Then There Was Silence

The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.

Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

For the last couple weeks I’m been distracted having located a distant cousin which has forwarded me some family memoirs and manuscripts. They are well documented with letters and signed photographs of European royalty and business leaders. They describe personal experiences with heads of state and business negotiations throughout Europe, Middle East, Mediterranean and Africa. I have been consumed with researching the manuscripts some of which are 250 pages. I am considering writing a book on the subject. In the mean time I continue to post photographs. Click the sidebar to see the new photos.

Moments of Grace

The summer sun is high in the sky as heat bakes the earth. I run to match his stride pushing a small toy lawn mower. He is everything I wish to be. He is the center of my world. He is the only hero I have ever known. Heavy summer air suffocates every breath as I try to keep up. We stand alone in a large field of mown grass on a sweltering July day. A white handkerchief is tied around his head to capture the sweat as it rolls down his forehead while he pushes a lawn mower down a long slope. He stops and turns to watch me running behind him. Slowly he removes a second handkerchief from the pocket of his Bermuda shorts and with a loving smile ties the white cloth around my head in a symbol of manhood. It was the smallest of gestures but it remains one of the earliest of my memories of my father.

My father was a strict disciplinarian where his law was absolute and unyielding. His rules were clear and the line between right and wrong never varied in all the years I lived under his roof. I was taught to respect authority in every person I encountered. Although my father was an easy man to respect, he was a difficult man for a young child to understand. A simple stare from his penetrating blue eyes could send ice water coursing through your veins. His emotions were controlled when mad, as the fires of fury burned below the surface. Known by all the cousins as Mean Ole Uncle Joe, dad’s sister would bring the cousins by to be disciplined by dad when they misbehaved. It was always clear that I was the next in a long line of proud people and I needed to act in a manner which would respect family tradition.

When my real mother died during my early teen age years, I pulled away from my father into a protective cocoon. I decided to become a man in the only way I knew how, which was to challenge my father’s authority in every way. I delved into the dark side of existence getting involved with drugs as a way to prove my independence and stubbornness. Only now can I come to appreciate how difficult these years must have been to my father, who demanded only that you do the right thing.

I recall many a night sneaking out of the house during the week to hook up with my friends to do drugs and sleep with the neighborhood girls. My primary defense was staying out as late as possible knowing my father would arise at 5:00 am to go to work in New York City. Arriving home I would turn off the engine of grandmother’s 1964 Valiant convertible a full block before the house so that I could coast into the driveway without a sound. Blasted I would sneak into the house in absolute silence at 3:30 am taking my shoes off in the process. I knew where every squeaky floorboard in the house was located carefully missing each one as I crept toward my room. As I slowly worked my way past the living room the most horrifying moment of life was seeing the bright red glow of my father’s Pall Mall cigarette in total darkness as he inhaled deeply waiting for me to return. It’s a wonder that I never died from shear fright knowing that the wrath of righteousness and respect was about to exact a fearful price from my soul. As the great Chinese general Sun Tzu said in the Art of War “On desperate ground, I would proclaim to my soldiers the hopelessness of saving their lives”.

All my sisters lived through the same experience of trying to out last dad. In later years we would all laugh at my sister’s boyfriend that got caught by the red glow hiding in the bush next to the driveway. Dad emerged from the bush with his cigarette and a cocktail, ran up to the car and pulled the door open. “Did my daughter tell you when she was supposed to be home?” In paralyzed fear he murmured “Yes sir.” Dad went on “And what time did she tell you she was supposed to be home”. In barely a whisper he said “It was 11:00 o’clock sir.” In a voice that would stop a charging rhino dad would continue “You must certainly realize that it is 12:30 and it was your responsibility to get her home on time, regardless of what she may have told you.” Both my sisters lost many boyfriends as dad’s reputation grew around town. Boyfriends learned to drop my sisters off two blocks from the house and make them walk home fearful of a run in with dad.

During the rebellious years in high school dad got me a summer job with his office, hoping to provide me some direction and self esteem. He was an accountant with LaBranche Company a stock brokerage firm located on Wall Street in New York City. He had talked the partners into giving me a summer job as a runner. A runner would spend most of the day on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange next to the traders. Before the advent of computers and electronic trading, the traders would complete a series of trades and the ticket orders would be given to a runner to carry them up to the main office so they could be registered with the company. At the time I was so opposed to wearing a suit and spending every summer day traveling with dad to New York that I turned the job down and decide to dig ditches for a construction company that summer. What a move in retrospect. Little did I know that runners rose to become traders on the floor of the stock exchange and traders could make millions if they were exceptional. How different might my life have been if I had chosen to become a runner in mid-1970? In all probability I would have promoted to trader by the start of the 1980’s, an era of junk bonds and Ivan Boesky. Considered the wild west traders made multi-millions of dollars and retired by the age of thirty. My ignorance of youth was blind to opportunity.

Continuing to distance myself from my father through college, our relationship grew more adversarial. He never really changed his expectation or opinion, it was me attempting to demonstrate my manhood by ignoring every value I was taught. His letters chastised me for living in sin with my girlfriend. I was indignant that he would challenge how I lived under my own roof. As an act of defiance I decided to marry my girlfriend in a simple civil ceremony without giving my family sufficient time to travel to the Midwest to attend the wedding. It was a childish ploy designed to show who was in control of my life. To my great surprise my new wife was accepted by the family with open arms and was granted all the respect in her new position as daughter-in-law. At the time I never understood that my father’s values were so blind to emotion, what was right would always be right.

Living in the Midwest after college I was returning home on a frequency of about once every two years. As my father turned 50 I began to contemplate the mortality of both of us. Assuming he would live to the age of 70 at the current frequency of returning home I might only see my father another ten times. This realization gripped me like an icy hand and I decided that I needed to change. I had established a perplexing rule that I would only call my father after he had called me. My stupidity and immaturity was revealed. If I wanted to communicate with my father, I should call no matter who’s turn it was. This moment of clarify lifted a great burden from my shoulders changing the course of my life.

Business travel allowed me to visit home as frequently as four to six times a year. This constant contact was the foundation of a deep and meaningful relationship, not only with my father, but with my entire family. We became extremely bonded as a family, enjoying each others company so much that we would all vacation together. Dad bought a vacation home in Hilton Head, then sold it after ten years and bought another place in West Palm Beach just so we all had a place to gather besides the home in New Jersey. Rich full memories fill my heart reflecting on both places.

The family also began a yearly tradition of renting a large home on a different island in the Caribbean or somewhere on the shore just so that we could explore life together. These remain my most treasured memories of life, exploring new cultures and lands, watching my brother and sister’s children grow up. The shorts we wore for dinner in Bermuda, the mountain hike that almost killed my stepmother in Puerto Rico, the blazing heat of the Grand Caymans, the surf that beat us senseless in Barbados, the group cooking at the shore in Avalon, the amusement park rides in Wildwood, the golf course at Sea Isle, all are special places for me now.

Dad had one of the most incredible work ethics of anyone I ever knew. Returning home from the war in Korea as a young man, he worked full time during the day and put himself through college in the evening while raising a family. He would additionally take on tax return filings for all the neighbors and local small businesses for a few extra dollars to made ends meet. Between March and April 15th Dad would disappear behind a mountain of paper on the dining room table. All the kids knew to walk by the table with great care since he was worn and irritable during those long six weeks. Too much noise or commotion would bring a serious reprimand. Even as a small child I recall Dad huddled over a pile of tax forms cursing Uncle Sam with a glass of Dewars White Label on the rocks in one hand, a Pall Mall cigarette in the other and a big chief number two pencil being gnawed away between his teeth. I can still vividly see the large bulging callous on the inside joint of his middle finger of his right hand where that number two big chief pencil would rest.

Obtaining his certification as an accountant he began working on Wall Street in New York City. For thirty five years he arose at 5:00 am to travel to the city and would finally return to the house after 6:30 pm. During tax season he would not be expected home until after 10:30 pm and would work Saturdays in the city. I don’t ever recall seeing Dad home sick from work in 35 years, although it must have happened. The only break from the office was saved for his vacations with the family, which was the center of his life.

As my professional life began to grow I was compelled to prove myself to my father in the currency I thought he understood the most, hard work. It was my way of restoring all the years of pain and disappointment I delivered to his doorstep. Bound and determined I would invest as much if not more into my career, proving to my father that was worthy of being his son, that all his wisdom had found a place to grow and prosper, that I was in fact next in that long line of proud people. He delighted in my growing business acumen and authority. During my frequent trips home we would sit up until the early morning hours as I shared stories about my challenges and successes. His face would glow with pride at my increasing ability to master my professional domain. Most of the time I would do all of the bragging while he would listen and smile overflowing with contentment. It became a special private place for the two of us where time would stop. We would look at the clock and realize it was past 2:00 am knowing that he would be rising for work in a couple of hours and I would be catching a plane to another location.

Struggling for so many years, dad proved that the American dream did exist in work ethic of Horatio Alger. He illustrated how the down-and-out might be able to achieve the American dream of wealth and success through hard work, courage, determination, and concern for others. At the time of his retirement at the age of 65, my father had earned more than enough money to spend the rest of his life without a concern achieving his dream of financial independence for his entire family.

During his first year of retirement mom slipped and fell of an icy sidewalk, shattering her knee cap. A surgery and year long physical therapy postponed any thoughts of retirement travel for the two of them. Dad waited on mom providing him a challenging unfamiliar role as caregiver. Slowly she recovered as they resumed their active retirement plans. The first real trip the family planned after dad’s retirement was to Colonial Williamsburg in November 1995. We spent a glorious long weekend playing golf in the brisk fall air, touring the historical restoration and huddled together around a roaring fire sipping port. The highlight was a formal dinner at the renowned Inn at Williamsburg. It was a spectacular evening in the ceiling to floor glass loggia overlooking the golf course. The colonial furniture decorated with pewter mugs, white linen and candles only enhanced the favor of a truly exceptional meal. We all marveled that for each of us seated at the table there were three persons waiting on us. I could only imagine that it was like dining in the White House at a state dinner. Dad appeared thinner during that trip and when asked he joked than he was losing weight from waiting on mom so much.

Six weeks later I had an evening flight Charlotte for a huge business meeting the following day, getting ready to leave the hotel room to have dinner with the client, my cell phone ran. It was dad calling to tell me that the doctor had discovered a spot on his lung and it was cancer. He said not to worry the doctor will get a better look at it next week. In a situation where I was unable to change my schedule I had to keep up appearances and finish the business meeting. The next 24 hours was the most trying times of my life as I acted congenial and entertaining through dinner that evening and then for a full eight hours of meetings the next day while a raging ocean of pain tried to escape by ripping my flesh. I will never forget how credibly difficult those few hours were, never having a private moment to grieve. On the plane ride home I could no longer contain my emotions. Silently I acted as if I was asleep so the flight attendant wouldn’t bother me and with my hand firmly clapped on my jaw the tears flowed down my cheeks for the two hour flight home.

On November 22, 1996, less than nine months later, my father pasted away. I think I made four or five trips to visit him during those nine painful months to say goodbye. It is only by the grace of god that I decided to renew my relationship with my father and in doing so was rewarded with sixteen cherished wonderful years. I believe that people enter your life for a purpose and when that purpose is fulfilled they leave your life. It is your responsibility to understand what that purpose was and to carry the message forward. I will always be angry at the world, that after working so hard his entire life my father was never able to enjoy the fruits of his labor. How unfair and cruel it seems, so beyond the specter of reason that a person so filled with compassion and love after a lifetime of providing for his family, he is taken from us so abruptly. If I ever needed a reason to fill my soul with darkness and bitterness, to despise and hate life this would be the reason.

My last visit with my father he shared with me his only failure in life and pleaded for me not to follow his footsteps. He said you must not spend your life saving for the perfect time to live your life, that day may never come. You must take the time to experience life each and every moment. I see the same determination and driven in you as I had, please take the time to travel, to be with family, to enjoy the quiet moments, to find those moments of grace. Having said what needed to be said; he removed the ring from his finger and gave it to me. All my life I have admired that golden ring which contained his initials. My father and I have the same initials and he always said I would wear the ring when he was gone. The ring was given to my father by my grandmother when he was a teenager. The ring always represented for me, being the head of the clan in Scottish highland tradition. As a child, I always dreamed about the day when I would wear the ring of authority. It seems ironic now that when I glance at the ring which I now wear, I can wish of nothing other than being able to see him again wear his ring.

There was single promise I made to myself after my real mother’s death decades earlier, which was not to suppress my emotions, that pain and grieving was the path to healing. I vowed to relinquish all defensive mechanisms I had developed over a lifetime and allow myself to feel the depth of my emotions. Dad’s funeral was difficult for me. The realization that you are the eldest member of the clan can be debilitating. Why didn’t I listen to all the family stories better? Why didn’t I pay attention? Why didn’t I care more? The burden falls on me to carry the oral history and we are never prepared. I am saddened by how much history disappears never to be known again.

The most difficult time of the funeral was carrying the weight his casket as a pallbearer for the first time in my life while a lone bagpiper played Amazing Grace on a distance hill. The weight of grief for every moment lost, for every moment forgotten, for every moment stolen from me sat on my shoulders. From that day forward Amazing Grace has always brought tears to my eyes. I know with certainly that I will be laid to rest by the pipes playing Amazing Grace completing another circle in that long line of proud people. Like my father, on that day I will take with me all the stories, memories and dreams of my existence from the world.

There are moments of grace in everyone’s life where the inner workings of the heavens are revealed. It happens in silence when all becomes clear, where the future is explained, where death is only an extension of life. After dad’s funeral family and friends gathered at the house to comfort each other, to celebrate life of a great man. The house was filled with faces I had not seen in years, faces that were touched deeply by this single man. Discreetly I slid out the backdoor to stand on the deck by myself for a moment of reflection. Staring at the sky, it was covered with thin layer of clouds that obscured the stars and moon. The moon was apparent where silver light filtered through the soft white curtains draped over the heavens. As I watched, the clouds parted revealing the most perfect radiant silver full moon twice the size as I can ever remember seeing. The moonlight filtered through the trees and bathed me in a warm glow. It was so powerfully spiritual because the clouds parted in a circle only large enough to reveal the moon, while the rest of the sky remained shrouded in grief and sorrow. As I gazed at the moon a calmness and peacefulness embraced me, washing any fear of the future from my soul.

Immediately I went back into the house to get my mother. We walked together to the spot on the deck where the moonlight bathed both of us. As I pointed out what was so apparent I said “That’s dad telling us that everything will be fine, that he is watching over us.” It was mystical, standing alone in the chilled November air bathed in moonlight as we hugged, letting the tears of sorrow flow. Looking again to the sky to say goodbye the clouds closed over the window in the heavens and obscured the moon not to be seem again that evening. It was a moment of grace when it was clear that dad wanted me to take care of my mother. To her I represent the living spirit of my father. When I am near to her, she feels the presence of Joe and it makes both of us happy. There’s an old saying that the older you get the more you become your father. I can only wish that to be true. Over the subsequent years she has reminded me many times how much I remind her of dad, after which I smile and chuckle exactly as dad would, which makes us both laugh.

Each day as I move forward in the hectic world, I savior the moments of grace where ever they are hidden. Moments of grace can be found in the light touching the ground, the rain on a hot summer day, the smile of a stranger in a crowd, the soft fog at dawn, but most of all in the clouds in the sky. If you look at the sky carefully there is always one place where there is stunning beauty, where the light is soft, where the colors are vibrant, where the door to heaven is open. Whenever I want to see dad I look for this spot of exceptional beauty, he’s always there in every sky, comforting me. This is my personal ritual each day looking to sky, finding the solace in knowing that I am in fact the next in that long line of proud people.

Big Shoes to Fill

Over the Memorial Day weekend while looking at family photos, I rediscovered the memoirs of my great aunt. She had taken the time before she pasted away and wrote an essay about her father Joseph McLean, who had a very distinguished career in the construction industry. He was considered by many to be a leading figure in the construction on many of America’s skyscrapers and treasured memorials. He knew many of the leading figures of the day. I have spent much time researching his work, since I am in the same industry. Here’s my great aunt’s essay which was written in the 1960’s.

John McLean (1867-1943)

Dad's dream and aspirations were to be a doctor and with determination to be the best. With his very skillful hands, I know he would have made a good one. But it wasn't to be. His father's untimely death changed all that. He was not the least bit interested in farming so at age 14 he was apprenticed to a cabinet maker for 5 years. During that time he became a very skilled mechanic. He loved wood and good workmanship. After his apprenticeship he got a job in civil service in Melbourne. While there he met mother and they were married. At that time dad was very thin with a heavy mustache and grandma asked mother why she would marry a man who was going into consumption. Over the years mother changed that. When she was young, mother's desire was to open a shop for baby’s clothes. She could sew and embroider beautifully and it gave her the greatest pleasure to smock and pretty up a little girl's dress. But that all changed when she started going with dad. He was determined to succeed so every evening he would bring home math and engineering books and she would help him study. Dad was very good at math and could solve almost any problem connected with the building industry. Give him a slide rule, and he could do wonders with it. His one regret - he never learned euclid. This he spoke of often.

I believe it was around 1901 that King George V and Queen Mary, then Duke and Duchess of York paid a State visit to Australia. Of course they visited Melbourne and dad was asked to make the gift the city would present to the royal couple. Dad was told to make a set of six pens. He was given a 10 foot log of Fiddlebark Mahogany, a very beautifully grained native tree to work with. Dad made the pens and then took them to a goldsmith where they were elaborately decorated with 24 carat Australian gold. Dad, of course, was not invited to the State Dinner but his uncle was. When the time came to toast the King and Queen, as was custom the champagne glasses were all thrown into the large fireplace and broken. But Dad's uncle instead put his glass in his pocket and brought it home to Dad. It was just a cheap glass but it held many memories for dad and was carefully preserved. Today Peggy has the glass. On Bob's report of his business career, he makes mention of a picture frame that dad also made. An international contest was being held among all British territories for someone to design and make a frame big enough to hold a life size painting of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandria. It seems dad's design won and the picture now hangs in the Big Hall at Buckingham Palace. Evidently dad never knew this for he never mentioned it at all - only the pens.

An opportunity opened up in dad's department for the job as head of the department. Dad took the test and came out tops above everyone else. However the man who came in third also wanted the job, so he went to his priest. The priest exerted his power and that man got the job. Dad was so angry he left the department and decided to go to South Africa Mother stayed behind with Bob, Rita and Henry. Dad soon found jobs in Pretoria and Durbin. It was in Durbin, I believe, that he fell in love with a diamond in a jeweler's window. It was a beautiful canary diamond displayed on blue velvet and dad just couldn't forget it. He was determined to buy it even though he didn't have the money - however that was no deterrent. He told the jeweler to hold the gem for him and he would be back for it. In those days dad was a very beautiful dancer (he still was in 1934) so after work he started teaching dancing to raise extra money. Bit by bit he saved the money and purchased the diamond. Then the problem was how to get it into Australia without paying duty. A friend of his was going back so he carefully wrapped the stone in old paper and stuffed it into the toe of a friend's working boots. Mother got the diamond without any problem.

By that time dad had made contact with Milligan Brothers, contractors from the U.S., who had a big job in Johannesburg. Dad went back to Australia, got mother and the children and returned to Johannesburg. The job was the construction of the office building for the DeBeers Diamond Co. It was the first steel construction building in South Africa and consisted of several floors with a huge safe in the basement to store the diamonds. As the building was constructed on solid rock dad was asked if he could handle dynamite to blast the rock necessary to make the safe. Dad, of course, said yes he could handle dynamite even though he had never even held a piece in his hands. That was Friday. Saturday he went to visit a friend, an old miner who could handle the stuff. Dad spent the weekend learning how to work with dynamite. Confident he could do the job; he went to work on Monday and started blasting. When the entire framework was up, by custom a tree was put on the roof. That night the natives on the job paid dad a great honor. They came out to the house and gave him a chivarie, at that time seldom performed for white people in South Africa. Dad really knew how to handle people.

When the building was finished the company asked dad to go to the United States as they had jobs there. He went home and told mother she had a week to pack. Dad had made some good solid trunks - one for his tools and two for whatever she could pack in them. Mother had just made a lot of jam and was determined to take it with her. When they reached customs dad was instructed to open all the trunks and bags. The agent started by examining one trunk. He put his hand down one corner and came up with a handful of broken glass and jam. Disgusted, Dad was told to shut all the trunks and bags and move on. As you might have guessed, they had had a very rough crossing. Rita clearly remembers when they went through a typhoon seeing every adult in the saloon on their knees praying for help and forgiveness as they never expected to survive.

At the dock they met Mr. Cunningham who had preceded them from Africa. Mr. Cunningham took them to look for temporary housing. So, Bob being the oldest was given the responsibility of taking care of Rita and Henry. They spent the day in Battery Park. Bob had been given some money and was carefully told which was a penny, a nickel, a dime, a quarter. He was instructed to buy lunch. The three spent the entire day exploring every part of Battery Park and the aquarium. Dad contacted Milligan Brothers and was told the job was in Staten Island so that was where they moved to. The first job was to build a plant, for Ivory I believe. By that time Milligan Brothers had no further work and a depression was on, but with only one short lay off dad always seemed to be busy.

It was around 1917 that he met Mr. Hegeman, Mr. Harris, and Mr. Baxendale. The four of them formed a company called Hegeman-Harris Co. While the others were inside men -running the office and working with prospective clients, dad was the building supervisor. At first they were non-union and did all their own work. They maintained their own supply yards and hired extremely talented people. Their reputation for quality work spread and they became acquainted with some very influential people while fixing up and redecorating beautiful homes and mansions. However as their business grew, it became necessary to enlarge and let work out to subcontractors. They hired superintendents for each job and dad became the general superintendent.

Before they enlarged however, I remember one job in particular that dad loved to tell about. In the very early 20's they were redoing the apartment of a very famous Broadway actress. She had gone to Europe and fallen in love with a 1000 year old fireplace in some palace. She bought it and had it shipped over. She sent dad very definite instructions on how to handle it. Dad went down to the ship to see that the crate was carefully unloaded and trucked to the apartment. When the crate was opened, it was found the elaborately decorated fireplace was made of wood and was so worm eaten and rotted that it couldn't be even touched with out crumbling apart. It definitely could not be installed. Without any qualms dad brought in his best carpenter, and painter. They built a new fireplace. His carpenters with shaping and engraving tools made an exact copy of the original design. Then Paul, a very talented artist, went to work. He used a beebee gun to shoot holes in the wood where the worms had eaten the original. Then he antiqued the worm holes and all of the filigree. When he was finished, it was impossible to tell the difference between the old and the new. When every one was fully satisfied with the copy, the original fireplace was burned and the new one installed. When the actress returned, she was simply thrilled and overjoyed that the fireplace had stood the journey so well. She was so pleased she gave a large reception to show off her purchase. It was a great success.

Dad's company during his active years never went for small houses; only in one instance did they do so. During World War I they practically built a whole city for the Navy in New Port News, Virginia. They were mainly interested in colleges, hospitals, and commercial buildings. I remember a few of them built when he was general superintendent and before 1932 but I have forgotten most. Those I do remember are: one hotel in Washington, D.C. , a small bank in Red Bank, N.J., a large church in West Palm Beach, Fla., a theater in Newark, N.J., where there was a long argument over the motto inscribed over the front door, Should it be "Whatever you do, do well" or " Whatever you do, do it well" , Elks Memorial in Chicago, the tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington Cemetery (just the tomb not the present buildings around it), Chicago Tribune Tower, American Radiator Building in New York City made of black marble, Hospital at Louisville in connection with the University, Libraries at Dartmouth, Yale, and Harvard, Einstein's Lab at Princeton, N.J., Additions to Brooklyn Memorial Hospital and Lenox Hill Hospital, a building on Wall Street, the Pennsylvania Tower for a Light company in Allentown, Pa., and the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church. The Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church was built for Rockefeller. The RCA Building in Radio City, NYC was dad': last big job. He did not put up the Trilon or Parisphere at the 1939 World's Fair but the contractor who did had to call dad in as a consultant when he had a problem he couldn't solve. In addition to the above he did restoration work on many magnificent homes and mansions in the New York area, many of them I got to see. On of those jobs he got a big chuckle out of was redoing the apartment of Mrs. Paley, wife of CBS president. Three times they did walls and put down inlaid floors and a furniture company furnished draperies and furniture and three times it was all ripped up and done over again. Dad never got over laughing about the two bathrooms. One was tiled in small pink glass mirrors and the other in blue. When you sat on the toilet, dad said you saw a thousand reflections of yourself.

One time he was asked by Mr. Rockefeller to go to Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. They had requested a donation and Mr. Rockefeller wanted to make sure they merited it. Dad had the privilege of meeting Dr. George Washington Carver who by that time was very old and feeble. To shake hands you held out your palm and he just laid his palm on it. Dad was most impressed with what they were teaching the boys. They made their own bricks and built the buildings. They even could do their own electrical work. Some with artistic talents were using potters wheels and turning out some beautiful vases, etc. At the threat of W.W.II in 1939 the New York Mirror asked him to examine the roof of their building and recommend what should be done to reinforce it in case of air attack. Dad was truly respected throughout the country as one of the leaders in the building industry. He was also on many occasions the go-between for the building contractors and the unions. He had a very good relationship with Mr. Samuel Gompers who he regarded as a very honorable man.

He was well liked by all the men who worked under him. If any one was having a problem, he never hesitated to stop and see if he could help. If the man was truly interested in what he was trying to do, Dad would work with him over and over until the man could handle it properly. He would never swear at any one and never reprimanded or criticized anyone in front of others, he would call them aside. But the one thing Dad never forgave was tardiness. He would fire a man for that quicker than for anything else. He, himself, when in charge of a job was always there first and had the work all laid out by the time the men arrived. In addition a man should never keep a lady waiting under any circumstances. The lady could be late but never the man. He always carried two pencils with him, a gold one on his watch chain and a silver one. When Dad had to sign a paper, the supers watched anxiously to see which pencil he used. The silver meant something was unsatisfactory and the gold always brought a smile.

In 1928 Dad took his first real vacation - seven months on a semi-retired basis. Mother, Dad, and I (Hannah McLean) went to Australia in October. The night before we left Mother had all the family to dinner, adults no children. After dinner she had a surprise. Dad loved auctions and at one bought a huge diamond pin. It wasn't really beautiful in design but it contained many diamonds and a few sapphires. The pin was taken to Hardigan Jewelers in Newark and broken down. The center stone about a 2 carat diamond was made into an engagement ring for Mother together with a solid diamond wedding band. A gold ring with 3 diamonds was given to Bob and a one stone ring to Dave. Rita and Bertha both got beautiful dinner rings. I got a bracelet with a diamond in each white gold square and enough loose stones were set aside for Roger, who was then in college, to be made into a wedding band for the girl he would marry. The remaining stones were put into a beautiful brooch for mother. At that time she also gave me the canary diamond which she had had placed in a beautiful platinum and diamond setting.

The next day we left on our trip. We took the train to Chicago and from there through the mountains to Vancouver. By the time we reached Vancouver Dad knew half the people on the train. He was very outgoing and just loved people. We sailed on the Aorangi- the star ship of the fleet and 13,000 tons. We had a good crossing and a wonderful time. We stopped at Honolulu and Suva, Fiji and took tours of both islands. Also stopped at Auckland, New Zealand. We landed in Sydney and took the train to Melbourne.

At Melbourne Uncle Tom met us and we stayed at his home. It was a big house with plenty of bedrooms but no one slept in a bedroom. All slept on the side porches around the house that is all but mother. She insisted on a bedroom. Uncle Tom had bought a small 2 seat car for Dad and Mother to use. So wherever they went I had to follow by train.

After touring Melbourne and spending several days with Aunt Lil in Foster where we all had a wonderful time and went swimming on Christmas, it was time to visit Dad's family. We stayed with Uncle Roger and Aunt Sara. They were a nice couple. I liked them both very much. We next went to visit Aunt Hannah, Aunt Bec and Uncle Willie. They had a large farm house with more conveniences than Uncle Roger or Aunt Sara but the same feeling of true friendliness was missing. We were invited on an endless round of teas. At that time there were seventeen Mrs. McKernans living in Euroa, so you had to be careful what you said to anyone. We had one very interesting side trip to Shepperton. A nice town with lots of greenery. But then it is it an area watered by irrigation from the Goulburn weir. Much like Imperial Valley in California. We visited some of the fruit farms and I saw the biggest bunches of grapes I had ever seen. We went through the Shepperton Fruit Processing plant where they can pears and peaches. The girls did the peeling, halving and stoning quicker than machines could. A piece of fruit goes in one door and half an hour later it comes out another door, canned, labeled and ready for shipment. They handled 105 tons of fruit a day. A very interesting visit -The only amusement at night was talking or playing cards. One evening Uncle Willie informed us that we did not belong to a church only a sect, a true church must have a bishop and celebrate the seven sacraments. So there are only 3 true churches - the Episcopalian, the Roman Catholic and the Greek Orthodox. Needless to say that didn't sit too well with either mother or dad. But he was just as opinionated about everything else so you didn't even let it go in one ear. On one of our last days there we had a picnic and over 50 McKernan relatives were on hand. I didn't even try to remember names or relationships. Just say "McKernan" and every one answered. It was a wonderful way to say good-bye.

After Euroa we went to Seymour to visit Aunt Eliza. Her husband had died earlier that year. Life at Seymour was very monotonous. There was absolutely nothing to do. No radio. Played cards a bit. We lived on Iamb. They raised sheep and prize bulls. If a lamb was prepared for dinner and it rained or thundered, it was immediately cooked to keep it from spoiling as they had no refrigeration at all. So you lived on cold lamb day after day. Dad made his excuses and left as soon as he could. He just had to see the end of the cricket match. Mother and I stuck it out a few more days. We returned to Melbourne for another round of good-byes for we truly had had a wonderful visit there. All mothers’ family gathered for the last farewell.

We had some interesting and beautiful side trips. Dad had gotten a bigger car so I could go with them. We visited Lakes Entrance but had to stay longer than expected because of bush fires. When we were allowed to leave we were lucky to be behind a native of the area. Trees were still burning on both sides of the road and one had fallen across the road. No problem. He just got his ax out and chopped the tree apart. We went up the Snowy River but was told not to stay as the fires were getting too closen. One interesting visit was to Yallourn. A beautiful little town - clean as a whistle. It was where they mined brown coal and turned it into electricity for all the countryside. The day we arrived they had just opened up their new hospital.

Naturally we went through it. Dad mentioned the fact to the hotel manager that he had built some hospitals. The manager told the Hospital Head who told the surgeons. So Dad was asked to go through the building with them and point out what he would have done differently. He made several good suggestions and as a result we got a personally escorted tour of the mine. I remember thinking how funny it was that so many men had to ask the super questions. It was just to get me to talk. They had never heard a Yankee speak before and were fascinated by my accent. I was sorry to learn a week later that the town had burned to the ground. It was such a pretty place.

One thing Dad accomplished during his visit was to teach all the girls of eligible age in all the families to drive and saw that they got their licenses. He was a good teacher. He even got mother to drive which was really a miracle. She had to take the test three times. She finally succeeded but hated driving. She was literally afraid of the car.

We returned home on the Tahiti, a 7000 ton ship, making stops at Wellington, Raratonga, and Tahiti. At Wellington we had arranged to meet Dad's uncle, Robert Hannah. It seems that Dad's Aunt Hannah Ferguson had married Robert so she became Hannah Hannah ! One Hannah is bad enough but two! Dad had written him of our visit to Wellington. When we landed the company car and chauffeur were there to meet us and drive us all around the area. We were to meet Uncle Robert at six for dinner. The car again picked us up, Uncle Robert did not live in the famous Hannah mansion but in a town house on a steep street. There we met Uncle Robert, his two daughters and either their husbands or fiancées I am not sure which. Uncle Robert arranged for us to visit the Hannah Shoe Manufacturing Co. the next day. After a delightful dinner, it was time to go back to the ship. The two men had cars and the company car were all parked in front of the house. But instead of driving us to the ship Uncle Robert told us to go to the top of the hill and get the bus which would take us directly to the pier. We walked up the street as instructed but then Dad called a cab. He was so angry he could hardly talk but he was determined never to see his Uncle again. So early the next morning we took an all day bus trip and got back to the ship just in time for sailing. Dad could never get over it - three cars in front of the house and we were told to walk. Today the Hannah Shoe Mfg. Co. is still in business.

In Tahiti Dad hired a car to drive us around the island, a distance of about 125 miles. Tahiti is cone shaped - very high in the center and sloping steeply down to the shore line. The one car wide road followed very closely to the water. Many little rivers flowed down the mountain. The bridges were simply cement slabs one car wide with no railings and road level. Half way around the island we had to stop for a very heavy rain storm. The water quickly rose in the streams ahead of us and was soon 2 feet deep over the bridge. We waited as long as we could for the rain to stop and the river to lower as we simply had to catch the ship and no place to turn around so we had to go ahead. The driver gathered some native boys and had them stand on either side of the bridge to show where the edges were. Other boys pushed and guided the wheels so we wouldn't get stuck in the water, and swept into the ocean, which was only 10 - 12 feet from us. It was truly scary. But Tahiti is beautiful and we did enjoy the ride once over the bridge. The rest of the trip was uneventful and we landed in San Francisco on April 12. We visited all of San Francisco and spent 3 days at the Ahwanee Hotel in Yosemite. Then we visited Los Angeles, San Diego and Tijuana before taking the train through the Carissa Gorge to Phoenix. From there we went to Grand Canyon and stopped at the El Toro Hotel. After a two day visit there, we returned to Phoenix and took the bus to Globe over the Apache Trail - a most thrilling ride. Our next stop was to New Orleans. We visited the old Farmers Market and had dinner at Antoine's. It was supposed to be world famous. I must admit I was disappointed with Antoine's. It was small not too clean, red checkered table cloths and Child's china but Waldorf prices. I will say, however, the dinner was excellent. We arrived home on May 3rd. My diary contains a complete description of our sightseeing tours.

Before we left on the trip Dad had sold the house in Glen Ridge and bought land in Short Hills. While waiting for the new house to be built we stayed with Rita and Dave and the children. At that time they had a nice home in Maplewood, not very big but comfortable. In 1932 we moved into our new home, a real dream house.

About that time Dad wanted to retire and asked to have his stock redeemed which was worth $250,000.00. Mr. Derricks, who was with the firm then persuaded Dad to stay in and hold onto his stock as they had plenty of work ahead. Dad reluctantly agreed and continued on semi-retired basis, working three days a week for $69.00 a week and doing no traveling. In 1934 one of the accountants visited Dad on a Sunday urging him to sell as the company was keeping two sets of books. But Dad couldn't believe it - Hegeman and Harris were his friends and they wouldn't mislead him. So he held on.

In 1935 Rita moved to Matawan, N.J. as she thought it would give her son Davie a better chance in life. While looking for her house, Dad also found a 100 year old house with only 10C feet separating two houses. He came from the land and I guess he felt an urge to return, so he bought the house with 10 acres of land. As he was only going into New York three days a week, he hired Holmes Emmons to work around the house and yard with him. A beautiful garden was put in for Mother. For himself Dad planted boysenberries, raspberries, currants (red, white and black) and specimens of every type of fruit and nut tree. But he and Emmons spent most of their time helping Rita fix up the old farm house she had.

In 1938-39 Dad spent a lot of time at the New York World's Fair. After the Fair opened, Rita hosted a dinner for him at her house. There he entertained Lord and Lady Beal of England, Dr. and Mrs. Pulivka of Czechoslovakia and the young architect of the Australian Pavilion as well as Bob and Bert. Bob had known the Beals and Pulivkas in Europe. It was a very pleasant day and Rita did herself proud. Lord Beal made himself at home in the kitchen and proudly announced he had made the gravy. Mrs. Pulivka, a countess in her own right, couldn't get over the size of Rita's house. She said back home it would accommodate four families. The young architect was fascinated by the Sears Roebuck catalog. He was simply amazed that any company could afford to issue a catalog in color for free. He took it home as his one souvenir.

In 1940 Dad just had to retire and give up driving. He turned his stock in and learned the sad truth. All they would give Dad was $39,000.00. So too late Dad found out the accountant was right and the "true friends" he trusted made deals to enrich themselves.

Dad had two real pleasures in life. One was Christmas and the other was Sunday breakfast. Starting in 1935 two weeks before Christmas he always took Davie, Joe and Peggy to Bamberger's in Newark. Mother, Rita and I could go along if we wanted to but after we reached the store, we had to disappear. Dad took the three children to the toy department and gave them free rein. They could try everything, ride everything and pick out what they liked. Then he took them to lunch. Again we were completely ignored. Each one could order anything they wanted and all thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Christmas Eve was his big day. He just couldn't wait until Christmas Day to give out the presents. He would sit in his chair any just beam! It's too bad he was in such poor health when his grandchildren were old enough for such trips. By that time he could never really enjoy the holidays anymore. But when working he always saved $2.00 a week from his lunch money and brought Mother a surprise gift. Unfortunately their tastes didn't agree but he never forgot her. His second pleasure -Sunday breakfast. After Bob was born Mother never got up for Sunday breakfast. She always saw that he had a good breakfast before leaving for work on weekdays, but never on Sundays. That was Dad's day. He would make the coffee, toast a piece of bread, butter it liberally, cut the crust all around so Mother could eat it easily and then with a big smile would bring it up to her. When Rita was at home and working he did the same for her and for me also when I was working. Mother appreciated his attention but both Rita and I could have blessed him for waking us up to get a cup of coffee after we had been out late the night before. But who could say anything when you saw his big grin and sparkling eyes. It was truly a service of love.

During his driving years Dad purchased many cars. His first in 1919 was a Cleveland Touring Car. It was really a wonderful car and everybody in the family learned to drive on it. After he could afford a newer car Dad bought a Nash but every time he went to start it, the car caught fire. It lasted two weeks. After that he bought a Stearns Knight and then a Handley Knight, al touring cars. His first closed car was a Buick Crown Victoria, two big seats in front and barely leg room for passengers in the back seat. The day after W.W.II broke out he bought a Buick sedan. In the meantime the Cleveland first went to Bob and when he could afford better to Rita who used it for many years and swore that it ran on the smell of gas as it was so economical to run. It's funny but while I cannot even remember my current license plate, I remember the first license plate number on the Cleveland. It was 144939.

After his retirement Dad spent his time puttering around the house and helping Rita and thoroughly enjoying it. On rainy days he would go to the cellar, open his tool trunk and sharpen all his saws and other tools. Then wrap them up, put them safely away and lock the trunk. You were never permitted to touch or use any of his tools. If you needed a hammer h€ would buy you one, but you could never use his.

In December 1942 Dad developed a very bad cough. He asked me to go to the doctors and get some medicine. I did but the doctor said it wasn't a cold but his heart and he had only a short time to live. I told the doctor I didn't care what he did but he had to keep him alive until January 3rd. Dad was so looking forward to his 50th Anniversary and we had planned a big celebration. But the sad news changed all that. We had dinner at home but only for the adults. It turned out to be his last good day. Mother was never told the doctor's report. However Dad's circulation had already started to act up. His legs were ice cold. He couldn't lie down at night and had to sit up in a comfortable chair. On January 4th we took him up to Dr. Kearns in Newark, our family doctor for many years, who immediately put him in the hospital. So six days a week I had to drive Mother up to Newark. Bertha visited him regularly every Tuesday. Dad's condition became worse and he suffered much pain. Each day doctors allowed he clots up the legs but could do nothing. Today modern science could have done wonders but not in 1943. On March 10th he had a heart attack but on March 11th he was allowed to come home. It was then that Mother realized how serious the situation was. We brought him home but within a week had to take him back. We just couldn't handle him. He never left the hospital again but got progressively worse. On Tuesday, June 15th Bertha visited Dad and phoned Mother to say she had never seen Dad looking better. She no sooner put the phone down than the nurse upstairs phoned to say Dad had passed away. He had had an arterial occlusion. He had been in the hospital a full six months. Mother insisted on a home funeral. Masonic and religious services were held. He was laid to rest in Evergreen Cemetery next to Henry on June 18th, 1943. He was truly a great man and set an example for all of us to be proud of and to follow.

A Mother’s Day Confession

“Mothers hold their children's hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.”
- Unknown

I set aside a few moments each Mother’s Day to remember someone I never really knew. Her name was Audrey. It is a terrible burden of guilt and shame to admit I can’t remember what my mother looked like or how her voice sounded. This burden has been my constant companion for thirty some years. Knowing that I was much too young to be expected to remember never eases the guilt. Children are ingrained from birth to honor and cherish thy mother. For me, all that remains is a series of images borrowed from faded photos and family stories told during quiet hours.

The first recognition of loss was instinctual and brutally accurate. I do not recall my age at the time, but I the moment is burned in my mind as if it was yesterday. Playing outside in the yard, I ran into the house and down the stairs through the kitchen. My father was on the phone standing no different than he ever did. Without breaking stride I ran past him never hearing a spoken word. Halfway down the steps a cold realization ripped through me like a bullet parallelizing me in place. I turned to look at my father but his back was facing me still unable to hear a word of the telephone conversation. In that brief second I knew with absolute clarity than my mother was gravely ill and would die shortly. To this day I still do not know how or why I was allowed to see the future with such absolute precision. Running to my room, I slammed the door and proceeded to cry, never revealing the dark future to anyone.

Memories of the next couple of years are just fragments as three of us kids spent countless hours in hospital waiting rooms. The smell of antiseptic, the echo of rubber wheels rolling down the bare corridors, the blank whiteness of the walls, and the muffled sounds of a black and white television hanging from the ceiling is most of what I remember. A feeling of sadness for being immersed into a community of terminal illness enveloped my childhood. Each week I recall asking about some gravely ill elderly person who I befriended the week before and was told they where no longer with us. I would sit on my mother’s hospital bed counting all the tubes and wires attached to her, while she would gently smile from beneath a clear plastic mask. I would gaze out the hospital window over the parking lot to the Navasink River in the distance making believe that was the promised land were disease did not exist and everyone came home. If I ever stopped to consider what was happening I would have tried to pay more attention, but I was just a child just riding out the endless boredom. To this day I am unable to visit hospitals without an overwhelming feeling of suffocation and panic. My greatest fear is being confined to a hospital which explains my absolute avoidance of them.

There was a day I recall which was different. Dad asked each of the children to dress up in our Sunday clothes before we headed to the hospital. We waited for what seemed to be an eternity in the hall before each of us was escorted one by one to our mother’s side. As I walked through the door I immediately noticed that my mother was wearing makeup for the first time in months. Her hair was perfectly combed and a flowered dress had replaced her hospital gown. All of the tubes, wires and masks were removed and laid in a pile on the stand next to the bed. She smiled as tears welled up in her eyes. For a second I thought she was finally to be released from the hospital and would soon be coming home again. Her lack of energy and frail disposition conveyed a different reality. She gently directed me to sit on the bed next to her as she hugged me for a long time. Holding my hand she stared deeply into my eyes telling me that she was proud of me and never ever forget how much she loved me, remembering that she would always be by my side. As a child I never understood that would be the last time I would see her alive. It was the last living memory of my mother. Unconsciously I realized the magnitude of the moment by freezing the images in my mind. Life would go on without ever shedding a tear.

It was a brilliant clear blue sky in the morning as the sounds of birds creeped beneath the open window. As I awoke I noticed that it was almost 9:30 am. It must be a holiday because we were allowed to sleep late and miss school. With an uncontainable childhood glee I bounced down the steps to the living room, chanting that “I am missing school”. While rounding the corner I saw my father sitting on the sofa with a glass of Dewars on the end table. I knew something terribly was wrong. With the calmest demeanor and caring controlled authority he asked me to sit next to him and proceeded to tell me that my mother had passed away last night. He sat resolute and composed. He commanded the strength of a thousand men, but as I looked into his eyes I could see a pain and suffering I have never known. The hollow depth of his eyes continues to haunt me today. It was the single most courageous act of love and compassion I will ever experience. No one should ever be tested as my father was tested on that sad day. At that moment forged by pain and incalculable loss I became a man weeping in my father’s arms. His pain flowed through me as if we were one sweeping me away to a desolate cold lonely prison devoid of light and warmth. I vowed we would pass the trial together. What was torn from us that day would be healed in time. The sheer strength and courage he possessed that day made him immortal in my mind. One by one as each of the children awoke my father would be asked to repeat this test of strength three times reliving Dante’s inferno over and over..

The funeral was attended by vast amounts of family and close friends. Flowers covered the walls flowing onto the floor and the scent of floral perfume filled every breath. Kind words were spoken. I could hear the whispers “She was so young, she was only 35. What about those poor children?” I recall wanting to be strong for my father, wanting to show him not to worry about me. After two days of visitation the service was over, my father and the three children were allowed a final private moment to pay our respects before the casket was closed forever. This was the only time I ever saw the full extent of my father’s grief as he fell to his knees sobbing uncontrollably kissing his bride goodbye for the last time. As the suffocating pain and grief surrounded us all I steeled my resolve to be strong. During the entire funeral, not once did I ever shed a single tear in sorrow. In retrospect in was the worst possible decision I’ve ever made.

The years that followed were a blur as the mind attempts to erase the pain and loss. My father struggled valiantly as my grandmother took control of our lives. Only now do I understand that he fell into a deep consuming depression that lasted about 18 months. To cope with his loss he poured himself into his work. He would leave for the train to take him to lower Manhattan at 5:30 am every morning and would return 9:00 pm. We saw little of him during that dark period. His moods were raw and anger would erupt without warning like a wounded animal. When he did return home from work he would sit alone in the darkened living room in silence and drink Scotch until he fell asleep sitting upright on the sofa. Each of us children withdrew into ourselves as we searched for answers that did not exist. It was a solitary nightmare that you could not awake from like sleepwalking through a darkened hall that had no end. My grandmother stood in the center of the vacuum and provided the stability we desperately needed.

To survive, I developed to ability to disconnect from my emotions. I kept my feelings knotted up into a tight little ball in the pit of my stomach. My calm relaxed demeanor is a by product of all those years of repressing emotions. I could always disarm the situation emotionally by pulling the plug and checking out. I cared little for myself and respected the world even less. An angry young man roamed the dark side of life. I embarked on a path of self destruction which is an entire story for another day.

It wasn’t until 14 years later at the age of 26 when on a rainy day, for no apparent reason I finally broke down and mourned the loss of my mother. For the next six hours I laid in the fetal position letting the years of grief flow from me cleansing by soul. The tears were for my mother having left life never seeing her children grow. The tears were for my father having suffered a loss that almost destroyed him. The tears were for a child that could not reach out and a childhood lost. The tears were for the suffering of friends and family. One life so dearly cherished and so abruptly removed cascades through many lives for many years.

The impacts of those early experiences were revealed in shocking clarity during marriage counseling sessions with my first wife. Over the years as a young adult I developed a habit of seeking women that were suffering and in emotion pain. I always believed I could make a difference that I could help. I felt I was center of strength which could provide these women an anchor in a stormy world. It was an incredible moment of clarity when the counselor pointed out this tendency originated with by mother’s illness and death. As a child I was unable to help save my mother so I subconsciously sought women I believed I could save and in some remote way save my mother. Reflecting on the past a great majority of my relationships fit this pattern. I had surrounded myself with broken women that needed to be fixed. It took me awhile to understand that I couldn’t fix these women; all I could do is fix myself. This journey of loss to restoration took almost 23 years.

Our story does have a happy ending. Two years after my mother’s death, my father began dating a close friend of my mother and a year later they got married. It took us kids a while to warm to the idea and made it hell on earth for her as she attempted to heal the family. Slowly she won our hearts as her unending devotion to the family revealed a heart of pure gold. She was an angel that descended from heaven to save this distraught family. Once healed, we became a very close family spending most all our vacations and holidays together enjoying each other’s company. My father spent 31 years happily married to this wonderful woman we call Mim before he passed away. During those years she became the mother I lost in every sense of the word. I remain eternally grateful that she filled my father’s life with purpose and love as she restored our family.

It is ironic how the world works. As we sit around the fireplace talking about the past, Mim provides us stories about our mother when she was growing up. Her voice fills with love and admiration. She understands the importance of having access to the past. Mim recalls all the little things that have been long forgotten and fills in the gaps in memory. She has never been threaten by or attempted to hide the past, allowing us to explore it whenever we needed to. It is one of god’s greatest gifts to sit listening to the mother I know and love so deeply telling me about the mother I never knew.

“The art of mothering is to teach the art of living to children.”
Elain Heffner, 2003

The Damage Done

NJ-9, KY-9, IL-7, DC-6, AZ-5, WA-5, LA-3, NB-3, FL-3, VA-1, NY-1, TX-1, AR-1

My travels in 2005 included 14 states on 54 separate trips. I flew a total of 142 airline segments accumulating 170,400 air miles. Assuming each flight is 90 minutes, I spent 213 hours in the air alone which is the equivalent of more than five work weeks. This does not account for an equal amount of time sitting in airports. I decided not to calculate the time spent on flight delays over and above the airport time.

I slept in 31 different hotels with 78 overnight stays. There was a total of 106 days on the road which included 11 one day trips. A one day trip is classified as getting up before dawn, flying to a location, working all day and returning home around midnight. For some people I meet on the road this schedule is a walk in the park. I can’t come close to understanding how someone can spend over 200 days on the road and maintain sanity.

A restricted work load and general burn-out has allowed me to pull myself out of the game for awhile. I have only one trip scheduled for January. However, I’m struggling with breaking the cycle. The urgency which fueled me into hype drive is gone and it feels like I’m breaking an addiction. In a perfect world I would have picked a different season than winter to come into pit row. I find myself at a loss on how to conquer boredom. My mind is numb and clouded. There is a pending sense of being trapped like a prisoner. I’m constantly looking out the window expecting the view to change like it has every other day for the past 15 years. Perpetual motion has turned out to be its own drug, always providing the next new experience for the senses. Have I crossed the point of no return? Has wanderlust forever ruined me, like a habitual drug addict that forever fails at recovery?

I come by it honestly. My great aunt gave it to me. She was a Victorian spinster who saved every cent she could to travel the world. Travel log photography was her hobby. As a member of the Eastern Star, she would provide slide shows of her travels to the chapter. She was meticulous at traveling, noting every Cathedral’s name, the date it was built, the festival of local customs and always capturing the essence of the culture. She kept a small steno pad on each trip recording each setting of the camera on every exposure. Upon returning home she would transcribe this plethora of detail on each slide in the most delicate script. I recall her spending hours huddled over a light table humming as she catalogued her life. She had come to grips with the loneliness of perpetual motion, learning to find comfort in keeping track.

When she was preparing for a slide show at the Eastern Star, she would pull all the kids into the darkened room to practice her scripted slide show. This is where it began for me. I spent untold hours as a small kid seeing the world in vivid color as large as life projected on a huge screen. Then the stories would begin describing her journey. I watched the Lipizzan Stallions perform in Vienna and I could tell you the 400 year old tradition had survived Napoleon's advances and two world wars. I watched the sugar cane harvest in Hawaii and could tell you each step of the refining process. I watched the Military Tattoo on the Edinburgh Castle Esplanade in Scotland. I dreamed of all these places I would see.

I have yet to come close to her travel experiences. She traveled every state in the nation, every island in the Caribbean, every nation in South America, every continent of the world except Antarctica. She traveled every country in Europe before World War II, and then traveled every country again after the war. Knowing it was her last trip, at the age of 92 in extremely frail health she went to Egypt to float down the Nile.

I am now custodian of her legacy. I maintain her photographic collection of the world with all the handwritten notes. The collection of over 100,000 slides was given to me, because she knew that I was the one to be stricken. In my own travels I have amassed probably 40,000 photographs. It was my destiny.

What is difficult is building relationships and friends when moving at such a rate for extended periods of time. You get to observe the world insulated from social interaction. This social framework provides the safety net when you stop traveling. Friends provide meaningful distractions from daily routines. They provide an opportunity to share experiences and gain feedback. They point out that you are no bigger than what you are. Without this social framework, daily routine becomes as intellectually stimulating as sitting in an airport. This could be fueling my restlessness?

This is where I come to a conclusion and wrap it up into a meaningful message that will guide me. Unfortunately, the issued is unresolved. I cannot travel at the rate I have been and I can’t stop traveling because it’s suffocating to sit and stare out the window. I can’t help but think the lure of the drug is to powerful after all these years. I know from personal experience that Florida is pretty nice this time of year. Plus what else am I going to do with all those frequent flyer miles? Just another case of damaged goods.

Listen to be baby
So it’s understood
This running around life
Ain’t doing me no good

I get so tired
So tired of paying dues
But there seems no way around it
No end to runnin’ blue

But I like to have my fun
I like to run around
And I ain’t no stranger
In nobody’s town

I get so tired
So tired of changing views
And there ain’t no way around it
No way around the runnin’ blue

Now this runnin’ around life
Might seem nice and easy
But when your blowing with the wind
Sometimes it gets real breezy

I get so tired
Like I was born to lose
And there ain’t no way around it
No way around the runnin’ blue

Got no holes in my pockets
Got no holes in my shoes
But I don’t know if I’m leaving Detroit
Or coming into to Baton Rouge

I get so tired
So tired of changing views
And there ain’t no way around it
No way around the runnin’ blue

Left my billfold at the airport
Suitcase on the train
Now I can’t find my umbrella
And it sure looks like rain

I get so tired
So tired of playing the blues
And the road don’t get no shorter
Runnin’ around the runnin’ blue

Boz Scaggs

In the Eyes of a Child

Innocence is never as pure as through the eyes of a child. It is always a rare opportunity to share in the unfettered pure emotions with a child. As adults we have been conditioned to channel and control, temper and blunt, constrain and dampen our emotions. It’s considered a sign of immaturity to be overly expressive and gleeful. Society binds us by rules, etiquette, tradition, mores, civility, courtesy, customs, propriety, and social graces. Slowly we develop ways to limit and curtail our emotions. We become disconnected to the full enjoyment of emotion in our constant state of suppression. As an adult, it is difficult to experience the simple joys of life, unless you look through the eyes of a child.

Somehow my life has passed without children. Nature provides balance in all things and by some strange circumstance I have been blessed with grandchildren. Remaining close to a former daughter-in-law long after a divorce from the family, her next marriage produced three sons that are now in every sense of the word my grandchildren. Like a jigsaw puzzle, life fits together seemly unconnected pieces and creates a rich, beautiful tapestry of hidden meaning.

Yesterday stripped away every constraint of decorum as I spent the day as a child with the eldest son Brennen, who is nine years old. We did something together that is one of my most cherished memories with my father as a child. This was Brennen’s first professional sporting event. We went to Arrowhead Stadium and watched the Chiefs play the Chargers on Christmas Eve. To Brennen this was the equivalent of………..well there was no equivalent. For days he would break into a beaming grin and fidget with uncontrolled excitement whenever we talked about attending the game. The days leading up to the game slowly crawled by with anticipation building to a fevered pitch as we prepared to leave for the stadium.

No one could have chosen a more miserable day to watch a football game. It was a grey cold windy day with driving rain and temperatures hovering near 32 degrees. As we arrived at the stadium parking lot, I was worried if Brennen was prepared for such a brutal climatic experience. I considered the widescreen television in front of the roaring fireplace at the house, but dismissed the retreat as I glanced over at Brennen, who was smiling oblivious to the pounding rain on the windshield. The recklessness of my long lost child began to emerge. “We’re men! Nothing is going to stop us from cheering for our heroes. Football is a tough sport and our team needs fans that are equally tough.” With a temporary loss of sanity we parked the car and left the cozy confines of our warm chariot. The march to the coliseum began.

Arriving two hours before kick-off in order to partake in some ritual tailgating, I was given some vague instructions on where to find the tailgate party. I was given a phone number to call in case we had a problem finding the temporary shelter from the cold. As we emerged from the car I considered us well prepared to endure the dismal conditions of the day. The two of us looked like giant puffballs with the countless layers of clothing, sweaters, gloves, hats, thermal underwear, ponchos and jackets. Our puffball appearance was exaggerated by the bright yellow ponchos we selected to show team spirit. My carefully crafted plan for survival has one fundamental flaw. As I walked across the parking lot, the driving rain hit the poncho and cascaded down the front of me only to land on the top of my sneakers. A combination of the half inch of water on the parking lot surface and torrents of water sheeting from my poncho completely soaked my feet within the first fifty feet of our journey. I looked down at Brennen’s sneakers and he wasn’t fairing any better than me.

The long walk from the car to the tailgating area severely tested my will. My feet were already cold and wet. The wind was whipping our ponchos up over our heads allowing driving cold rain to pelt our undergarments. The cold wind was knifing through my clothing making me shiver. I quietly wondered if this test of manhood was a good idea. Brennen and I proceeded to attempt to locate the tailgating party without success. I called the cell phone but no one answered. All the visible tailgaters were hunkered down hiding from the rain and wind. Some were sitting in the trunk of their cars with plastic sheeting covering them. Others were huddled between cars staring at a few burning embers of charcoal. It reminded me of some refugee camp high in the mountains. There was no cheering and celebration. This did not seem like the place of joy associated with every other tailgate experience. Everybody was so completely bundled with clothing that recognizing a face was impossible.

We turned the final corner of tailgater section moving toward the stadium and stumbled across a huge man of three hundred or more pounds standing under a summer awning like it was a sweltering summer day. His face was painted red and a long wet chief’s flag was hung from his shoulders like a superhero cape. He stood erect without hat, gloves or shirt. To his bare torso was welded a massive belly that was painted and decorated with chief logos. Across his chest and down his side like graffiti was penned “Belly Boy”. Brennen was the first to notice this aberration in the cold. Brennen pulled at my arm and pointed, not knowing what to think. I looked up, smiled and said that’s “Belly Boy” one of the chief’s most fanatical and devoted fans. He shows up for every home game and can usually be seen on television jumping up and down screaming for the viewing audience. For a moment I thought someone needs to tell this guy that it is 32 degrees and his medications just aren’t working. We were on a mission of survival; I had little time to save others. As we passed Belly Boy, he looked at Brennen smiling like some ancient warrior and bellowed the war cry “Chiefs!!!” It must have reminded Brennen of the old legendary highlander warriors of “braveheart”.

Failure to locate the tailgate party drove us into the stadium seeking shelter long before kick-off. It was upon entering the shelter of the stadium Brennen came to life. We walk down the concrete ramp to the field level concourse. Rounding the concourse, only small tantalizing glimpse of the stadium field would be revealed. I decided it was time to give Brennen a full view of the game field. We ducted into an aisle leading down to the field level seating. As the narrow corridor gave way to the stadium bowl the field emerged into full view. Brennen gasped at the sight. He eyes were the size of pie pans. We had entered at a place as glorious as heaven. The pure green hue of the field was brilliantly contrasted the cold gray colorless sky. The field glowed under the lights. I vividly recalled a similar memory deeply burned in my mind as I walked out from behind my father to see the expanse of Shea Stadium and Joe Namath tossing balls to Emerson Boozer during the pre-game activities so many, many years ago.

I asked Brennen if he wanted to take a peek at our seats before the game started. He was speechless trying to comprehend the sacred ground we were walking on. We walked down the aisle out from under the sheltering upper deck into the driving rain. With each step we took Brennen’s smile grew larger and larger. We past rows 36 and 32. We past rows 27 and 21. The field grew closer and closer. We past rows 16 and 10. Approaching the railing that prevents someone from walking down onto the field, I turned and pointed to seats 4 and 5 in row 8. Brennen could contain himself, like he had grabbed onto an electric cable he jumped up and down, squealing with excitement. “Are these really our seats? I can almost touch the field!” I looked at him and said “This is the most important game of the season. This is for the chance for the Chiefs to go to the playoffs and I thought the chiefs needed their biggest fan sitting close to help them win the game.” He smiled and looked over the field with a new sense of responsibility. I asked “Do you think you can help them today?” He bellowed “Oh Yeah”.

Standing in a near empty stadium, Brennen became pensive and said “The field looks so small.” I could not contain my smile understanding what had just happened. The world had just got a lot smaller and his life was forever changed. Things of importance and reverence grow out of proportion in the mind of a child. The gridiron where heroes battle in mortal supremacy in a child’s mind is the size of twenty football fields. This small field could not contain all the visions of greatness. Jokingly I said “I bet if some of those 300 pound linebackers were chasing you that field would seem a lot bigger.” He nodded in agreement. We shared a moment of magic standing silently staring out of over the field. The curtain of rain falling from the sky, the cold swirling wind, the soaking wet feet faded into the background. It was no longer cold. We were two kids enjoying a new playground while ignoring the elements.

We retreated to the shelter of the concourse to indulge in our first ball park hotdog together. As we stood in line we debated the merits of the brat verse the hotdog. At the front of the line our decision was clear; one brat with mustard and sauerkraut, one hotdog with ketchup and two hot chocolates. Pushing our way through the crowd that was beginning to swell we unwrapped our dogs at the condiment counter. The king’s ransom we plunked down on the counter secured us the common ballpark fare. The brat was overcooked and wrinkled with long black char marks where it had been burned by the grill. The bun was compressed and glued like gum around the outside of the brat. I had to peel and pull the bun back from the brat in order to have a place to apply mustard.

Huddled against an open area of wall in the concourse we devoured the meal like hungry animals that had not eaten in months. Brennen was dancing and twirling, moving in uncontrolled rapture as he savored every bite of the hotdog. I noticed his fingers were covered in ketchup as I handed him a napkin. In absolute disbelief he looked at me a said “That was the best hotdog I have ever eaten in my life.” I accepted the statement as truth assuming that he had eaten his fair share of hotdogs. I thought about it for a second and replied “Yeah, that was a pretty darn good brat” and grabbed another napkin to remove the mustard from my fingers. Taking a sip of the hot chocolate I considered the fact that food enjoyment is deeply connected to the experience. In any other circumstance I would have rejected the hotdog purely on visual evident and asked to speak to the chef. This day was different; this was quite possibly the finest food we could ever imagine.

It was time to head back to our seats and watch the pre-game activities. Walking from the dark and damp concourse we emerged as the grounds crew began removing tarp from the field. Never having seen this before on television, Brennen asked what they were doing. We spent some time discussing field maintenance and the NFL rule that required a tarp if it was forecast to rain 24 hours before a game. Standing in the pouring rain Brennen agreed today would qualify for the NFL rule. I asked him if he was sure. He just smiled.

As the last section of the tarp was rolled up exposing the grass surface, players began to venture out from the locker room to stretch and warm up. We looked around; the stadium was slowly beginning to fill. The first players to warm up were the kickers and punters. We watched the Chief’s punter drive the ball 45 yards a few times. Brennen looked at me and said “My dad can kick the ball farther than that. He can kick it from three houses away.” The greatness of a father can never be diminished in the eyes of his son. I leaned over and replied “Well maybe if we see Coach Vermeil we might mention that to him. I’ve heard he is always looking for a good punter.”

The Charger’s kicker began to practice 50 yards field goals near us. The swelling crowd began reacting to the kicker. Each missed field goal was greeted with a round of heckling. As the heckling grew louder Brennen’s face exhibited confusion, not quite sure if this was proper behavior. I tapped him on the shoulder and said “You know we came here to help the Chiefs.” As the kicker missed the next field goal, I cupped my hands around my mouth a yelled “Yeah that’s what we need during the game!” Brennen broke into laughter and stamped his feet in glee. I looked over at him and said “I’m not sure I can do this all by myself.” The next kick was good at which Brennen let out a heady “Booooo”. It was my time to laugh. We spent the next fifteen minutes cheering and booing each field goal attempt.

The level of activity on the field was building. Both teams were out on the field running drills. The Chargers offensive line began blocking drills in the end zone near us. I suggested we move down to the railing to get a better view. Nervously Brennen followed me down the eight rows until we were only about fifteen feet from the players. The linemen huddled in a group were massive with arms and legs the size of tree trunks. The sounds of snorting and grunting reminded me of mystical gigantic gladiators as they pushed and wrestled each other. I glanced at Brennen’s face and he appeared horrified at the size and strength of the warriors before him. It was the same wide eyed blank expression as when you open a door and find a naked person behind it.

A large grey haired gruff offensive line coach was barking at the linemen and any of the fans than looked at him wrong. He was the type of person you would expect to find guarding a dungeon door. He made it a point to walk near where we were standing and screamed at the groundskeeper that he needed to remove the standing water from the sideline. The groundskeeper yelled back and flipped him off. He turned a let out an evil bellowing laugh as he walked away. The tension was building. It became more and more apparent that this was going to be a clash of titans, a clash of good and evil. All of this was occurring under a cold miserable downpour.

As the minutes counted down the field continued to fill with television crews, sound crews, sideline announcers and broadcasters. Then the sideline crews, ball boys and referees drifted onto the field. Each team brought out the trainers, the medical staff, the coaches and the front office. It was like two large armies were assembling for battle. Still the field continued to fill. The color guard, sports photographers, band members, flag twirlers, mascots and security guards filed in from every opening in the field wall. The stadium behind us began to come to life as we heard a low distinctive roar start to emerge from the upper decks. Mesmerized by the intensity of activity Brennen and I scanned the stadium only to find it was filling to capacity with a sea of red.

One of the last activities is the cheerleaders entering the field. Dressed tight red pants and white hooded ski jackets, they slowly worked the crowd adjacent to the stadium wall. They walked up to the fans smiling as they introduced themselves. I looked at Brennen and said “Dude, this is your chance to say something and I’ll get a photo of you and a dozen cheerleaders.” He looked at me like I just asked him to shoot the president and shook his head no. “You’re going to regret this if you don’t go get their attention.” The answer was the same an emphatic no. I thought to myself that I should have taught him how to use my camera before we came. You never know when you might need of photo of yourself with twelve cheerleaders. I guess there is only so much a nine year old can endure before being overwhelmed. I decided not to press the issue as the rain continued to fall from the sky.

Without warning the giant video scoreboard came to life announcing the epic battle than was about to begin. Just like the players, the fans were warming up. The huge video scoreboard was coaching the crowd. Like a well rehearsed play the fans would roar at the urging of a fabled past warrior who’s face was displayed on the scoreboard looking down over the field. I let Brennen know that it was part of our job to roar with the crowd. As the frenzy built the scoreboard would flash “The Loudest Stadium in the NFL” over and over. Time was winding down as the two teams left the field for the final coaching instructions in the locker rooms.

Santa appeared on the screen extolling the fact that he always wears Chief’s red. This drove the Christmas Eve crowd into a fevered pitch. Then all of a sudden the final piece of the puzzle was set into place. As if by magic Belly Boy walks down our aisle and sits three rows in front of us. Just like in the movies where the contest could not begin until the king was seated. On this cold rainy day, Belly Boy was about as close to Chief’s royalty as we were going to get. Belly Boy was still without the comforts of clothing from the waist up as he stood with the rain pelting his screaming face. Brennen danced in circles knowing Belly Boy was in our section helping us cheer. Brennen must have caught Belly Boy’s eye as he was walking down the aisle, because he turned, faced us and posed like a superhero. In fine Celtic warrior tradition Brennen knew exactly what to do. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed as louder as he could the ancient cry of “Chiefs”. Belly Boy curled his lip in a snarl and bellowed back “YEEAAHH”. A wave of fatherhood swept over me as I took pride in the fact I taught Brennen how to scream at a half naked fat man with a red painted face who was standing in the driving rain. I made a mental note that on the way home I should discuss with Brennen that his newly acquired skill of screaming at menacing madmen is best reserved for sporting events.

The video screen began showing glorious heroes from the past. Marcus Allen doves over the goal line while the crowd cheered. Len Dawson tosses a touchdown then held up a super bowl trophy the crowd cheered again. In a muddy uniform, Buck Buchanan drilled some helpless quarterback and the crowd roared the loudest. The crowd was ready, the practice session was over. The “twelfth” man was suited up with his game face on when out of the tunnel raced a wave of blue and gold. The Chargers team thundered across the field like a herd of buffalo. The crowd immediately erupted with a deafening roar of disappointment. Brennen clapped his hands over his ears as the essence of evil took control of the field. The Chargers ran to the sidelines, huddled around their general and began to chant occasionally turning to sneer and flex their muscles at the roaring crowd. At the center of the huddle was Coach Schottenheimer who spent ten years as the beloved head coach of the Chiefs, but had now gone to the dark side. Once was light, is now darkness. The stage was set. Evil now occupied holy ground.

Cheerleaders danced into two long lines at the center of the field acting like damsels in distress waiting to be rescued by the local heroes. As the crowd began stomping their feet, the stadium began to quake and shudder. The most deafening roar yet filled the air as our heroes took the field. For a brief second I thought Brennen was going to faint, but he recovered quickly scanning the mass of players for his favorite leaders. “There’s Trent Green!!!” he squealed. One by one the important players were identified with delight. “Tony Gonzalez!!! Tony came to my school and his handprint was so big that it didn’t fit on a piece of paper.” All heroes are larger than life. Good took its place across from evil as the two teams wearily eyed each other amidst the roar and the rain. Brennen was so caught up in the moment that his arms and legs began running themselves as they flailed uncontrolled. He was to busy to be concerned that he looked like a chicken that had just lost its head. Brennen’s enthusiasm was contagious, I developed a case of the “jimmie” legs as I began to twist and squirm uncontrollably.

On cue the video screen went silent. The players parted once again revealing the green field again as a military color guard marched toward the center. A picture of a former coach flashed on the giant screen as the loudspeakers announced a tragedy is his family and requested for a moment of silence. As if a switch was turned off the stadium was went absolutely silent. I craned my ears to hear a murmur of even the smallest sound, but there was none. Even the rain respected the request and did not make a sound. The announcer waited a few seconds and thanked the crowd as the color guard prepared for the national anthem.

A well known local soul singer stepped from behind the home team crowd and began singing. Her beautiful voice echoed from the stadium walls as the crowd hummed softly in the background. As she sang “rockets red glare, bombs bursting air”, fireworks erupted from the field filling the sky with brilliant colors and thick white smoke. The sudden explosions startled Brennen, smiling he must have thought all this and the Fourth of July too. The singing of the national anthem always concludes with a stadium tradition which you never get to hear on television any more. Broadcasting the national anthem is just one more unfortunate victim of the insidious creep to continuous commercials without any program content. As the singer finished the last line “the land of the free and the home of the…..” The crowd roared “CHIEFS!!” Brennen laughed not knowing what to think. The stadium again began to rock and quake as the roar steadily grew again.

The team captions strode out to the middle of the field for the coin toss. The smoke from the fireworks blanketed the field in a misty fog. It was as if we were transported to the highlands of Scotland. The Chiefs won the toss and Chargers chose to defend the goal line closest to us. Let the battle begin.

It was immediately apparent from the first play that the field was going to be a major factor because of the heavy rain. Clumps of sod exploded into the air while players skated and fell. The green grass of the pre-game quickly gave way to a sea of mud. It was also apparent that this was going to be a classic game to remember. It was deep in December and both teams desperately needed a win to keep any hope of the playoffs alive. The hitting was ferocious with bodies flying through the air like rag dolls. It was a human demolition derby between super human athletes who trained their entire life for this single moment in time. This is what people come to see. This is how the game was meant to be played, in the cold, in the rain, in the mud with reckless abandon to personal harm. There is no tomorrow if your team loses, there is only next year. This is the time that legends are born. Between the two teams we were watching eleven pro bowlers and quite possibly eight to ten future hall of fame inductees display their talents. There is nothing simpler for a child to understand than the mortal struggle of good and evil, heroes and villains, winning and losing.

For a moment, I imagined Brennen bringing his eldest son to his first Chief’s game and pointing to the ring of honor high on the stadium’s upper deck. “I remember watching Tony Gonzalez, Willie Roaf and Will Shields play for a playoff spot one brutally cold December day.” I imagined the same awe as when I point to Joe Namath’s number in another sacred arena in a land far away. “Did you really see Joe Namath play?” We are bound by folk lore. Ours is an oral tradition handed down from one fan to another.

The game continued as the two team bludgeoned each other in a test of wills. Brennen was catching on fast as he had learned the tomahawk chop, the dreaded D-FENCE and all the proper cheers for each Chief Player. He was dutifully helping the team on to victory. The Chiefs ground game began to gain traction amidst to piles of turf and mud. They started driving down the field towards us. This drive was all about running back Larry Johnson. Trent Green tossed a little swing pass to Larry to the right for 5 yards. Then the massive offensive line blasted a hole in the Chargers defense and Larry rushed up the middle for 21 yards. The team continued marching toward us. Johnson rushed up the middle for 2 yards and Trent threw an incomplete pass to the right. Then in clear view of the adoring crowd from the fifteen yard line Tony Gonzalez when into motion, turned up field and leveled the outside linebacker with a crushing block allowing Larry to rush into the Chargers open back field an 11 yard gain. The roar was deafening while the sky opened up and drenched the field.

Taking advantage of the situation I leaned over to Brennen and said “Theses are a bunch of soft sunny California football players. They can’t take the weather. They are going to melt like little sugar cookies.” Brennen slapped his knees in glee and yelled at the players in end zone “You’re going to melt! You’re going to melt!” The Chiefs broke the huddle and lined up in front of us at the four yard line. Every one in the stadium including the Chargers knew exactly what was about to take place. The roar of the crowd simmered down as to not disrupt the offence. The ball was snapped and both ten times pro bowlers Willie Roaf and Will Shields took a step back headed to the left side like wreaking balls looking for something to destroy. For years the Chiefs have devastated opponents’ defenses with number 77 and 68 plowing gapping holes in their right side. Today would be no different. As the combined 640 pounds hit the goal line the sounds of helmets cracking, grunts, groans and pads exploding rose above the roar of the crowd. Like two freight trains running into a group of speeding semi-tractor trailers the display was awesome. Like staring at a car wreck knowing it was going to be ugly but unable to avert your eyes, we stared in horror. The Chargers line yielded as Trent handed the ball to number 27. Larry appeared upset that he was late to the party and leaned his body forward exposing his shoulder to the crumbling Chargers right side. There was another explosion as bodies spun in the air.

As the referee’s hands were raised over his head signaling touchdown pandemonium erupted. Brennen and I slapped each other and howled like dogs at the moon. Attempting to communicate in this wall of sound was impossible. The Chiefs players ran over and lifted Larry high above their heads. Posing like a statue of conquering hero in a park he was he was now eye level with us a mere twenty feet away. I looked at the scene around me and thought “Now that’s a first touchdown to remember”. If I had sat down to write the perfect first touchdown for Brennen to witness, it still would have not compared to the drama and excitement of what just happened. One successful extra point later and the score was 7-0.

Every epic struggle between good and evil is filled with obstacles and challenges. The outcome can never be certain. Native American culture believed you could only become a great warrior by testing yourself with great enemies. The greater your enemy was the greater your reward upon defeating him. The Chargers offence turned around, tightened their chin straps and marched back on to the field to answer the touchdown. The Chargers took the ball and hammered out a long gusty 75 yard drive that culminated in Drew Brees passing to Antonio Gates for an 18 yard touchdown. Score was now tied at 7.

Not to be out done the Chiefs took the field again drove 67 yards in eight hard fought plays before Trent Green found Sammie Parker streaking to the right for a 42 yard touchdown at the start of the second quarter. Chiefs were now leading 14-7. The game slowly digressed into a good old fashion back alley bare knuckle brawl in the slop and the rain. Mud began to obscure the numbers on the players’ uniforms. The field resembled a plowed field with the rain punishing everyone in sight. You could see the frustration growing on the Chargers bench.

After a series of Chargers penalties and a poor punt the Chiefs got good field position at the KC 43 with 4:45 left before half. The Chiefs drove the ball to the Chargers 28 with a series of short runs, short passes and a penalty. At the two minute warning Trent Green tossed a little swing pass to Larry Johnson on the right flat. After the catch Larry added a clip to his career highlight reel with an incredible tackle breaking spinning power move while pirouetting his feet inches from sideline for a 28 yard touchdown. An awesome display of athletic ability we will remember for years to come. After the game in the locker room Willie Roaf said "That's one of the best plays I've seen a running back make in my career," One missed extra point and the halftime score was 20-7.

We ran back to the concession line as the halftime gun sounded. The girl behind the counter recognized the two yellow puffballs from earlier and said “Back again?” Brennen nodded. I held out another twenty dollar bill and said “Give us two of the same minus the two hot chocolates. Twelve pounds of raw sugar is plenty for one day.” She smiled and reached into a stainless steel box to retrieve another pair of pitiful hotdogs in crumpled silver wrappers. Upon inspection nothing much had changed, they were still the same burnt wrinkled tube of beef parts surrounded by a gluey mess that was once somewhat resembled a bun or at least I hoped so. We rushed to the condiment counter and lathered them up with ketchup and mustard. In almost an exact taped replay of the first meal, Brennen danced as we wolfed the food down in silence. While we were once again cleaning the ketchup and mustard from our fingers, I asked Brennen “What to you think?” He looked around for what seemed like a long time tapping his fingers to his lips. “Well, I think it was the second best hotdog I’ve eaten in my life”. Showing disbelief in my face I replied “Wow, #1 and #2 world’s best hotdog in one day. That’s got to be something special?” He nodded like it was all in a day’s work. Content with the results of our experiment the two yellow puffballs headed back into the rain.

At the start of the second half the rain lessened slightly allowing colder bitter air to pour into the stadium bowl to attack us. We pulled out all our spare clothing and prepared for a frigid second half. The two teams settled into a protracted defensive battle hammering each other’s offence, under a cold frosty twilight. Both teams were playing great defense. Near the end of the third quarter I looked at the two teams on the field and everyone was caked and covered from head to toe with mud, except one huge lineman. I elbowed Brennen. “Look Willie Roaf’s uniform is completely clean. The Charger’s entire team has been able to knock Willie off his feet!” Brennen marveled at the gleaming white mountain at the center of the Chief’s offensive line towering over the other soiled tattered players. Another legend was born. We began looking around making fun of the dirty uniforms of the sugar cookie California boys. “Brennen, look at #93. I think he got stuck under Larry Johnson’s shoe and was drug around the field on his back.” Brennen quipped back “I can’t see the number three anymore. I think it got knocked off his shirt.”

As the second half proceeded the records began to fall one after another. Tony Gonzalez tied the chief’s record for most consecutive games catching a pass at 83. Larry Johnson kept up his amazing eighth straight record breaking 100-yard rushing game, constantly digging his heels into the wet, slippery turf for extra yardage, dragging tacklers with him. Chiefs were close to running their December home winning streak to 18. Time after time we were reminded of the reasons memories of this game would be cherished.

We idled away the fourth quarter playing games with the crowd. When the Chargers offense approached the line I taught Brennen how to beat the back of the seat in front of him like a bass drum. Brennen began to lead the D-FENSE chants driving section 106 into screaming obedience. Even Belly Boy turned away from the game to watch the new kid on the block show his stuff. With a huge grin and beaming rain streaked red face, Belly Boy gave us the thumbs up. We had made it. We were part of the tribe. No one could snatch this victory from us. Two high-fives as the final gun sounded. The Chief’s playoff hopes were still alive. As we were walking up the aisle toward the concourse we heard from the announcer that another epic battle in a city called Pittsburgh in a land far away was not going well for the Chiefs. I didn’t matter much that Pittsburgh could dash the Chief’s playoff hopes. We came to do what we could today and we did it. It was a thing of beauty. It would have to be someone else’s problem that the Cleveland Browns were getting the snot beat out of them a thousand miles away.

The rain stopped as we left the stadium, no longer needed to punish the sugar cookie boys. In a slow deliberate march to yellow puffballs drug themselves across the vast wet parking lot. I patted Brennen on the head. “You know that the Chiefs are undefeated at Arrowhead, when you are there cheering them on”. He digested the meaning of the comment, smiled and raised his hand for another high-five. “Bet we would have beaten those sugar cookie boys 50-7 if your dad was punting. You need to remind to write a letter to Coach Vermeil when we get home.” From behind us we heard a now familiar bellow “Chiefs”. We both knew it was Belly Boy. He was jumping around still naked from the waist up reminding me of the crazy duck in the cartoon that goes insane and ricochets off rocks as he disappears into the sunset.

It wasn’t until that exact moment when it all made sense. I had mistaken Belly Boy as an uninhibited slightly deranged but relatively harmless frantic. His manners were likeable, his general demeanor was caring. The only aberration was his attire or lack of it. I had mistaken him completely. He processed something of great value. Something I had only regained today, the ability to see the world through the eyes of a child. It was a protected world where grown men can decorate themselves and spend three hours playing like a children. It was a place to be an actor in an epic battle between good and evil. It was a place to shed the confines and constraints of society allowing pure emotion to flow through you unfettered like a mountain stream. Lost in the crowd I had felt it too. For Brennen his emotions were never constrained. Emotions rocketed through him like electricity. He had just spent the day as close to heaven as humanly possible. His emotions were visible a hundred feet away as he pranced as light as a feather back to the car.

Arm in arm we walked toward the car. “Think you want to do this again?” With a big hug he said “Oh Yeah”. A few steps later he tugged on my arm. “What about you? Think you want to do this again”. I smiled and nodded realizing that the question sounded just as stupid to him as it did to me. The answer was evident in my hoarse voice, hands that were still tingling from pounding on the seats and feet that were sore from stomping on the ground for three hours. The great Indian Chief Sitting Bull would say “Today is a good day to die.” I better understand what he meant. Life is lived in the present. Life is lived every day to the fullest. Life is lived with every fiber of emotion in harmony with the elements. Life is not afraid of death, because life will never regret the past. I put my arm around Brennen’s shoulder and wondered how to I teach him what I learned today. How can he preserve his ability to be a child and enjoy every day like it was his last. Tired and exhausted I decided the question was much too difficult to be answered today. I decided it was simply time for two wet yellow puffballs to make it home satisfied that they made the sugar cookie boys melt and saved the world from evil.