My father's crappy little car

As I grow older, I seem to be remembering more and more about my childhood in regards to what it was that helped mould me into who I am today. One of the clearest things of relevance to me happened around the time I was 12 years old. I don’t remember exactly what time of year it was, nor what things look like in particular- but I can remember the conversation that took place between me, and my father, while my younger sisters and I were being driven home from school one day. It is as if this conversation with my father happened five minutes before sitting down to type this.

My father and I regretfully have never been close in terms of him being the “friendly” father that many of my friends had. He was, and is to this day actually a friendly and likeable guy to basically everyone he comes across. He is approachable, talkative, intelligent, humorous, gracious, and actually a decently handsome guy despite his penchant for heavy drinking, smoking and overall neglect for his personal health. In a word- he has it. Whatever it is that makes certain people popular and likeable- well, my father has it.

This didn’t and doesn’t always translate at home though. Simply because of his job, he always had to be “on” outside of the home. In general, I would mark my father overall as a good one. He worked very hard but was always doing his absolute best to attend as many after school functions for me and my sisters as was possible- and in the end was very successful at it. He used his wits to try to teach us kids as much about the world and how to look at it (from his perspective of course) as he could. He always figured there was something that could be taught to us- and he would always make sure to show us the life lessons.

It is ever clearer now than ever that he had and has too much on his plate. Work was constant stress for him. Perpetually trying to balance work life with very active kids made things difficult not only for balancing his time and energy, but also the finances. Not to mention the fact that my parents made up their mind early on to send us to Catholic school all on meager salaries with very little gratification.

When he was home, and settled- he truly settled- mainly on the living room chair, with a beer or nine. His moods consistently changed; sometimes within as short a period as it takes to get through a crappy sit-com. One moment he could be jovial, asking questions about our day- genuinely interested and the next- reclusive, testy, and agitated beyond wanting to even be in the same room as anyone. One thing for sure is that it made my relationship with alcohol a story of caution and moderation.

With all of these problems, he still was and is someone I truly look up to. I know him to be a wise man, someone who really does know a lot about the world and the inner workings of people, social systems, and history and how it all relates to modern life. His sense of cynicism and snark can be one of the most annoying things to deal with. It can also be one of the funniest things. His kind words can be at times deeply touching and genuine and at other times forced and synthetic. He is filled with a deep sense of pride at knowing about 4,000 different clichés and if allowed to use them all- he would. He used to publish business management critiques and articles around the time I started high school. I remember reading one particular article that I really couldn’t grasp, but yet recognized no fewer than 16 obvious clichés used in a way that he always thought was clever and showed off his witty mind. The problem was this all happened within his three page article, and even at the time to me it came off as a bit contrived. Regardless of his love for the unoriginal statement, he has a definite gift for written and spoken word (many used to claim that he obviously loved the sound of his voice reading something “of importance”), even in song. He has a very good singing voice.

It was no surprise one day being picked up from school to find my father, in his little brown Hyundai stick shift awaiting us kids to take us home. On the stereo- his overplayed Eric Clapton Unplugged tape that was on constant rotation. At this time, he had been unemployed for about four months after being laid off of his job as an operations manager of a YMCA in the city. As frustrating as his job was, he enjoyed the hard work. Being unemployed was incredibly frustrating for him. He needed to feel busy.

I jumped right in the front seat, over taking one of my little sisters in pursuit of “shotgun” privileges (we never called it- we always just claimed it). Being in the front seat did have its disadvantages though- mainly the smack of beer breath spewing from our fearless driver. He made his rounds asking each of us about how our days were and if anything interested happened- his ritual.

I answered in my usual quick reply: “School was fine. Nothing special happened,” and then did the unthinkable. I returned his questions…

“How about you, Dad? How was your day? Anything happen with you?”

He smiled but said: “No… Nothing really… Nothing at all…”

As his smile faded, I could tell he was upset, or at least lost in pretty deep thought. No, it wasn’t the outright effects of alcohol. My father had built up a massive tolerance in those days and being picked up after school or driven anywhere in the late afternoon/early evening by my father was always preceded by at least one quick can of beer. The act of sitting around all day long awaiting call backs for interviews didn’t exactly help his over all sobriety. However, I never once felt like I was in danger getting in the car with him during these times. He always was at least responsible enough to wait to start his real drinking until after he was done with his “running around.”

“Let me tell you all something,” he said, breaking a long moment of silence in his tiny car. “Live life to the fullest, one day at a time, but when it comes time to make a decision on what you want to do with your life- like the shoe company says: just do it.

“I don’t care if it is as lawyer, doctor, police man, garbage man, tax man- whatever! If it is truly what you want to do- then just do it, and don’t worry about how others view you.”

This coming from my father, accompanied by so many instances of his favorite literary device (hello, Mr. Cliché!)? The same man who used to tell us that we were not allowed to cry in public because it would make others think we were weak? Who used to state that sometimes one had to do things that one hates in order to learn life lessons? The same guy who continued to suffer through his previous job for about 10 years, putting up with constant bull shit, hating it a large majority of the time, and eventually being dumped out on the street with little or no explanation.

Unemployment must have really opened his eyes to life, and how he had been living it.

I am not sure why I frequently remember this story. Maybe it is my minds way of conveniently trying to muster up enough courage and fortitude to make a bold move in my own life. I too have now spent almost six years straight working for a company that has very little regard to my well-being, not to mention respects me, my hard work, and my dedication. I understand it actually- it is after all very much a for-profit corporation based out of the United States of America. Major corporations aren’t designed, aren’t incented to look out for their employees. This isn’t about me complaining about the modern state of the working person. It is however, a blatant statement of my discomfort and frustration over allowing me to fall so deeply in the rut of working where I am at. Mainly, for NOT making changes in life when needed.

To sum up: I have a hard time deciding whether I should “shit or get off the pot.” (*my father would be so proud not only because of the cliché, but because of my use of toilet humor)

Analytically, emotionally, even physically, and especially with the most recent round of pay cuts- practically- I need to follow his advice and find something that I want to do, do it, and live a happy life.

Sounds simple but there are two problems. First- is my non-existent ability to figure out what it is that I want to be when I grow up. Second- my father ended up following his advice to an extent, and yet it still didn’t lead to happiness. He eventually landed a job that he enjoyed very much, despite the long hours and hard work needed. He dedicates so much time, energy and love into his work that he feels unsatisfied in other ways.

While I don’t have the same problems as my father, especially in regards to what makes us happy and feel fulfilled, I do have to say that I strive to attain that elusive balancing point that I haven’t been able to master- and that my father never has been able to in his nearly 57 years. I guess we all do.

In the case of my father’s life and that of my own- I am hoping that another cliché doesn’t come to fruition (pardon the pun): The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Foggy memories

At nine years old, I remembered with absolute clarity and could guide with conviction each and every direction needed to be taken in order to find whatever other animal my younger sisters wanted to see at the zoo. It was as if I was the hired tour guide giving out perfect directions and always being able to call with precision what animal would be around the corner. I was in charge of that zoo. It was all mine.

The amazing thing was that I had only been there one time before this trip for a few hours when I was six years old. I can remember after a few requests from my sisters to see various animals which would have taken us through a zigzag maze of directions and walk-ways, I was able to find the most efficient way to see everything they wanted to see without having to walk back and forth all of the time, while still effectively getting them to where they wanted.

Efficient and effective. Two things I strive to be, but honestly can’t lay claim to now that I approach my 30s.

Why does the above story matter? From a story stand-point, it doesn’t matter at all. In fact as a story, it is boring.

I could tell you all about how my youngest sister couldn’t stop laughing at the baby mountain goats jumping around the man made concrete mountain in their habitat, playing with each other.

I could also tell you all about my fascination over these stupid wax “Mold-O-Ramas” that I quickly built an unhealthy obsession over wanting to collect them all.

Explaining with great detail how my father may have unintentionally killed a raccoon that day would also be easy to do. I could lay out how my father threw a cigarette butt on the ground in an outdoor eating area. How in turn a raccoon there, being part of a pack of vicious little gluttons, fought for and ate this cigarette butt because they eat anything that comes from human hands- including still-lit cigarette butts.

I could also try to explain the enormous amount of pride I had in myself for leaving that day knowing that I had concurred that zoo, its site plan, and all of the twists and turns of its pathways even before entering. All because I somehow remembered the layout with such clarity from a brief trip I had a few years prior.

I could explain a lot about that day. But I won’t… even though I just did.

What the story tells me now more than anything is just how odd the brain works. At least my brain and how it works. To be even more specific- the function of the brain known as memory, and memory recall. For whatever reason, mine seems to be dysfunctional.

I have not (yet at least) been diagnosed with any sort of condition that causes memory lapse. I have no reason to believe that I suffered from any sort of trauma- physical or otherwise- during my childhood that may have been the cause for me losing out on most memories. I have never used hard drugs. I drink, but not heavily or even all that often.

Basically, I was given a brain that is incapable of working in a way where I develop strong, clear memories that I can rely on. Maybe also I never really figured out how to use it properly where I could make it function better for my life. Make me remember more. Have it recall important facts, or interesting stories when the time is right.

The unfortunate thing is that most of my memories from my childhood and even in my teenage years come from small, trivial events. I can remember with an infinite amount of clarity about a five second time span in a basketball game I was playing in when I was about 12 years old. I can remember not only where it was, what I looked like, but could even remember who was guarding me (his name was Chris- and no, I had never met him before in my life, I just remember people yelling at this poor kid to change his positioning on defense in order to cover the wing more), what he looked like, what the weather was like that day, and how the play unfolded. I can see now who was in the crowd, and what both teams reaction was to the play. It all is crystal clear.

Yet on the other hand, why can’t I remember exactly how everything unfolded when my mother finally broke the news of her having MS to us kids? Why can’t I remember my grandmother, who according to my mother I loved spending time with? Why can’t I remember what surely was an amazing sensation when I did my one and only leap off of a tower only to have a bungee chord snap me back up in the air?

Part of the reason I decided to establish this blog was to ensure that when special things happen- good, bad, happy, sad, or otherwise- I will be able to store them before my short term memory is purged and those emotions and stories are lost forever.

Much like those Mold-O-Ramas I hopelessly collected at the zoo.