety and the safety of every car we passed was at stake.

Wednesday morning broke cool and clear. The breeze was brisk as we hopped into the big Ford dually and headed for the trailer shop. Running on precious little sleep and our minds filled with “what ifs,” there was no idle chatter as we made our way through the little village.

The shop owner understood the importance of a first rate job. He definitely didn’t want an afternoon distress call from Mid-Kentucky. They were finishing up as we arrived. Bearings were repacked. Wiring was replaced. Assorted and sundry connectors were tested, repaired, or replaced. We were ready to go. If there was any question about the extent of his effort, the invoice put it to rest. Everything was precisely recorded along with the time it took to install. Time would confirm without a doubt that the money was well spent.

We rode the wave of rush hour traffic that was making its way into Chicago but broke away just before the city limits as we turned south toward Indianapolis. I-65 traces a nearly straight path through fields of grain. The wide-open expanses are broken only by the occasional overpass.

Overpasses. Dozens of them. We see them all the time, but these were different. They were crowded with people, people who were jumping up and down and waving to the motorists speeding by below. They had flags. American Flags. They were waving American Flags, waving, and cheering. They were cheering, and we could hear them. The first thought we had was a question. What made this Wednesday so special for so many people?

When we turned on the radio, the stations were playing patriotic music: Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith, Neil Diamond, and the list went on. When the reality finally sunk in, Lee and I were both deeply humbled. It wasn’t the day of the week. It was the day of the month. The American heartland had risen on September 11, 2002, with only one thought: to vigorously profess its love for our country. That was the only way to honor the memory of those who had lost their lives one year earlier.

Throughout the countryside of Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee, we were greeted by equally moving expressions of patriotism. Our country shared a fervor that was beautiful to behold. May we never forget the terrible tragedy, but may we also remember the emotions that were stirred in our souls.