Friday, March 3, 2023

Cosmic Radio

Growing up in Brooklyn, figure around 1975, I had a friend whose mother was half Puerto Rican, half Irish, and fully gorgeous. We were at the age when that stuff just started to matter, and we never talked about it, well maybe not in front of him. We also never talked about something else about her. When I’d go over to his house, we would gallop up the stairs, sliding our hands up the wooden bannister, to the second floor, his room to the left, his parent’s room to the right. His mom would be in her bedroom, with the door closed, and the radio BLARING. She was not listening to WABC Radio, where they played the Top 40 hits of the 70’s, the radio was tuned to a religious show, “Do you accept JESUS as your only lord and savior?” When there was a lull in the show, you could hear his mom talking. At first I thought, Maybe she has company? Maybe she’s talking to his father? Or his brother? Eventually I realized, she was talking, to the radio. I knew that was weird, it made me nervous. I felt bad for her. I felt bad for my friend, who would give me that insecure look that said, Yeh I know it’s messed up, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I could tell that she really was talking to the radio, that those voices were really talking to her. That made me think, in the egotistical way of kids, What if the radio is talking to her? I mean who is to say it’s not? I mean, sometimes it feels like the radio is talking to me. It also made me think, Maybe she’s not that far off? Maybe there’s something to this voices in the radio thing? How many times have I been listening to WABC AM or WNEW 102.7 FM and the song that comes on the radio, is directly connected to what is going on in my life? When did I hear The Beatles, “Let It Be” when I really needed to hear it? So many times it seemed that the radio, was talking to me. Does that mean I am like my friend’s mom? Is there something in the cosmos controlling the messages coming through the airwaves? 

Sometimes, weird things seem to happen… Somewhere around 3rd grade, I have a crush on a pig-tailed bespectacled girl named Susan, and it feels like whenever I am thinking of her, when I am sitting by the pool on vacation, driving in the Chrysler New Yorker with my father, Elton John’s, “Crocodile Rock” comes on the radio. Coming from the speakers I hear the words I really want to hear, “I remember when rock was young, me and Suzie had so much fun, holding hands and skimming stones…” I just know, in my grammar-school brain, this is a sign, some supreme being is sending me a message that Suzie and I are supposed to be together. Alas, that was not to be. 

 Many times in my life, the radio seemed to be talking to me, a Wizard of the Radio waves communicating with me, I swear. Or was it coincidence? 1990. I am a few years out of college. My buddy Dave Gordon and I are on a road trip from Brooklyn to Notre Dame; a pilgrimage to see Touchdown Jesus, Lou Holtz, and Rocket Ishmael. It's the final installment of those iconic Fighting Irish vs. Miami Hurricanes games that came to be called, “The Catholics vs. the Convicts.” We are in the car for HOURS, talking about all manner of things. Somewhere in the flatlands of Ohio, Dave, who I have known since high school, brings up my father. 

In 1990, it had been five years since my dad’s passing and Dave wants to know how I am doing. He asks, “Do you ever feel that your Dad is around? Does he ever give you signs?” I think about that question as the Ohio countryside goes careening by; after a minute I say, “No. Never. Nothing specific. I can hear his voice in my head. I know what things he would say to me at points in my life when I need his advice. And that’s a comfort, but I don’t feel like he's around. I don’t feel like he is watching over me or anything like that.” 

 Those words are hanging out of my mouth, a word-filled comic book bubble suspended over my head…and what comes on the radio next but THE song that reminds me of my father’s passing, “Heaven” by Bryan Adams. If you look it up, that song came out in 1984, and was all over the airwaves in the summer of 1985, when my father passed. It’s a romantic song, but as we do sometimes, we “customize” songs to have meaning for our lives. When I was 22, that song was helpful to me, as I was dealing with my father’s passing. Whenever it came on the radio, it was a salve, a comfort to me, thinking about my father, maybe in a better place called, “Heaven.” 

 I turn to Dave from the driver’s seat of my ‘88 Sentra and say, “This is really weird Dave, you are asking me if I ever get signs from my father and I say ‘no’ and then this song comes on the radio.” 

 It does not stop there. Because I am skeptical, as many of you are, I was thinking right then, Wow, that’s weird, but it’s just a coincidence. Right? Those thoughts are floating in the chemistry of my brain when what comes on next on the radio is the other song that is most connected to my memory of my father, and of the summer he passed. A song by Corey Hart called, “Never Surrender.” I always thought that my father had quit, that he had given up after he got his diagnosis. The doctors told him he had atherosclerosis, a severe case of hardening of the arteries, they told him it was a death sentence. And he just took it. He didn’t quit smoking his Marlboros, didn’t start exercising, didn’t start eating right, just continued to do what he was doing that got him in that fix in the first place. So I always thought that he had given up, and that’s why, “Never Surrender” always made me think of my dad. Those two songs, back-to-back, right after Dave asked me if I ever got signs from my father, and I gave him an unequivocal, no. Somewhere near Akron, Ohio. 

There are other songs… “Blackbird” by The Beatles holds a special place in my heart, and is connected to my early days of fatherhood. Summer 2001, hiking at Steep Rock in Washington, CT, along the Shepaug River with my trusty yellow lab, Seamus at my side, and Nicholas, my two and a half year old in the blue, Kelty Kids backpack. Taking in the greenery, the fresh air, keeping Seamus near me, I am pointing things out to Nicholas as we walk. At some point I see a crow land on a dead branch just above the dirt road we are walking and I begin whistling, “Blackbird.” Not singing it mind you, whistling it. Nicholas, all of two and a half, recognizes the tune from my whistling and says, “Daddy, why does the blackbird have a broken wing? Why can’t he fly?” I am astounded, a sign of my new son’s genius? How did he know what song it was? And how does he remember that specific line? Nick and I have a whole conversation, walking along the river, about the blackbird, and the broken wing. I went home that night and wrote about it in my journal. 

Over the years, whenever I hear that song, it takes me back to that moment. I shared that journal entry with Kira, my wife, and when Nick got older I shared it with him. So now “Blackbird” has some Spinner family history to it. 

Fast-forward quite a few years and Nick is heading to college. August 2017, the three of us go to Bloomington, Indiana for Nick’s college orientation. We are touring the campus, sitting in lecture halls, learning about: college life, underage drinking, and financial aid. Some meetings the three of us are together, sometimes they separate the students from their parents. At one of these separate meetings, the IU staff hands out paper, pen, and envelopes to the sixty or so parents in the lecture hall. The woman at the podium explains, “Write your student a letter, to say hello, to give them advice, to make them smile. It can be something serious, funny, whimsical, an inside joke, something to let them know that you are thinking of them. We will keep these letters safe for about three weeks. Then when they are settled in, about mid-September, we will spring this little surprise on them. Spread out, go out onto the campus, find a quiet spot under a tree, or by the fountain, and write your letter. Have fun with it, no pressure, just a note to be shared later.” Parents move around the room, some sit on the floor, others spread out to quiet spots. I stay right where I am, and ready my pen. Then the IU staff pipes in some light rock music to the lecture hall’s speakers, to make us reflective. The first song was, “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac, and the tears were welling in many an eye as we tried to focus. As soon as we recognized the song, Kira and I glanced at each other. It was brutal, we were about to leave our first-born son 850 miles from home, all alone on this college campus. “Landslide” if you know it, is about handling the, “seasons of your life.” Tough stuff. To make matters more melancholy, more nostalgic, the next song that comes on is, “Blackbird” by The Beatles. How? How could they have known? Who is choosing the songs? With all the songs out there, why choose, “Blackbird?” Kira and I shared another knowing glance as the waterworks increased. At this pivotal moment of Nick’s movement toward manhood, out of all the songs in the world, what comes on but the one song that is most connected to Nick’s childhood, for me. 

Fast forward just a little more with me? Nick has spent four wonderful years at Indiana, growing, learning, changing, and he’s graduating. He’s leaving Bloomington for good. So I agree to drive our SUV from Connecticut, out to Bloomington to help him move home. I’ll spend the night with Nick, let him enjoy one last night with his boys, and drive back to Connecticut in the morning. Nick and I go to Uptown Grill, our favorite Bloomington restaurant for a nice steak dinner. After a delicious meal, a few cocktails, we walk down Kirkwood to, “The Tap” my absolute favorite Bloomington haunt. It’s not really a college bar, there’s no sticky floor, no smell of stale beer. The Tap is the bar for parents, or graduate students, it has an amazing selection of beers on tap, and two walls full of refrigerators filled with bottles and cans from all around the world. Nirvana for a beer lover. We always go to “The Tap” when we visit Nick, and this will be our last time. There are baseball games on the tv’s, it’s Memorial Day Weekend. A nice crowd of people are talking at high tops, and at the bar. Some twenty feet above, and behind the bar, is a small stage where there’s occasionally a solo guitarist playing. That night the guitarist plays some great music, our kind of music: James Taylor, Tom Petty, John Mellencamp….we have one or two beers and I am going to head to the Marriott. Nick is heading out for his final night in Bloomington. It’s 11:30 and I am paying the check, and the singer says, “I have had a great time tonight, please remember to tip your bartenders and wait staff, I’ll be here next Thursday. I’d like to play one last song for you.” Nick and I are standing, about to walk towards the door, and we hear the first few chords of, “Blackbird.” We look at each other and smile a knowing smile. Coincidence? Or Cosmic Radio? 


Thursday, April 16, 2020

On Learning to Ride a Bike (In Brooklyn of Course)



1960s FATHER GIVING SON ON BIKE A PUSH TEACHING HIM HOW TO RIDE BICYCLE



We learned to ride bikes on the sidewalk, with our fathers running alongside, their hands extended, keys jangling in pockets, “Keep going Butch, pedal faster. You got it! Keep pedaling! Faster.”  Back then I was Jimmy Spinner Jr, but my father’s nickname for me was Butch. Don’t ask, I never knew why. There was risk in learning to ride a bike on East 4th St. Scraped knees, elbows, hands, and pain. City sidewalks are unforgiving, I guess all sidewalks are unforgiving. Our block had little pebbles mixed into a lot of the squares of sidewalk concrete to give it some texture? Because it was really painful, you HAD to pick it up quickly. 

For the first few months, most of us started with training wheels, but even at that young age, training wheels were embarrassing. Big boys and girls didn’t use training wheels. We all knew you had to start somewhere, so we knew in order to not get all scraped up every time we fell, training wheels were a necessary evil. The one cool thing about training wheels, after you swallowed your pride and understood that you needed the help, was if you positioned the training wheels correctly, on a spot of the sidewalk that was raised by a tree root let’s say, you would have one training wheel higher than the other. That would suspend the real back tire in mid-air and you could pedal furiously, faster and faster, spinning the tire and going nowhere. We’d do that and sometimes feed fallen leaves into the space between the tire and the fender, if the bike had one. We’d put sticks on the tire to watch them shoot out. In the ways of little boys, this was fun.

Our first real bikes had just one speed, metallic paint, banana seat, maybe some streamers flowing from the grips on the handle bars. These bikes only had rear brakes that you engaged by pedaling backwards to stop. After a few weeks, we lost our training wheels, and gained a few rules, but of course we wore no helmet, not in the 70’s.  Our parents told us that we had to stay on our block, as first or second graders we were not allowed to cross the street by ourselves. With this limited universe, our block, there were still plenty of adventures awaiting. Speed being held in high esteem on East 4th St, as in most places, we raced each other. Short races, 50 yard dash. Long races, down half the block. Longer races. Up and down the whole block. Eventually we tried relay races. After that got boring, we were creative little guys, we’d create a steeplechase with wooden boards and milk-crate jumps and other obstacles.

One thing we prized was the ability to skid on your back tire. You’d head down the block, three or four houses down, maybe to Tommy Brennan’s house or even Bobby Wilson’s house and turn around. You’d wait until the coast was clear, we had a decent amount of pedestrian traffic on East Fourth, then pedal like crazy, standing up to go really fast, pumping, pumping, pumping, 30-40-50 yards, at maximum speed, choosing a primo spot, slamming on your brakes. Schhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, skidding, leaving a black rubber parentheses on the sidewalk. If you were really good, you could fish-tail the bike, something fancy to impress your friends.

We quickly discovered the parts of our slice of East 4th Street sidewalk that had some character, where there were dips and bulges and maybe even something akin to a “hill.”  As soon as we were competent at riding bikes, we rode faster and we tried to jump stuff and pop wheelies. Some guys could pop a wheelie and keep going for a while, that was really cool. I never could get the wheelie thing down. A few doors down towards Avenue C, Toni-Ann Chiarello’s driveway had a bit of an incline. We could race down the block, and turn right, up her driveway and ride all the way into the back as there was never a car in the driveway. Then we’d turn around and race down the “hill.” Just an aside, Toni-Ann had the best, the absolute best, Matchbox Car collection on our block. We were all envious. Her father was a Milk-Man, he delivered milk and other necessities to families on his route. Mr. Chiarello and his daughter collected Matchbox cars, and it was a massive collection, in pristine collection, they even kept the boxes! Toni-Ann had a bunch of carry cases, these little light blue suitcases, with plastic separators in them, to hold ALL of her cars. It didn’t seem fair, to have that kind of a collection and not really enjoy it, she never even played with the cars! She just collected them. Left them in the boxes like little trophies. None of us had a "collection." Our cars were played with, that's what you were supposed to do with Matchboxes. My cars were scratched up, dirty from all the dirt tracks we made, and all the jumps and crashes we created. I know I seriously thought about befriending Toni-Ann just to play with her Matchboxes but decided it wouldn't be worth it. I bet you a few gallons of milk that collection is still intact somewhere.

Back to the bikes. One day, Michael Turin, one of the older guys on the block, discovered a jump.  About 5 houses down from my house, the last private house on the block, was Dr. Langsam’s house. Michael’s family rented the attic apartment. Their driveway was an anomaly, it had, what appeared to our 7 year old brains, a legit hill with a little concrete lip on the bottom, right before the sidewalk. We pedaled wildly, heading for the lip, a few final pedals and then coast into the ramp, whoop, you’d be airborne. The one fly in the ointment was the landing area was small, it was just the walkway to Dr. Langsam’s front porch, maybe 7 yards across. Pedal too hard, get too much air, and you’d be eating fence. 

After a few months of tooling around on our bikes on East 4th, we need a change of scenery. “Mom can’t we ride around the block? It’s getting soooo boring just riding up and down the block. We’re doing the same thing over and over. Please Mom? Please?”  Eventually, the reins are loosened, we are allowed to go around the block, at least some of us are. Some parents keep a tighter rein on their kids. These kids, if they didn’t want to risk the wrath of their parents, would have to stop at the corner of Avenue C. There they'd straddle their bikes and watch us pedal across the avenue, past the Longmore’s house, we'd give a glance to P.S. 179 lurking across the street, and zip out of sight down East 3rd Street. Biking down East 3rd, we didn’t explore as much, we knew we were interlopers on this foreign block. Whizzing past Big Mike Sylvestri’s house, we'd look to see if Mike was petting his big Collie on the porch. Our crew really liked Mike because he was one of the older guys that was nice to us. He’d even stick up for us when some of the neighborhood toughs in the P.S. 179 school yard messed with us. Past the Carpenzano’s, their house was directly behind mine, I’d glance at the rear view of my house as I raced past, that was always so cool, to see your house from a different perspective. Further down, we’d pass by the Paragallo’s house, in writing this, it certainly seems like East 3rd Street was the home of several large, Italian families. Rolling to Beverly Road, coasting in because there’s more foot traffic on the Avenue, pedestrians from the F train station on McDonald Avenue and shoppers returning from Church Avenue, our neighborhood’s Main Street, we make a right turn.  Across Beverly Road, in front of the Glenn Briar Apartment Building, its symmetrical orange-brick mass, entrance in the center, even number of windows and floors on either side providing the backdrop, it felt like you were going really fast as the windows whizzed past. Our route almost complete, we come upon the mail box that marks the beginning of our block.

At first we were excited with this accomplishment: we had gone around the block! One thing that never entered our mind, which would definitely enter the minds of kids today, was a fear of being abducted. Don’t get me wrong, in the Brooklyn of the early 70’s we had plenty of things to fear: stray cats, neighborhood tough guys, dogs, cars, but non-descript white vans patrolling for unsuspecting victims was not on our list. Heading back up East 4th Street, along the side of the Glenn Briar, listening in on conversations in some first floor apartments, under the fire escape, and you begin to feel at home, safe, back on our block.

Riding bikes, so much fun, so many adventures. The progression continued, next we were allowed to cross the street, and then ride our bikes in the street. Somewhere around 6th or 7th grade, our parents let us start exploring the neighborhood on our bikes. This opened up a whole new universe for us. New blocks, new kids, and eventually, new neighborhoods and adventures. The bicycle, our vehicle of freedom. Summer of 8th grade we were biking down to Breezy Point to go to the beach for the day. Or biking down to Sheepshead Bay to go fishing. From an early age, that movement, the speed, was an escape for us. To this day, when I get on my bike, there's a little bit of that kid still in me. 


bike jump ramp inspired by Evel Knievel Steven wrote the book on this activity! Velo Vintage, Vintage Cycles, Vintage Bikes, Scooters, Raleigh Chopper, Velo Biking, Chopper Bike, Bmx Bikes, Cruiser Bikes

Thursday, August 22, 2019

On Parenting & Taking a Child to College


Having never been a parent before, there were quite a few surprises in the early years of raising three boys. Removing an overflowing diaper and a poop-smeared onesy was a doozy. There were a few times I decided to cut the onesy off with a scissor and peel it off because I knew, from prior experience, my son could wind up with mustard colored crap all up his back and in his hair. How needy kids could be in a restaurant was another rather interesting surprise. We learned about the child’s penchant to want to do, or say, the same thing over and over and over again. My God! Luckily my kids never got stuck on one book, which apparently happens fairly often. They did however have their routines. Heading North on Interstate 87 for our annual Adirondacks Vacation, we would always stop at the same Wendy’s just north of Albany in Clifton Park. We always, if it’s open, stop at Donnelly’s Ice Cream, just northwest of Saranac Lake on County Road 86. And once we got to the house, EVERY day, EVERY day, the boys would want to pile into the row boat or a flotilla of kayaks and canoes, and paddle to the dam.



The dam was ¾ of a mile away, and there really wasn’t much to it, if you were an adult. If you were a 3 or 4 year old boy, the concrete structure, the water rushing over the top and crashing on the rocks and sticks 15 feet below, was impressive. It was my idea to go to the dam, the first time. Then it was the boys’ idea to go to the dam the next two hundred and eleven times. We would row over, paddling around Nick’s Island, (my boys took to naming the islands around the house after themselves) tie the boats up, climb onto the clean-lined concrete structure, throw sticks into the water to watch them float down the waterfall, to go careening down amidst the spray and onto wet rocks below. The first few trips to the dam, Kira and I would hover over our boys, hanging onto a collar or hand to make sure they didn’t go the same route as the sticks. But as they got older, we relaxed. Over the years, I started to wonder, with each trip to the dam, do my boys not desire novelty? Why don’t they want to do something NEW? As I rub my eyes, exasperated with the next day’s request, my inner voice is screaming, “Jesus Christ, another trip to the dam?” Now of course I smile and would give anything to go back there and take one more trip to the dam with those little boys.

When the boys were all under 6 years old, we started going on an annual camping trip with our friends, The Boyles. The first trip was such a hoot, it became an annual trip to Hickory Run State Park in the Pocono “Mountains” of Pennsylvania. One of the highlights of raising our boys, these annual camping trips, when the boys were in their single digits to early teens, out in the fresh air, roaming the campground, discovering streams and making little wooden rafts, seemingly away from the watchful eyes of their parents, was worth the effort. Like our Adirondacks trips, the camping trip had its patterns and traditions. Every year we’d book the entire cul-de-sac so that there were no other campers near us. Elaine Boyle had found a secluded area, shaped like a fish hook that held only 6 campsites. The spot was far from the teeming citronella and Marlboro-infused masses.

Our meals were convenient, tasty, and we had plenty of good beer. Often we’d bring chili, stew, something that could just be put on the campfire, and of course the staples, hot dogs, hamburgers and steak. After dinner, we’d sit around the fire and play games and talk. Every camping trip, that first Saturday afternoon, we’d convoy the cars over to the Boulder Field, this cool geological anomaly, “placed” there by a massive glacier, some 12,000 years ago. Does it seem like everything is caused by glaciers or is it just me?  We would hike, hopping boulder to boulder, under a relentless July sun, a half mile across the Boulder Field and back. The kids always finished faster than the adults, they’re more nimble and not worried about turning an ankle or breaking a leg.

After the Boulder Field, we’d rest, hydrate, and drive the snake of family roadsters to another trail head. We’d hike in about a mile to a very cold pool of water that you could swim in, for about 4 seconds. The selling feature of the swimming hole was not the swimming but the cliff diving, as there were multiple areas in this ravine where you could jump into the ancient Appalachian pool. Our boys started on the smaller 7 foot cliff, and aspired to jump off the higher ones. The pool was a natural amphitheater, and people from all around would come to jump off the various cliffs. There were always some locals who were really good and fearless and could do all manner of tricks, flipping, somersaulting, twisting, and landing, whoosh, in the pool. If these guys put a hat out like the breakdancers in the city in the 80’s and 90’s, they would have made a fortune. Every year after watching the show, and jumping off successively higher cliffs, the boys would swear, “Next year I’m jumping off the highest cliff.”

By the fifth or sixth year, my desire for novelty was beginning to surface.  The trip was always fun but the Bill Murray/Groundhog Day thing was driving me out of my freaking mind. Driving to the Boulder Field again, jumping from boulder to boulder in the hot sun, I’m thinking, Is this the fifth or sixth year we’ve done this? Next year we need to do something new. Let’s go to Acadia National Park in Maine? Then we go to the waterfall, again. And we’re traipsing down the trail and I’m thinking, Jesus Christ, aren’t our kids getting bored doing the same thing every summer?

That night, our final night at Hickory Run, we’re relaxing around the camp fire, and I broach the subject, “Next year we should try something new. Let’s go to Acadia National Park up in Maine.”  Lisa Quilty says, “Yeh, that might be fun. Let’s find some new adventures.”  And then the kids, looking as if I suggested putting down our perfectly healthy dog, chime in. Nick, in an adolescent’s sing-song voice, “We HAVE to come back to Hickory Run. I mean, we ALWAYS go to the Boulder Field.” 
Brian his echo, “Yeh, we do this every summer. We have to hike to the waterfall and jump off the cliffs.”
Declan, “We HAVE to come back to Hickory Run to check on our camping spot and check for our initials in the tree, and hike to our stream, and float things over the waterfall.” 

So I surmised that a new camping spot was a bad idea…
Sadly, the tradition of our Hickory Run Camping trip came to an end, not because the kids got bored but because our beloved friend Elaine Boyle, the driving force behind so much, but especially of our camping trip, passed away suddenly a few years ago.

Fast forward a few years….The Spinner family had a blast during Nick’s college search. We made adventures of each campus visit. We started at University of Rhode Island during early summer, and we hit New Hampshire, Maryland, Delaware, Penn State… over the next few months. We started with a, “One Day’s Drive Rule.” Because there are so many great schools around here, the rule was, we had to be able to drive it in one day. Well Nick was pretty much settled on a big school and was fairly excited about some, Delaware, New Hampshire seemed like nice options to him but he wasn’t gaga over any of them. So when he got into Michigan State and Indiana, he asked, “Dad, I guess I could see myself going to Delaware, or New Hampshire, but I’m not feeling it just yet. I got into Michigan State and Indiana. You said if I got in, we could go visit them. So?”

Nick and I plan a three day trip to Michigan State in East Lansing, then we’ll cruise over to Indiana University in Bloomington, before heading home. Early on day two we are pulling off the highway in East Lansing, I’m getting really excited for Nick but also for me. Hey, I’ve never been to Michigan State either, a place I had only heard about on TV and in college football/basketball lore!
As you are heading into the Midwest, an interesting thing happens to the radio. Right around western Pennsylvania, Jesus and Blake Shelton take over the dial.  Every time I hit the scan, we heard twangin’ songs about beer and trucks and a whole lot of Jesus talk. So I told Nick to hook up the Iphone to the car radio. I was expecting a Rap vs. Rock battle but Nick says, “You can choose Dad, I actually like some of your music.” I decide this should be a teaching moment, to expose him to more cool music. Based on the fact that he likes Tom Petty, and The Beatles, and that the rolling plains of the Midwest are whizzing past I say, “Pull up some John Mellencamp, I bet you’ll like him.” So we hear “Pink Houses” and “Small Town.” As we’re pulling into East Lansing, you can start to see some of the campus buildings, I hear the beginnings of a song called, “Key West Intermezzo.” That probably doesn’t mean much to most of you, some of you will know it, especially by the chorus where Mellencamp says,
“I saw you first,
I’m the first one tonight.
I saw you first
Don’t that give me the right
To move around in your heart
Everyone was lookin’
But I saw you first”

This is one of those songs that tugs at my heartstrings. When Nick was a baby, I would play music and dance with him in our living room. There were a few tunes that would get him animated and this was one of them. Must have been the tempo, but for me, it was the words. It’s a romantic tune about Mellencamp and a girl but in the ways of music and meaning, I had made the song my own. For me, the song was connected to Nick’s birth.

As Nick’s due date neared, Kira and I had discussions about my role in the birthing process. There’s a bit of old-school in me so I said, “My father wasn’t in the delivery room when I was born. Christ, he was in a bar waiting for the phone call. And I turned out okay.” Kira was adamant, “I’m going to need you there. I want you there. This is your son too.”I parried with a few lame arguments and Kira was having none of it. When the time came I was there, and like so many things Kira has MADE me do, I loved it. Here’s where Mellencamp’s song comes in, Nick comes sliding into the world, they hold him up like so much blue fish, clean the schmutz off, and swaddle him in the hospital-issue blanket. Because they are working on Kira, they hand him to ME! I was the first one to hold him. So every time, over the course of our lives, when I hear, “I saw you first” it means so much to me. I was the first one to see him, to hold him. Doesn’t seem fair because Kira did all the hard work. So “Key West Intermezzo” comes on as we approach East Lansing and I flash back to those memories. And I am thinking about all of the times, as he was growing up that I would put that song on and dance with him. And now here we are, 18 years later, driving to visit Michigan State, looking at COLLEGES! Geez, it had to be THIS song?  I turn my face to the driver’s side window. I don’t want Nick to see me sad. This is a happy time! We’re excited! We’re going to see Sparty. Nick’s radar is pretty active, “Dad are you crying?”  I have to come clean. “Mmmm, Hmmm, pretty much. This is a song….”


Fast forward to the summer of 2017, our boys are now all teenagers. 2017 was the summer of, “Remember When.”  We couldn’t get around it, something was looming there all summer long. Departure date. August 15th. We circled it on the calendar, the day we were to take our oldest boy, Nicholas, to Indiana University. By all counts: weather, family trips, tasty meals, fun times, it was a great summer. But August 15th was there, a dark purple cloud in the sky, for all of us. Dark purple cloud is a bit extreme I suppose because we were also looking forward to August 15th, excited for Nick’s, our family’s, next adventures. So, a purple cloud with a rainbow?

My boys are naturally nostalgic, it’s in their genes, so summer 2017 also became the summer of, “Remember when we used to do this…” Nick and his high school friends savored every minute together, every pool party at Rob’s or Mike Murg’s, every trip to the beach or to play hoops at Community House Park, was cherished with the knowledge that, next summer things will be different; they’ll be college boys. Some of the boys in Nick’s crew might be moving; leaving behind their high school days, and their hometown, which added a bit more urgency to their dwindling days together.  

Nick kept asking questions, “Dad, do you think I will keep in touch with my high school friends?”  He looked for my high school yearbook. “How do you lose touch with someone?”  As if it didn’t seem possible. Another interesting thing about parenthood is it makes you relive some of your childhood. I recalled, just like Nick, as I was graduating from Immaculate Heart of Mary, a school I had attended with the same neighborhood friends for 8 years, that I became nostalgic. May 1977, I was wondering the very same things Nick was wondering. I knew, because many of us were scattering around to high schools all around Brooklyn and Manhattan, that we might lose touch. So I found my mother’s yearbook and asked her about the young boys and girls who wrote all those endearing things in her yearbook. It was heart-wrenching to find out that my mother had no idea where many of those kids, in those black and white photos, were. It pained me to think that I might get to the point where I wouldn’t talk to Jimmy Quinlan, or Bobby Sullivan, or Chrissy Ryan, or Jean Ann Powers, or Carolyn Leaver…people I had seen every school day for 8 years. So I had to say, “Nick we do lose touch with people but the friendships that matter will endure.”

Then it’s early August, it’s a week and a half before Nick leaves for Bloomington and the preparations are making it very real. The thoughts are flying, and the memories keep surfacing. The boys are caught up in it too. Nick and Brian and Charlie and our neighbors, The Jorgensens, talking about, “Remember when we used to go hang out in the Secret Fort?”  “Remember when we used to play Manhunt and Kick-the-Can?”

Listening to these conversations was rewarding, powerful, to realize how much our boys loved their childhood in Middlebury. Brian said to us, “Dane and I were talking about what a great place this was to grow up in. About how we wouldn’t change a thing. That we had a great childhood.”  Music to my ears. To see my boys looking back so fondly, on all of these things we’ve done together…

Having a son go off to college makes you reflect, on the job you’ve done. Is he ready? Will he succeed? Christ, he loses his wallet and the car keys three times a week how will he handle a full slate of classes, doing his laundry, eating right, making good decisions….? You start to think about the Big Ideas about family. What is my role as a father? What is Kira's role as the mother? And the role of the family unit? I’m thinking about all of these special times from our lives, the things that the boys really appreciate, the stuff that they kept talking about that was so special to them, the annual camping trips and our Boulder Field hikes and Cliff Diving excursions, the picnic lunches in the secret fort, kick-the-can games…all of those simple things, the 211 trips to the dam in the Adirondacks...I realized then, that my boys were not allergic to novelty, they were just finding comfort in the traditions, in the predictability of our lives. And I thought, in this sometimes crazy world, maybe that’s one of the things kids really need.

We had a Graduation Dinner/Going Away Party with The Jorgensens; we have been raising our boys together, Joel and Carrie also have three boys. Nick and Peter are leaving the nest, Nick to Indiana and Peter to Iowa State.  Kira bought sparkling cider for the boys and adult libations for us. I knew I wanted to say something special to Nick and Peter as they are readying to leave. And the comments the boys were making all summer about “remember when we used to” made me realize what we have done for our boys, the role of the family. What our kids appreciate is the predictability of our love, they are thankful for the safety, warmth, and caring, that we have been providing. They didn’t have to worry about anything, not about food, or road side bombs, or the business cycle. We were very lucky, they were free to be boys, to fret about school work, the bus ride, sports team tryouts, to just hang out with friends and play. I remembered a quote from a Greek Philosopher that I thought would be perfect for a toast. So I found the quote, read it over and over and readied to say it on the Jorgensen’s deck after dinner, “I now know what we did as parents, and our job, with Peter and Nick is close to over. Raise your glasses. Archimedes once said, ‘Give me a firm place to stand, and I will move the world.’ Well boys, that is what we gave you, a firm place to stand, now it’s your turn to move the world…”

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Tweety's New Glove


Three houses down from my house on East 4th Street, towards the middle of our block, lived The Brennans. Like a lot of families on our block, the Brennans were: Mom, Dad, 3 kids. I was friendly with the youngest son, Tommy Brennan, he was part of our crew. The most interesting thing about Tommy, in addition to the fact that he chose to play goalie in roller hockey, was the fact that he wore long-johns and flannel shirts, even in the height of summer. See Tommy had some type of skin affliction that made his skin break out in these fluid-filled blisters. They looked really painful, but they never stopped Tommy from playing all of the games we played. And in the ways of little kids, none of this bothered us, it was just part of Tommy.  We played stick ball, punch ball, roller hockey, Johnny on the Pony…all of our street games, together. For about 10 years it seemed, our crew was inseparable. Every summer seemed endless, countless sunny days of stick ball and Bomb Pops from Morris our Ice Cream Man, and slices and Cokes at Korner Pizza, and firecrackers and fireflies and flashlight tag. Now Tommy’s house was right near our home plate for stick ball, the epicenter of our East 4th Street world. We spent a lot of time around Tommy’s house.

Bob Brennan was the patriarch of the Brennan family. The guy was vintage Brooklyn: part historian, part wise-ass, part bullshit artist, all character. Even in the early 70’s, when most National League fans in Brooklyn had adopted the Mets, Bob was still a Dodger fan. He stuck with the team even after the move to Los Angeles, a back stab move that was devastating to all Brooklynites and left a psychological scar on the borough. This sleazy move hadn’t pushed Bob away from the Dodgers. We all, especially my father, thought that was weird. 

Bob Brennan had the lanky body of an athlete, a bit like Ted Williams. Truth be told, he looked like Teddy Ballgame. Great head of hair, chiseled features, lantern jaw. Bob had played semi-pro baseball, at least according to him, and based on what I could see when he tossed the ball around with us, I believed him. He moved like a ball-player, languid and powerful, loose and smooth, but quick, and confident.

One day, my friends and I are having a catch near the Brennan house.  It was me, Bob’s son Tommy, John Tracey, Bubba Yannone, Paul Reilly, Big Pete and Little Pete. A vintage collection of Brooklyn kids, t-shirts, cut off jean shorts and sneakers.  We were at the center of our block, right by our home plate for stickball. This day, there was an electricity in the air, because John Tracey had a brand new glove.



In the early 70’s, our block, like many other Brooklyn blocks, was baseball obsessed. We talked baseball, we wore baseball t-shirts in support of our chosen team, we collected baseball cards, and played all manner of baseball games. On this day, we were all envious, because John had this new glove. Now, we wanted to check out this glove. We all knew we had to be patient because anybody with something new, but especially a baseball mitt, was going to be protective. Tweety, that was John’s nickname, seemed to get new stuff a bit more often because his parents were divorced. He was the first, and actually only one of us, to go to the brand new, Disney World. Now in the first few days of someone having a new glove, you wouldn’t even think of asking to try it out. It was an un-written but fair rule, I mean, it’s the same respect you would want if you had a new glove. And when you did venture to ask to see it, you had to be okay with the owner saying no, for a few days even.

So Tweety’s got his new glove; light tan, blue Spalding label on the wrist strap, and the immortal Tom Seaver’s signature stamped on the palm. This was a big occasion, and Mr. Brennan, leaning on his fence,methodically watering his small patch of lawn, making small rainbows in the sunshine, was picking  up on our excitement. Bob was around a lot, more so than the other fathers. Bob had a different job than most of our dads, he drove a Treat Potato Chip truck, delivering salted snacks to the delis, supermarkets and bodegas around Brooklyn. He was an early riser, usually beginning his route before 6, so he was always done by early afternoon.

We finish up our catch and circle around Tweety, who is shyly holding his glove out, turning it over, letting us see it from multiple angles. We are silently Ooohingand Ahhhhing, A series of comments among the boys…

“Wow, that’s a nice glove. How do you like it so far?”

“I hope it’s got a good pocket.”

“Man that’s nice. (a glance at a worn glove) I think I need a new one.”

“You better oil it up good. But not too much.”

Mr. Brennan saunters over, he hovers over our circle, and then pushes in,
“What do you got there Tweety? New glove? Let’s have a look.” 

Stunned silence. And we’re all thinking, Did he really just ask that? To see Tweety’s brand new glove?

Now it was a tennis match, we looked from Bob: how could he?

To Tweety: How was he going to say no? To someone’s father!

Back and forth.

Bob

Tweety

Bob

Tweety

You could see the wheels turning in Tweety’s head, If I say No, that will be rude. But I  really don’t  want to give him my brand new glove. Oh man. Doesn’t he remember what it’s like to be a boy with a new glove? Is he just kidding?

Bob’s meaty hand is outstretched, fingers entreating Tweety to hand it over.

A pregnant pause….I couldn’t have felt worse for John. What was he going to do?

Eventually, Tweety shakes his head up and down slowly. A reluctant yes. He really had no choice. He gingerly removes the glove, walks over to Bob, eyes big in appeal (please don’t mess up my new glove), and hands his precious gift over. All eyes are on Bob as he grabs the glove in his big, father-hands. He looks it over admiringly and puts his long fingers in the finger holes. He pounds his fist into the pocket.Smack!Smack!

Bob the judge, “That’s a nice glove. Hmmmm, Tom Terrific huh? Now THAT’S a pitcher, he could have pitched in any era, even back in my day.”
Mr. Brennan then takes the glove off. A group sigh of relief, He’s going to give it back! But no! It’s a feint, he’s teasing us. Bob turns it over in his hands, he flexes it roughly, bending it violently, he looks it over from multiple angles, checking out the webbing and stitching. A collective groan, Oh no! He’s putting it back on!Smack! Smack! He punches the pocket. It seems to be going well, we breathe a sigh of relief.

Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, Bob pulls his head back and SPLAT, spits a huge man-gob right into the center of Tweety’s new glove. WHAT?! All eyes bug out. What is he DOING? Spitting in Tweety’s new glove? I look at Tweety, who is about to cry. Then Tweety looks at us, who are in shock, avoiding his glance or imploring him to do something, with our eyes. Then Bob begins to hold court, he’s repeatedly punching his father fist into his spit-puddle, getting Tom Seaver’s signature waxed with spit, “That’s a nice glove. Make sure you break it in right. Oil it up real good. Make sure you place TWO balls in it at night and wrap rubber bands around it before putting it under your mattress while you sleep…blah blah blah”

We weren’t listening anymore, we already knew a version of the, How to Break in a Glove procedure, and we were in shock. Bob Brennan had spit in Tweety’s brand new glove! I never knew if that was just something Bob would do, with any glove. Part of me thought, he did that on purpose, that he was toying with us. I had that feeling then, and still do now, that inside Bob was cracking himself up, that that was his plan the whole time. Sadly, we’ll never know, Bob Brennan passed away a few years ago, taking with him a lot of Brooklyn lore and the truth about, why he spit in Tweety’s new glove.

Friday, March 10, 2017

Fragmentation


This past summer, the travel gods conspired so that I was driving to our Adirondacks house with 4 boys, and no adults. Our annual trip to the Adirondacks with the Jorgensens had taken an interesting detour.  Usually we are a caravan, 2 vehicles packed to the brim with 9 people, 3 dogs and the trappings of summer vacation. This past year I had a 6 hour ride ahead of me and no navigator as all the boys- Brian, Charlie, Dane and Holt-chose to sit in the rear of our SUV. Nobody wanted to ride with the old man up front.   I had the FM airwaves to myself and other than that, complete silence as the boys were streaming Youtube videos, perusing Instagram, or watching DVD’s on their laptops…each in their own electronic cocoon.

Considering it’s the better part of six hours, I actually like the ride. For the first hour you’re getting rural, quickly, winding north up Connecticut’s Route 8. Then, a short jaunt west on Route 20 to the Mass Pike and eventually you’re on Interstate 87 North around Albany.  The terrain gets more and more mountainous as you head north past Saratoga and Lake George. Finally, exit the Northway at Exit 30 and traverse west on Route 73 through the high peaks of the Adirondack Mountains. The trip is varied enough, and so picturesque, that it’s not mind numbing. Actually, the opposite happens, you find yourself, thinking.

 Somewhere around Schenectady, “Daniel” by Elton John comes on the radio and I’m singing along, “And I can see Daniel waving good-bye, God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes…” A melancholy feel overcomes me as scenes of long ago summers flutter through my brain.  I’m picturing a transistor radio tuned to WABC, AM, providing the soundtrack to our childhood: stickball with my buddies on East 4th Street, Bomb Pops from Morris our ice cream man, games of tag around the pool at Twin Willows Cabins on our family vacations to the Poconos.  Oh those budding adolescent boys looking longingly at the Billard sisters, Lisa and Lynn, as they sun themselves on the concrete structure, painted swimming-pool blue, that houses the pool’s machinery.  



I look over my right shoulder to Brian, he’s right behind the passenger seat, “THIS SONG CAME OUT WHEN I WAS ABOUT YOUR AGE.” Brian, startled, removes his ear buds and humors me for a few minutes before heading back into his electronics. Back on my own I’m thinking…Most people of my generation would have a similar response to Elton John’s, “Daniel.”  The guys and gals from my neighborhood, some who had the actual 45 (that’s a record for you youngsters), would have similar memories connected to the songs from the 70’s and 80’s. There are so many songs that I could play, Motown tunes like Diana Ross’s “Ain’t no Mountain High Enough” or AM Pop one-hit wonders like Pilot with “Magic” that would elicit a wealth of similar memories for all of us.  If I were to play Thin Lizzy’s, “The Boys are Back in Town” I can predict, with pretty good accuracy, the flashback images of my friends. We’d have a great conversation about hanging out on Brooklyn street corners, tossing the football or Frisbee around, busting each other’s chops, growing up fast…

Continuing past Lake George on my right, my thoughts meander to a recent rainy day; an unseasonably cold June day, more November than approaching summer, the perfect day for a movie.  I lobbied my kids and my wife throughout the day for a family movie.   It was like trying to catch night crawlers with a spoon. My three boys were playing X-Box, streaming Youtube videos  and my wife was binge-watching episodes of,  “Orange is the New Black.” Nobody was interested in watching a movie together.  I’m not usually the type to bemoan the loss of the old days, well maybe I am sometimes, but I do see that progress is usually a good thing. I can’t help in this instance, as we have moved away from ABC, NBC and CBS towards hundreds of channels and customized programming, but think that as we’ve gained choices we’re losing quite a bit as a family and as a society.

Human beings need to connect to each other. It makes us feel less alone, we find comfort in our commonalities . Meeting someone new, we always look for connections. Don’t we always play the name game when you meet someone new?

“Oh, you’re from, Huntington, you might know my buddy, Ira Goldstein? “

“I see you went to Indiana, maybe you know…”

 “My whole family read the Percy Jackson series, did you guys read it?”

And the possibilities for finding common ground are decreasing.  Today we are all secluded, zombie-like, just like Ray Bradbury warned us…we are disconnecting from the rest of the world and this isn’t a good thing.  So many of the posts we see on Facebook, in all of these, "I Grew Up in___________ in the 60's, 70's..." mention the feeling of community we had in our neighborhoods, in our towns, on our blocks...and we miss it and I think we need it back.
 

People of a certain age all know who The Fonz is, we recognize his signature phrase, “Ayyyy” and the thumbs-up. “Bang Zoom to the Moon” we all know is Ralph talking to Alice Kramden. Say things like, “NORM!” or “Yadda Yadda Yadda” and we will all know your reference. In a sense, we speak the same language, there’s a lexicon for people who grew up in the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s…Future generations won’t have this, our  limitless choices are taking care of that. 



The best example of this was Roots. We all remember the mini-series about slavery and America’s history that captivated the entire country. It was on 6 or 7 nights in a row and it felt like EVERYONE was watching it. We talked about it at school, around the dinner table, at the office, on our stoops. Kunta Kinte was everywhere.  Current generations are living in their Ipod world, streaming their individual soundtracks and customizing their own viewing experiences.  Everyone is watching, something else. That Roots phenomenon will never happen again. Sure it felt like a lot of us were watching Breaking Bad, The Wire and Mad Men…but in comparison, the percentage of the population was not even close.
 
 

Think about any recent conversation you’ve had with someone about TV shows. Was it a meandering conversation about a bunch of shows that you loved and a bunch of shows that they loved but you had few in common?

“I’m watching, ‘Shameless’ have you seen that? It’s great.”

“No, but I’ve heard good things. You know what I’m watching? I’m watching ‘Homeland.’  Have you seen “Homeland?” 

“No, but you know what I did really love?”

More than likely you came away with recommendations for new shows to watch and not much of a connection. Satellite TV is giving us hundreds choices but it’s secluding us.

And it's happening in our fan affiliations too. In our neighborhood, everybody rooted for the local teams. You were a Met or a Yankee fan. In hoops, mostly Knicks. Hockey? Rangers or Islanders. Of course there were a few outliers but I can tell you, to this day, what teams my boyhood friends rooted for. As a matter of fact, whenever we catch up, that’s always a topic of conversation.  One of the first things you’ll hear is, “Mets look good.”

Yeh, if the pitching holds up.” When I talk to my sons today, their friends will just as easily be Portland Trail Blazer or St. Louis Cardinals fans.  It’s all so individualistic; when these guys catch up in 10 or 20 years it’ll be, “So you still a Trailblazers fan?”  “Yes.”  Zzzzz… When I catch up with Ronny Lopez, who was a huge Islander fan like me, we talk about games at the Nassau Coliseum, we talk about the four Stanley Cups, about Trottier, Bossy, Gillies…We talk about how the team looks today. With other friends we’ll talk about the Mets of today and the ’86 Mets, and the ticker tape parade, about Lenny Dykstra and Dwight Gooden…

And if this piece is about electronic cocoons, I have to mention video games. It’s such an isolative activity. Besides the fact that most games are ultra-violent, they keep kids indoors, not socializing, not getting fresh air, there’s something very wrong with this. Kids are happiest when they are outside, running around, together.  Sure you can say some of the recent games kids play together but it's just not the same thing. Not too long ago, I took a long bike ride with a couple of old friends from the neighborhood. We actually went from our old neighborhood in Brooklyn, out to Breezy Point and back, rolling through Windsor Terrace, Kensington, Midwood, Gravesend, Marine Park, Flatbush and back again. It was the perfect warm fall day, and in that 4 hour ride it was eerie, we didn’t see one touch football game, not one stickball game, no kids playing punch ball, nobody jumping rope. It was nothing like the Brooklyn we grew up in. This can’t be good. I can’t help but think that if Adam Lanza just got outside more, socialized more, people would have known him, maybe he would have had a few friends? Maybe he would have been happier? Or someone would have noticed he was in danger and gotten him the help he needed? Instead he was sequestered in his basement, with hefty bags covering the windows, playing Grand Theft Auto. In his, it turned out, very dangerous electronic dungeon.

Maybe, if we were finding it easier to connect these days, we wouldn’t be so polarized, politically? Maybe it would be easier for us to find common ground if we already had quite a bit? Instead of antagonizing and labeling maybe we would start with the realization that we have a lot more in common than we think? And starting from those commonalities, maybe polite discourse and compromise would be a possibility? 

Now I don’t know what the answer is, it’s just something I noticed and I thought maybe other people have noticed it too? I know we are not going to go “backward” but are there better ways for us to continue to connect to each other?

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Montauk Memories



2016-We’re in Montauk again to celebrate. It’s late June so this time it’s my wife’s birthday and Father’s Day. We leave the Grice house on Franklin Drive, flip flops flapping, beach accoutrements jangling. It’s early in the season so most of the summer people are still not out yet. It’s quiet, except for the sound of a nail gun close by, someone’s putting the tiles on a new roof. We cross Old Montauk Highway, skirt the highway on the black sidewalk and continue to a sandy path. I catch my breath when I see the ocean for the first time since last summer as we come through the dunes, this always reminds me of seeing the grass of Shea Stadium for the first time. I know Kira, my wife of 22 years, will want a spot close to the water; we find something just above the high tide line. I ascertain the wind direction, dig a hole for the umbrella and angle it just so. We set up beach chairs, mine in the shade, Kira’s in the sun. Sitting there, book in hand, looking out at a lone gull hovering, gliding  over the blue ocean, I breathe deeply of the salt air-peace. This is my, this is OUR Happy Place.

Sitting there glancing at a fishing boat on the horizon, oddly enough, my thoughts turn to my father, Jimmy Spinner Sr. It’s odd because he passed away in 1985 and as far as I know, he had never been to Montauk. I can tell you this, my old man loved Brooklyn but he loved the ocean and fishing more. Had my father ever visited Montauk, I can tell you, he never would have left.

If Montauk is The End this story begins at The Beginning, in Brooklyn.

My father was a carpenter by trade but a fisherman in his heart. I used to joke with my friends, who all seemed to love fishing with my father, that my dad could enjoy fishing in a puddle. I never visit my father’s grave site in Greenwood Cemetery because that’s not where he is. I commune with my father whenever I’m near the ocean. All that I know about the ocean, the beginnings of my love for the sea, started with my Pops. He loved the ocean, was drawn to it, and he nurtured that love in me too.   In the early 70’s, my father purchased a working man’s fishing boat; wood, worn, small cabin underneath, inboard motor. Jimmy Spinner Sr. was happiest rocking to the waves, sunburnt forearms holding a fishing pole, his son at his side, a cooler full of Schaefer and C&C Cola within easy reach.

We docked our boat in a marina behind Floyd’s (now Toys ‘R’ Us) on Flatbush Avenue. It was there I learned about: the push and pull of the tides, the prehistoric looking horseshoe crab and the molar-like barnacles growing on the pylons of the piers. My handsome, weathered father knew about buoys, knots, lures and bait…I was hooked.

Summer 1975, Dad takes me to see "Jaws" and my love for the ocean deepens. I devour every book I can find about sharks at our local libraries. As 8th grade graduation from Immaculate Heart of Mary looms, my thoughts turn to studying the ocean. Glancing through the book of New York City High Schools I find that John Dewey offers Marine Biology. My fate is sealed. Freshman year I took Marine Biology with Lou Siegel and all of our science labs were at the beach. We’d take the train one stop to Stillwell Avenue and spend time measuring wave amplitudes and frequency, in Coney Island; or we’d examine the creatures in the tidal flats at Plumb Beach. By Advanced Marine Biology junior year, my knowledge, love and respect for the ocean swelled.

Senior year, 1981, I am at a keg party in Brighton Beach. We’re a large group of seniors sitting in a circle on the sand, waves crashing in the background, drinking beers when Steve Schiffman, a friend from homeroom walks over with a buddy. “Jim Spinner, meet Ian Grice, you guys will both be going to the University Buffalo in the fall."   Sometimes life comes down to a few moments. I mean, it’s not exactly Lennon meets McCartney but we became fast friends. And it’s the Grice family that introduces me to the Atlantic Ocean beyond Jamaica Bay…

 
Ian’s parents, Eddie and Maureen Grice, both teachers, rent a beach house every summer. By the time I was hanging with the Grices, they had narrowed in on the East End of Long Island. The Grice family loved to entertain, to eat and drink and talk with friends. Each summer we would learn about a new town and the local bars, restaurants and beaches of: East Hampton, South Hampton, Sag Harbor, Shelter Island. I loved them all. It was a fun, exciting, meandering journey but eventually the family  buys  a place in Montauk. Now I loved Shelter Island for its romance, the fact that everyone on SI made a special journey to get there, was romantic. Sag Harbor I loved for its Americana and the connection to John Steinbeck. I loved all the towns but when the Grices landed in Montauk, it was different. In the Hamptons, Sag Harbor, Shelter Island, I felt like a poseur in my Macy’s purchased madras shorts. Montauk felt like, home. I loved the working class feel of the town, bars like the Shagwong had real fisherman in them. I never liked the t-shirt slogan, “Montauk, A drinking town with a fishing problem.” It seemed crass to me but I understood right away Montauk’s real fisherman bona fides. One of the first things I thought was, my father would love this place. Sadly, right around the time I was graduating from college, my father passed. But Eddie and Maureen filled the void, continuing the work my father had started.

After college, Ian, my friends and I were a cliché, Wall Street nubes, taking the train out to the Hamptons for the weekend. Never did I laugh so much as we did in the bar car of the Montauk Cannonball, letting off steam after a long work week. I rarely drink Budweiser in a can but when I do it always reminds me of those weekend trips in the 80’s and 90’s.



Those days were golden, Jimmy Buffet providing the soundtrack as we were body-surfing, reading books on the beach, biking out to the lighthouse, taking an outdoor shower and dining on mussels marinara. What I remember most about those weekends was the conversation. The driving force was the matriarch, Ian’s Mom, Maureen Grice. Brooklyn Irish, (born Maureen Murphy) she was wise, educated, she taught me stuff about the East End, throughout our friendship,  I would go to her for answers to all of life’s questions. To this day I know the philosophy behind Occam’s Razor because of Maureen, she was my Google before Google.


Over the years, I got disillusioned with Wall Street, frustrated with my lack of personal fulfillment. One Saturday night, Coronas in hand, sitting on the dock overlooking Lake Montauk, Maureen says, “Jimmy, maybe you should teach? I think you would love it.”


The seed had been planted. With every walk along the beach, every hour sitting around a fire, every bike ride, I’m reflecting about my life. Eddie and Maureen keep watering the seed and I’m thinking, Maybe I should teach? Look at how happy Eddie and Maureen are. They’re both teachers and they can afford a summer rental every summer. So it was in Montauk that I found the answer to what I really wanted to do with my life.

Over the years, I had the good fortune to convince some beautiful, smart women to spend time with me. I always loved introducing these ladies to my second family, the Grices, and to the East End. Right around 1990, I’m dating a girl and it’s getting serious. I know in my heart that Kira is the one but... Sitting with Ian and Maureen on the deck, the sun beginning to set, I’m boasting, “Ah, we’re never getting married right Ian?” At which point Maureen holds court, “You know Jimmy” with the emphasis on Jimmy as she begins as if I am ridiculous, “if you are serious about this I’ll tell you something. At some point, you’ll cease to be interesting.” Hmmm, I took this two ways. First it was a compliment because Maureen, a tough judge of character, was admitting that I was in fact interesting. But if I lived the life of a bachelor, moving into my 30’s and beyond, that would cease to be the case. I thought about what I wanted out of life… once again, I found the answers, in Montauk. Kira and I got engaged on the beach. I knew she was the one when she “got” Montauk, when she loved it as much as I do.

So here I sit on a Montauk beach, Summer of 2016, my girl at my side, and I’m reflecting back on time spent on the East End. It’s so obvious that this is where I am supposed to be. Kira feels it too. My father taught me about the ocean.  A couple of teachers taught me about the East End of Long Island and it was in Montauk that I learned about what’s really important in life. I know that if my father had ever been to Montauk, he never would have left. My problem is, I have been there, and now I have to figure out a way to stay.


Friday, July 1, 2016

Meeting Ambivalence




It’s late Monday afternoon, our students have scampered noisily to the exits and the Woodbury Middle School teachers are cuing, zombie-like, or some of us frenetically, to our faculty meeting. The looming meeting, the first Monday of every month, makes these Mondays even harder, if that’s possible. Planning my school week as I take my reflective Sunday walk, the realization of, Oh we have a faculty meeting tomorrow weighs heavily on me as it does most of my colleagues I’m sure.  While walking I think about what we did at our last few meetings and think about how long the day will be and I think that we might be learning something interesting in the next meeting, and I get kind of excited.  Maybe the meeting will be interesting and make us better teachers. 

I am observer and participant at these meetings. I feel like I should hate meetings because they’re boring, too long, often pointless….but the truth is, I kind of like them.  I find myself dreading our meetings and looking forward to them.

In teaching, and in the corporate world, we are often insular, working alone, or in our small teams, so that when the whole staff gets together, it’s an exciting change in the routine. At these meetings, we see colleagues we used to work with who are now teaching other grade levels, or working on other teams. Maybe those colleagues transferred to another department? So in that way, each meeting is a reunion. Which is nice.
 
 

At a recent meeting I went to sit where I always sit, a very desirable seat for me, back of the room towards the window. As I put my stuff down, one of my colleagues says, “You can’t sit there, Elaine is sitting there.”  I glance theatrically at the seat, cheekily I say, “I don’t see Elaine here.” I plop my laptop bag down.  “Oh, she asked me to save her a seat.”  I cackle, “What are we in high school Lee? Saving seats?”  Now Lee and I are friends or I probably would have given up the seat. Lee says, “Okay. But you’re going to have to deal with Elaine.”  That doesn’t scare me enough to move my seat, besides, there are a number of open seats right around us.

Waiting for the meeting to start, my exchange with Lee has me thinking…of how we are creatures of habit. Have you noticed your colleagues all tend to sit in the same spots? It’s a lot like a classroom… you have your front of the room teacher-pleasers, middle of the room participants who might fly under the radar and the back of the room slouchers and cut-ups.   As you can probably figure, I’m a back of the room guy but I do participate, I’m not a slacker and I don’t work on all manner of other things. At this point, I probably should be moving towards the front of the room as I am becoming “more mature”  (and my family would say hard of hearing) but it doesn’t feel right. Old habits die hard, right?

As I’ve said, something in me is observer and participant. We hear our principal kick off the meeting: always organized, with an agenda, following whatever protocols the research says make for good meetings. We’re told what our challenge is for the day, given clear directions, told to reconnect with the whole staff at a fixed time in the future. After a few questions we break up into groups, sometimes by grade level or subject areas, sometimes at random.

Working in groups (that’s all the rage in teaching now so that’s what we seem to do at every meeting) I watch to see who will take a leadership role in our group and in the other groups. Sometimes I will grab the reins, other times I watch and see how everything plays out. For some reason now, I don’t want to appear too pushy and always take the lead; if it’s something I feel strongly about or a subject I don’t really care about or have any expertise in, I will adjust my role. Maybe one of my colleagues would be better suited to lead this particular group? Because teachers are autonomous in their classrooms, most teachers have no problem playing a leadership role. The dynamics of the group are fun to watch.  Most people are active participants.  Usually the content and the task are fairly benign so we hardly ever get emotional, rarely will we see people getting stubborn and sticking to their point of view. Finally, task completed, we’ve had a pleasant time and head back to meet with the entire staff. We know that eventually we will have to share our work with the whole group, so we hope we have something that is focused, intelligent and I am sure we are kind of looking to impress our peers a bit and please the boss too.

Back in the whole group setting, I think of other things I've noticed about meetings to like:
 
There’s always the person that asks a question they already know the answer to because they think it makes them look smart when it actually does the opposite. Often, this person will summarize aloud to show that they get it. “So what you’re saying is, we have to get the kids to sign out each and every time they leave the room, as a security measure?”  Yes, that’s exactly what I said, why did you feel the need to repeat it? 

Then there are the people who become just like the students they were ( I suppose that’s what I’m doing by sitting in the back and casting out the occasional wise crack) some give up easily, some are shy, some become ultra-serious type-A teacher pleasers. To them I feel like saying, take it easy, nobody’s going to grade this, the goal is for us to actually LEARN something here. 

There are also the people who are working on all manner of other things, just like our students. These slicksters think the person giving the presentation doesn’t know they are uploading grades to Powerschool or setting up their Fantasy team for the coming week. Not only are these people being disrespectful to the speaker, they are belittling the whole process. They are basically saying, I have better things to do, or I can give this meeting 31% of my brain, while the rest of you pay rapt attention, and that should be enough. At the end of the day, they’re really doing everything half-assed and being disrespectful in the process. I should add a disclaimer: I’m the biggest hypocrite because it’s okay if I’m off task;-) If  I’m bored at a meeting, if the discussion turns to a student I don’t have, or pertains to something that does not concern me, I might do exactly the off-task things I just mentioned. I know, I’m an awful person.
 
Every meeting has to have its class clowns. There’s a percentage of us, as soon as we find a captive audience, become Bill Murray-like.  I myself descend, or maybe ascend, to class-clown mode. My real goal for a staff meeting, is to find that one comment that will have them rolling in the aisles. It doesn’t always work out that way, but that’s the goal.  I want my other cut-up colleagues, the other class clowns in the room, to look at me with envy, their eyes saying, “Good one Spinner, I wish I had thought of that!” 

 
We have our stay under the radar people. People who come to every meeting and don’t participate at all, biding their time until the meeting is over.  Luckily we don’t have many of these. God, meetings must be really interminable for these people! Similarly, we have our day-dreamers, people who are tired and zoning out, but at the end of the day, we all need a little break. In a two hour meeting, we all zone out, we think about all manner of other things. I often see my colleagues looking off into the distance and wonder: What are they thinking about?  I have to admit it, I do daydream, it’s hard to pay attention for that long.  I have my go-to “games” to entertain myself.  The game I play the most is, If I was single, would I date…her?  I can’t help myself, I was doing the same thing in church and in school all those years ago. It’s kind of a fun game, you should try it some time. Or maybe you already play it?

Finally, you have the person at the meeting, when there’s two minutes left and everyone is packing up, stowing away pens, shutting down lap tops, wondering if they have time to stop at the supermarket, and this person decides (and it’s always  the same person) to ask ONE MORE QUESTION. I’m not a violent guy but I would think tarring and feathering might end this quest for attention.  I mean really? Don’t you see your colleagues are shot and ready to head out the door? Can’t you just wait and suck up to the teacher on your own time and not inconvenience the whole group? 

Alright, gotta go, looks like this meeting is wrapping up. Can’t wait until the next meeting. Or can I?