“Welcome, welcome… how ya been?”
Thus began another iteration of the family reunion. My parents’ generation within my mom’s side of the family had a lot of organization skills. One of the by products of this character trait was an annual family reunion gathering that moved around based on what segment of the family tree was going to be hosting this year’s event.
As I was growing up, it was always assumed that Labor Day weekend would be spent in the company of a lot of folks, generations of folks, many whom I wouldn’t know nor would I really ever get to know.
The locales would change, we would be Western New York one year, in the northern tier of the state the next. Sometimes we had a family in Rhode Island that hosted the event in a rented pavilion in a park in the outskirts of Providence.
When we were very small this was a royal pain. As we approached puberty, there were a few years when my cousins, my sister and I would find the opportunity to squeak out some fun from the get together.
As we reached the later portion of the teenage years, my sister and I rebelled. I think my mom and dad attended a few more and then the whole practiced wound down to only a very few folks and they were from branches of the family that we were even less familiar with.
In retrospect, I kind of wished that I had made an effort to reach out to this event in my adulthood. I’m not sure my parents’ were truly unhappy about the practice dwindling away but, when my Aunt (my mom’s oldest sister) passed away, the event management and planning had to fall to someone else and I believe that it initial fell to my Mom’s younger brother but, it was pretty much a very different event. My aunt had been the sole of the event and she kept meticulous family tree history within her archives. I have no idea what fate those archives have taken since her passing and the passing of my last remaining uncle in that branch of the family.
I probably was guilty of foregoing a chance that will forever be denied me now to get a glimpse into my ancestry. I did this primarily in the throes of youthful hubris, thinking that there wasn’t anything I needed to learn from those folks nor was there any value in changing my plans or devoting my time to the pursuit of either engaging in a relationship with my elders or in maintaining the ones I had.
My mom was the person that was always the one who put family first. It was at her behest that we participated in as many of the reunion gatherings that we did. She was the one that insisted that we make many trips up and back to the northern tier (some 300 miles each way) to visit her siblings and the family members from my dad’s side of the family. When I was younger we did this at least a 10 times a year. We did this even though it was a rare occurrence for any of the folks we visited regular to make the sojourn down to our downstate little town where my mom and dad had made their home.
The fondest memories of those family reunion was when I was perhaps 12 – 14. The bulk of my impression with the two family reunions that took place in those years was organizing a softball game with my cousins and some of the older generation. The fact that I loved baseball and loved playing (with anyone and literally at the drop of a hat) contributed to these two years becoming fond memories.
I had played baseball in little league and had only recently “aged out.” There wasn’t a provision for kids of my age group to play ball unless you happened to be lucky (and skillful enough) to make a junior varsity or varsity team within the school district. I was not that skilled. I played with passion but, little skill. Thus my ball playing days were relegated to gym class after my teen years began.
In those two years the reunion event was hosted in Rhode Island both years. Because the venue featured a great field, this was truly a treat. There was no such field resources in any of the other areas that the reunion was hosted for the next decade.
I remember that the first year the team I wound up on was victorious by a fair margin. I seem to remember that the teams were basically my generation versus the older generation. The following year was almost better even though the team I wound up playing for was not going to win. The team make up was a mix of both generations. The game was very competitive and a lot of fun.
I think even more fun than the game that year was that after the food was ready and some folks adjourned to join the rest of the family at the dining tables, some of us continued on in what was basically a practice. I recall that practice fondly as I think I was able to perform some of the best hitting that I was ever able to pull off in my life.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Air Travel
As I sat in the airport in the autumn of 2010 waiting for the folks at that gate podium to announce the boarding of my next flight, I thought about the first flights I took as a child and how much the flying experience had changed over the years.
The first time my family flew was in 1971. My mom had been wrestling with some attacks of asthma and a perpetual bronchial problem and the doctor’s suggested that some time in the southwest (in a dryer environ) might be beneficial. We took that opportunity to visit some relatives in California and then a week or more in the Arizona desert.
The first flight was out of New York’s Kennedy airport. We were going to be making the trek from New York to California in a little over six hours (a good time in those days). My mom (who was always the worrier in the group) had been fretting over the experience for the prior month. My dad, who was always a bit more mellow, was also privately worrying about the flight but, was maintaining a stoic façade to hide his nervousness. My sister and I were 8 and 10 respectively and were just thrilled to be in the airport and were excited to fact this new experience of flying over the countryside and looking forward to a great vacation in a warmer climate.
When we had boarded, my sister and I vied for the window seat, on one side of the aisle (I won). My mom had the aisle seat so we were positioned on that first flight with myself in the window, my sister in the center seat and my mom on the aisle. My dad sat alone across the aisle. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, I was staring avidly out the window and marveling at how fast we appeared to be traveling down the runway. I did glance over at my dad who appeared to be praying with his eyes closed and his hands making an indelible impression of his hands on the arm rests of his seat. I don’t remember checking out my mom’s impression but, I do remember that dad’s nervousness was amusing to me.
The flight was all kinds of fun for the kids. We were greeted by the stewardesses and received flight pins to commemorate the trip. When we finally arrived in Los Angeles, I wanted to be the first off the plane and therefore the first within my family to touch California soil (or in this case the ground on the tarmac. There were no jet ways in those days so we wend down a staircase and walked across the tarmac to the terminal. I remember marveling at the warmth of the sunshine and the oddness of palm trees that I could see just outside of the airport.
We were met at the airport by my cousin Carol Ann and her husband. I remember the drive out of the airport on a driveway that was lined by palm trees. Having grown up on the East Coast, this was truly like arriving on another planet of sorts. The drive to the apartment complex that they lived in was filled with “ohhs and ahhs” from my sister and I as, it seemed, around every corner that there were more new and amazing sights to be seen and the promise of fun on all fronts.
That amazement lapsed rather suddenly when we arrived at my cousins’ home and we gathered that there wasn’t much to do for kids in this building. In fact, as I later found out, the complex they lived in was strictly “adults only” and my cousins had to secure special permission from the landlord operators to allow us to visit and stay with them for the five days we were going to be there.
I discovered that my cousin’s husband had been in Vietnam and since this was a topic that intrigued me, I wanted to question him on the topic but, I guess like a lot of vets, he didn’t want to talk too much about his experiences over there.
I did learn that he was a photographer / media type person who was involved in sort of a military correspondence position. He never carried a gun but I guess he still saw enough action that he was uncomfortable about talking about it. Especially to an 11 year old kid.
We did get to see the usual touristy kinds of sights during our only trip to California as a family. My cousin took us to Hollywood. We saw the Hollywood “Walk of Fame.” We took turns getting our pictures taken in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. We spent a day at Disneyland.
The second portion of that trip started at the end of that first week of vacation. We flew to Tucson, AZ where we spent the next week driving around the desert. We took a small day trip to Old Tucson. This was an amusement park (of sorts) that used to be an old movie location that was the set for a lot of Spaghetti Westerns in the sixties and still featured a Wild West show and demonstration of filming and stunt activities.
The most memorable portion of that trip was actually the drive out to Old Tucson. The road was pretty winding and went over some mountainous terrain. My mother was the nervous type. I use to joke that she was afraid of the 20th Century. She had a kitten on the drive out to the Old Tucson park, which amused me (I guess all kids are fascinated about what generates a reaction in their parents).
Well, all too soon the vacation was over and we were then going to travel back home via two flights the first from Tucson, AZ to O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, IL and then the second hop from Chicago into Kennedy Airport in New York City.
The first flight took over in the morning and because of that timing, the meal that was served (yes, they still served full meals on flights back in those days) was breakfast, which as I recall consisted of eggs, bacon, toast and beverage. I was a very finicky eater in those days and I didn’t do eggs. When the stewardess came to pick up the trays she saw that I hadn’t eaten the eggs and chided me to eat up. Not wanting to disappoint, I attempted to eat the eggs to please the stewardess.
I guess I’ll never know what exactly caused it but I became very ill. The flight was pretty bumping as we were approaching Chicago. The crew had already given their instructions to return to the seats, fasten seat belts and prepare for landing. Despite this being only my third flight, I knew that there was supposed to be a disposable bag in the seat pouch in front of me in the event that you were getting ill and about to vomit. I looked for this bag but my luck was not going to be good on this particular day and at that particular moment. There was no bag and I knew I was about to vomit. I weighed out my options and decided to bolt for the bathroom.
Upon entering the bathroom, I heard a recording that stated in a very authoritative voice to “return to your seat.” A bright red sign that was flashing over the sink that read, “Return to your seat”, also greeted me.
Somewhat defeated and in a state of increasing panic I left the bathroom and went to the aisle in front of my seat in which my mother and sister were situated totally oblivious to my plight. My mom was seated in the center seat and my sister was sitting on the aisle. I managed to croak out, “Mom, I think I’m going to be sick.” This solicited the reasonable reaction of rifling through the seat pocket to retrieve the disposable “barf bag” that was there and swung around to hand this to me. The problem was she was late.
In the few seconds that preceded my vomiting, I was left with only a few options. I could swing around in the aisle and vomit in the direction of dad or I could remain waiting for the bag that was going to be too late and I vomited on my sister. Well, not on top of her but, certainly it wound up mostly in her lap. This event was most assuredly going to be one of those instances that she will always remember with feelings of dread and mortification. After my initial vomiting in my sister’s lap, I was not done. The stewardess then attempted to hustle me back into the lavatory and proceeded to continue vomiting all over the lavatory. Being still quite young (and now quite sick), I made a pretty big mess in both locations.
I’m quite sure my sister will forever remember this event with understandable mortification. When we landed in Chicago, I was taken by the hand and led to the cockpit. I was given the royal treatment. Some member of the crew (I can’t remember which one) took me by the hand and escorted me down a staircase and out onto the tarmac. This was intended to allow me to get some fresh air but, I only remember noise. The environment on the tarmac was more noisy and louder than anything I had ever experienced.
My sister, unfortunately, was given a towel. An opportunity to towel off and washed her up as best they could. They replaced the seat cushion that she was sitting in (we weren’t changing planes so we had the same seat assignment as in the first leg of the journey). She refused the notion (quite understandably) that she would sit in her underwear with a towel and sat in her vomit soaked clothes during the whole trip to NYC and the drive from the airport to my aunt and uncle’s house where she was finally given a chance to grab a shower. I felt much better after emptying my stomach in the landing into Chicago and the second leg was not as rough.
The first time my family flew was in 1971. My mom had been wrestling with some attacks of asthma and a perpetual bronchial problem and the doctor’s suggested that some time in the southwest (in a dryer environ) might be beneficial. We took that opportunity to visit some relatives in California and then a week or more in the Arizona desert.
The first flight was out of New York’s Kennedy airport. We were going to be making the trek from New York to California in a little over six hours (a good time in those days). My mom (who was always the worrier in the group) had been fretting over the experience for the prior month. My dad, who was always a bit more mellow, was also privately worrying about the flight but, was maintaining a stoic façade to hide his nervousness. My sister and I were 8 and 10 respectively and were just thrilled to be in the airport and were excited to fact this new experience of flying over the countryside and looking forward to a great vacation in a warmer climate.
When we had boarded, my sister and I vied for the window seat, on one side of the aisle (I won). My mom had the aisle seat so we were positioned on that first flight with myself in the window, my sister in the center seat and my mom on the aisle. My dad sat alone across the aisle. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, I was staring avidly out the window and marveling at how fast we appeared to be traveling down the runway. I did glance over at my dad who appeared to be praying with his eyes closed and his hands making an indelible impression of his hands on the arm rests of his seat. I don’t remember checking out my mom’s impression but, I do remember that dad’s nervousness was amusing to me.
The flight was all kinds of fun for the kids. We were greeted by the stewardesses and received flight pins to commemorate the trip. When we finally arrived in Los Angeles, I wanted to be the first off the plane and therefore the first within my family to touch California soil (or in this case the ground on the tarmac. There were no jet ways in those days so we wend down a staircase and walked across the tarmac to the terminal. I remember marveling at the warmth of the sunshine and the oddness of palm trees that I could see just outside of the airport.
We were met at the airport by my cousin Carol Ann and her husband. I remember the drive out of the airport on a driveway that was lined by palm trees. Having grown up on the East Coast, this was truly like arriving on another planet of sorts. The drive to the apartment complex that they lived in was filled with “ohhs and ahhs” from my sister and I as, it seemed, around every corner that there were more new and amazing sights to be seen and the promise of fun on all fronts.
That amazement lapsed rather suddenly when we arrived at my cousins’ home and we gathered that there wasn’t much to do for kids in this building. In fact, as I later found out, the complex they lived in was strictly “adults only” and my cousins had to secure special permission from the landlord operators to allow us to visit and stay with them for the five days we were going to be there.
I discovered that my cousin’s husband had been in Vietnam and since this was a topic that intrigued me, I wanted to question him on the topic but, I guess like a lot of vets, he didn’t want to talk too much about his experiences over there.
I did learn that he was a photographer / media type person who was involved in sort of a military correspondence position. He never carried a gun but I guess he still saw enough action that he was uncomfortable about talking about it. Especially to an 11 year old kid.
We did get to see the usual touristy kinds of sights during our only trip to California as a family. My cousin took us to Hollywood. We saw the Hollywood “Walk of Fame.” We took turns getting our pictures taken in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. We spent a day at Disneyland.
The second portion of that trip started at the end of that first week of vacation. We flew to Tucson, AZ where we spent the next week driving around the desert. We took a small day trip to Old Tucson. This was an amusement park (of sorts) that used to be an old movie location that was the set for a lot of Spaghetti Westerns in the sixties and still featured a Wild West show and demonstration of filming and stunt activities.
The most memorable portion of that trip was actually the drive out to Old Tucson. The road was pretty winding and went over some mountainous terrain. My mother was the nervous type. I use to joke that she was afraid of the 20th Century. She had a kitten on the drive out to the Old Tucson park, which amused me (I guess all kids are fascinated about what generates a reaction in their parents).
Well, all too soon the vacation was over and we were then going to travel back home via two flights the first from Tucson, AZ to O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, IL and then the second hop from Chicago into Kennedy Airport in New York City.
The first flight took over in the morning and because of that timing, the meal that was served (yes, they still served full meals on flights back in those days) was breakfast, which as I recall consisted of eggs, bacon, toast and beverage. I was a very finicky eater in those days and I didn’t do eggs. When the stewardess came to pick up the trays she saw that I hadn’t eaten the eggs and chided me to eat up. Not wanting to disappoint, I attempted to eat the eggs to please the stewardess.
I guess I’ll never know what exactly caused it but I became very ill. The flight was pretty bumping as we were approaching Chicago. The crew had already given their instructions to return to the seats, fasten seat belts and prepare for landing. Despite this being only my third flight, I knew that there was supposed to be a disposable bag in the seat pouch in front of me in the event that you were getting ill and about to vomit. I looked for this bag but my luck was not going to be good on this particular day and at that particular moment. There was no bag and I knew I was about to vomit. I weighed out my options and decided to bolt for the bathroom.
Upon entering the bathroom, I heard a recording that stated in a very authoritative voice to “return to your seat.” A bright red sign that was flashing over the sink that read, “Return to your seat”, also greeted me.
Somewhat defeated and in a state of increasing panic I left the bathroom and went to the aisle in front of my seat in which my mother and sister were situated totally oblivious to my plight. My mom was seated in the center seat and my sister was sitting on the aisle. I managed to croak out, “Mom, I think I’m going to be sick.” This solicited the reasonable reaction of rifling through the seat pocket to retrieve the disposable “barf bag” that was there and swung around to hand this to me. The problem was she was late.
In the few seconds that preceded my vomiting, I was left with only a few options. I could swing around in the aisle and vomit in the direction of dad or I could remain waiting for the bag that was going to be too late and I vomited on my sister. Well, not on top of her but, certainly it wound up mostly in her lap. This event was most assuredly going to be one of those instances that she will always remember with feelings of dread and mortification. After my initial vomiting in my sister’s lap, I was not done. The stewardess then attempted to hustle me back into the lavatory and proceeded to continue vomiting all over the lavatory. Being still quite young (and now quite sick), I made a pretty big mess in both locations.
I’m quite sure my sister will forever remember this event with understandable mortification. When we landed in Chicago, I was taken by the hand and led to the cockpit. I was given the royal treatment. Some member of the crew (I can’t remember which one) took me by the hand and escorted me down a staircase and out onto the tarmac. This was intended to allow me to get some fresh air but, I only remember noise. The environment on the tarmac was more noisy and louder than anything I had ever experienced.
My sister, unfortunately, was given a towel. An opportunity to towel off and washed her up as best they could. They replaced the seat cushion that she was sitting in (we weren’t changing planes so we had the same seat assignment as in the first leg of the journey). She refused the notion (quite understandably) that she would sit in her underwear with a towel and sat in her vomit soaked clothes during the whole trip to NYC and the drive from the airport to my aunt and uncle’s house where she was finally given a chance to grab a shower. I felt much better after emptying my stomach in the landing into Chicago and the second leg was not as rough.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Jazz piano player
As I was walking down the street on an Indian summer evening in Troy, NY, I heard the faint tinkling of some fine jazz piano. Drawn by these soothing tones, I entered an establishment known as the Monkey’s Paw. The entrance was a steep walk-down off Third Avenue and as I opened the door, I almost thought I was being transported back to a mid-1930’s speakeasy.
The bar itself featured a wide polished rail, a nicely finished wood grain and the almost mandatory full mirror lining the wall behind it. The establishment wasn’t real crowded but, the interior was almost completely filled with a cloud of smoke.
The piano was sequestered along the back wall of the dining area and the player appeared to be a balding, somewhat round, white man who flashed a warm smile at me as I approached.
He wore a sweater vest that seemed to hide some of his bulk. His face had wizened look and the grin he almost seemed to continually wear, was enhanced by a graying moustache and five o’clock shadow.
I couldn’t help but be reminded of my favorite uncle as I was growing up. His name was Ivan and he also played piano. His misfortunes as an adult were many. He never could seem to hang onto money. He worked in several movie theaters in northern New Jersey when I was small but, something happened in the late 1960’s (something neither he nor my parents ever confided in me about) and he was forced to move in with us when I was about eight or nine years old.
My mom’s family had seven children. Which wasn’t all that unusual in those days. The area where she grew up was very rural in setting. Two of her siblings died during childbirth or as a young baby. Mom was the middle child with two brothers younger than her and one older sister and brother. Ivan was the next to last of the surviving kids. My maternal grandmother died when my Mom was about 12 years old. Because of the situation, she, for the most part, played mom to her younger brothers. Ivan was always very loving and appreciative of his older sister’s care. In his eyes, she could do no wrong.
At first when my uncle moved in with us, I was thrilled. He was, without a doubt, the most fun relative I had. He was playful and enjoyed laughing and joking with almost anyone. He also was a great storyteller. He never had to work hard to get laughter out of either my sister or myself.
As I stated earlier, he also played piano. In my mom’s family, every kid played an instrument. The oldest sister sang and played some piano (not as much or as well as Ivan), the oldest brother was a fiddle player, my mom played the mandolin, Ivan was the piano player and the youngest brother played guitar.
My mom tried to teach me the mandolin when I was kid and was drawn to the instrument. She had a very old, antiqued mandolin that was built and purchased back in the 1920’s from the Montgomery Ward catalog. It was a beautiful instrument and in time I became a little more adept at playing it. It wasn’t until Ivan moved in and encouraged me to play with him taking keyboard parts that I truly embraced the instrument. We developed a little bit of a catalog and would play at family gatherings mostly. Ivan loved the pop music of the 1950’s and 1960’s but mostly what we played was ragtime and bluegrass with a smattering of classic country.
I remember one great story that occurred shortly after Ivan moved in. We had a fairly severe cold snap that followed a significant snowstorm. At the end of the storm, the temp shifted during the day and the result was a slight drizzle of rain in the following day followed (again) with a cold night.
What all of these sudden swings in temperature yielded were the absolute perfect conditions for creating a hard shell of ice atop a foot of deep snow. This was great for sliding. When I returned home that afternoon, I went body sliding down the hill and found the conditions to be extremely slick. It was great fun. The only problem was that I couldn’t get back up the hill.
Being the resourceful young man that I was, I walked further down the hill and dipped my rubber boots into a cold stream after breaking through some ice to get to the liquid. The combination of the water on the rubber boots made the rubber stick to the ice thus allowing for the means to walk easily around on the slick ice covered snow. Once I discovered this, I called a neighbor friend of mine over and showed him the same trick.
Now all of this led to some scheming that would not be uncommon in a typical 8 year old. Let’s lure other unsuspecting kids to the hill and not tell them about the ice water trick. We had great fun after we lured both my younger sister and another neighborhood friend of mine to the hill and laughed at the top of the hill while we watched them struggle to try and climb up the hill on the slick surface.
Well, this all came to a sudden halt when we heard my Uncle calling from the house and making his way out to the top of the hill where the two of us (my friend and I) were standing. We gulped and tried to feign ignorance as to how the two young ladies at the bottom of the hill got there.
Ivan had been sleeping as he was working nights in those days and therefore was dressed in pajamas, a robe, and slippers. Shortly, on his heels, my mother (who had returned home while I wasn’t looking) came stomping out to the hillside as well. My mom and Ivan surveyed the situation for a few seconds. My mom (being the logical creature she was) decided to look for a walking stick, something she could use to chop through the ice and provide some means to maintain a footing on the slick surface of the snow-covered ice.
The outside temperature wasn’t too severe but, the ice had hardened so much on the overnight that it was truly an ice skating caliber surface atop the snow.
Ivan, being the illogical person that he was, decided to trudge towards the girls “stuck” at the bottom of the hill. My mom called out a warning to my Uncle as he started to walk down the hill but, he ignored the warning and stated the famous last words… “ Oh, I won’t fall, I have slippers … on…” Of course he started sliding on “slippers” and was bowling over the girls at the bottom of the hill before he got out the word “on.”
My friend and I being the logical kids that we were decided that discretion being the better portion of valor… we should make ourselves scarce. I circled the group, re-dipped my rubber boots in the water and then decided I should help out. My Mom had already worked her way down the hill and had escorted the other neighbor girl up the hill and was returning for my sister. I was at that point trying to act gallant and was escorting my sister up the hill with the aid of my wet rubber boots up the slippery slope.
Once we had all gotten up onto the top of the hill, my neighbor buddy made like a hockey player and got the puck out of there. My sister’s friend had already vacated the premises after being rescued by my mother.
Which left me (the mastermind to the ill fated “prank”) to face the combined wrath of both my mom and my uncle. My sister had already sequestered herself within her room and had moved onto homework.
I reluctantly started to make my way indoors to receive my punishment. I walked into the kitchen to see both my mom and my uncle laughing hysterically while sitting at the kitchen table. They kept repeating… “Oh, I won’t fall, I have slippers….” And then the two of them would again break up into fresh peals of laughter.
I shuffled into the scene and was about to stammer out an apology when the infectious laughter hit me. I still managed to get an apology out in between the chuckling but, it almost wasn’t necessary.
I’m not sure I got away with anything on this or rather my mom just couldn’t (with a straight face) begin to admonish my actions on this day in between laughing fits at the silliness of the plight of all involved.
This story would be repeated and embellished for year’s to come particularly when my mom would have the opportunity to reminisce with any or all of her siblings.
This memory came back to me in that subtle but very powerful way that fond memories will resurface and then linger within your consciousness at some seemingly unrelated twist of circumstance.
I stayed and listened to this jazz pianist play a couple of tunes that I was unfamiliar with but, then cranked up my courage (I think bolstered by that familiar smile on his lips) and requested that he play Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer.”
He said that it had been a long time since anyone had suggested any ragtime but, he knew it was only too happy to acquiesce and gave it a whirl. Afterwards, he asked how I knew the tune. Not surprisingly, I cited the movie “The Sting” for which it was the theme song but I also talked with him about my uncle and how he taught me the song.
I told him how Ivan had always had impressed upon to learn the tune, how we always played by ear and felt the music rather than “played” the music. The response I received from the jazz piano player was that “I think he told you the right way to play music.” He also admitted that, he too, had never learned to read sheet music and played only by ear (or by feel… as Ivan would have put it).
The bar itself featured a wide polished rail, a nicely finished wood grain and the almost mandatory full mirror lining the wall behind it. The establishment wasn’t real crowded but, the interior was almost completely filled with a cloud of smoke.
The piano was sequestered along the back wall of the dining area and the player appeared to be a balding, somewhat round, white man who flashed a warm smile at me as I approached.
He wore a sweater vest that seemed to hide some of his bulk. His face had wizened look and the grin he almost seemed to continually wear, was enhanced by a graying moustache and five o’clock shadow.
I couldn’t help but be reminded of my favorite uncle as I was growing up. His name was Ivan and he also played piano. His misfortunes as an adult were many. He never could seem to hang onto money. He worked in several movie theaters in northern New Jersey when I was small but, something happened in the late 1960’s (something neither he nor my parents ever confided in me about) and he was forced to move in with us when I was about eight or nine years old.
My mom’s family had seven children. Which wasn’t all that unusual in those days. The area where she grew up was very rural in setting. Two of her siblings died during childbirth or as a young baby. Mom was the middle child with two brothers younger than her and one older sister and brother. Ivan was the next to last of the surviving kids. My maternal grandmother died when my Mom was about 12 years old. Because of the situation, she, for the most part, played mom to her younger brothers. Ivan was always very loving and appreciative of his older sister’s care. In his eyes, she could do no wrong.
At first when my uncle moved in with us, I was thrilled. He was, without a doubt, the most fun relative I had. He was playful and enjoyed laughing and joking with almost anyone. He also was a great storyteller. He never had to work hard to get laughter out of either my sister or myself.
As I stated earlier, he also played piano. In my mom’s family, every kid played an instrument. The oldest sister sang and played some piano (not as much or as well as Ivan), the oldest brother was a fiddle player, my mom played the mandolin, Ivan was the piano player and the youngest brother played guitar.
My mom tried to teach me the mandolin when I was kid and was drawn to the instrument. She had a very old, antiqued mandolin that was built and purchased back in the 1920’s from the Montgomery Ward catalog. It was a beautiful instrument and in time I became a little more adept at playing it. It wasn’t until Ivan moved in and encouraged me to play with him taking keyboard parts that I truly embraced the instrument. We developed a little bit of a catalog and would play at family gatherings mostly. Ivan loved the pop music of the 1950’s and 1960’s but mostly what we played was ragtime and bluegrass with a smattering of classic country.
I remember one great story that occurred shortly after Ivan moved in. We had a fairly severe cold snap that followed a significant snowstorm. At the end of the storm, the temp shifted during the day and the result was a slight drizzle of rain in the following day followed (again) with a cold night.
What all of these sudden swings in temperature yielded were the absolute perfect conditions for creating a hard shell of ice atop a foot of deep snow. This was great for sliding. When I returned home that afternoon, I went body sliding down the hill and found the conditions to be extremely slick. It was great fun. The only problem was that I couldn’t get back up the hill.
Being the resourceful young man that I was, I walked further down the hill and dipped my rubber boots into a cold stream after breaking through some ice to get to the liquid. The combination of the water on the rubber boots made the rubber stick to the ice thus allowing for the means to walk easily around on the slick ice covered snow. Once I discovered this, I called a neighbor friend of mine over and showed him the same trick.
Now all of this led to some scheming that would not be uncommon in a typical 8 year old. Let’s lure other unsuspecting kids to the hill and not tell them about the ice water trick. We had great fun after we lured both my younger sister and another neighborhood friend of mine to the hill and laughed at the top of the hill while we watched them struggle to try and climb up the hill on the slick surface.
Well, this all came to a sudden halt when we heard my Uncle calling from the house and making his way out to the top of the hill where the two of us (my friend and I) were standing. We gulped and tried to feign ignorance as to how the two young ladies at the bottom of the hill got there.
Ivan had been sleeping as he was working nights in those days and therefore was dressed in pajamas, a robe, and slippers. Shortly, on his heels, my mother (who had returned home while I wasn’t looking) came stomping out to the hillside as well. My mom and Ivan surveyed the situation for a few seconds. My mom (being the logical creature she was) decided to look for a walking stick, something she could use to chop through the ice and provide some means to maintain a footing on the slick surface of the snow-covered ice.
The outside temperature wasn’t too severe but, the ice had hardened so much on the overnight that it was truly an ice skating caliber surface atop the snow.
Ivan, being the illogical person that he was, decided to trudge towards the girls “stuck” at the bottom of the hill. My mom called out a warning to my Uncle as he started to walk down the hill but, he ignored the warning and stated the famous last words… “ Oh, I won’t fall, I have slippers … on…” Of course he started sliding on “slippers” and was bowling over the girls at the bottom of the hill before he got out the word “on.”
My friend and I being the logical kids that we were decided that discretion being the better portion of valor… we should make ourselves scarce. I circled the group, re-dipped my rubber boots in the water and then decided I should help out. My Mom had already worked her way down the hill and had escorted the other neighbor girl up the hill and was returning for my sister. I was at that point trying to act gallant and was escorting my sister up the hill with the aid of my wet rubber boots up the slippery slope.
Once we had all gotten up onto the top of the hill, my neighbor buddy made like a hockey player and got the puck out of there. My sister’s friend had already vacated the premises after being rescued by my mother.
Which left me (the mastermind to the ill fated “prank”) to face the combined wrath of both my mom and my uncle. My sister had already sequestered herself within her room and had moved onto homework.
I reluctantly started to make my way indoors to receive my punishment. I walked into the kitchen to see both my mom and my uncle laughing hysterically while sitting at the kitchen table. They kept repeating… “Oh, I won’t fall, I have slippers….” And then the two of them would again break up into fresh peals of laughter.
I shuffled into the scene and was about to stammer out an apology when the infectious laughter hit me. I still managed to get an apology out in between the chuckling but, it almost wasn’t necessary.
I’m not sure I got away with anything on this or rather my mom just couldn’t (with a straight face) begin to admonish my actions on this day in between laughing fits at the silliness of the plight of all involved.
This story would be repeated and embellished for year’s to come particularly when my mom would have the opportunity to reminisce with any or all of her siblings.
This memory came back to me in that subtle but very powerful way that fond memories will resurface and then linger within your consciousness at some seemingly unrelated twist of circumstance.
I stayed and listened to this jazz pianist play a couple of tunes that I was unfamiliar with but, then cranked up my courage (I think bolstered by that familiar smile on his lips) and requested that he play Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer.”
He said that it had been a long time since anyone had suggested any ragtime but, he knew it was only too happy to acquiesce and gave it a whirl. Afterwards, he asked how I knew the tune. Not surprisingly, I cited the movie “The Sting” for which it was the theme song but I also talked with him about my uncle and how he taught me the song.
I told him how Ivan had always had impressed upon to learn the tune, how we always played by ear and felt the music rather than “played” the music. The response I received from the jazz piano player was that “I think he told you the right way to play music.” He also admitted that, he too, had never learned to read sheet music and played only by ear (or by feel… as Ivan would have put it).
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