The Answers at the Back of the Book

I was never good at Science.  

I was too impatient for the Scientific Method.  Why ask more questions than you have to?  Why test your theory when you can just guess?  In 7th Grade Earth Science, I answered correctly that the crusty end result of my final Lab Practical, lying there in the ceramic bowl was sodium chloride.  Salt.

"How did you arrive at your conclusion?" asked Mr. A. 

"I followed the first few steps, and then did this," I replied, wetting my index finger with my tongue, digging into the still warm dish, and then tasting it.  "See?  Salt!"

"What do you think your'e doing?!?"  Mr. A. shouted.  "What if that wan't salt?  It could have killed you."

"This is 7th grade," I answered confidently.  "You're not going to let us play with something that's gonna kill us."

Logic.  But the wrong kind.  I got a 50.  Right answer.  Wrong proof.

I wasn't too hot at Algebra, either. 

Again, the "logic" gene that I could apply to situations and debate was tone deaf to facts and figures.  Why trace back the steps of your equation when you could turn to the answers in the back of the book and find out that x=2?

"You can't start with the answer and work your way back from it," Miss F. used to say.  "That's not how Algebra works."

It's not.  It's not how life works, either.

But today, I saw the answer that I want to have at the end of my life's book.  It was delivered in a eulogy on national television, about a man of my faith, of my avocation, whom I met once, and whose death affected me not as a child who knows one day he will lose his father... but as a father, tapped on the shoulder for the first time with the notion that someday he will leave his children. 

This answer, it turns out, was delivered in the shortest of all the tributes given today; and by the ONE person amid Brokaw, Cuomo, Barnicle, and Shriver who actually needed an introduction. 

Her name is Betsy Fischer.  And this is what she said.

Almost every morning for the last 10 years, Tim would call at exactly 9:00 a.m. and say, "Hey, Bets, what do you know?"  What I wouldn't give for that phone call tomorrow morning.

I'd happily suspend all talk of news, politics, and Washington gossip and I'd tell [you] some thing that I've
come to know since last Friday afternoon.

I'd say there is a nation mourning the loss of a great man ... and a trusted friend. 

And after you heard my morning rundown, you'd say this is all part of life.  We have to move forward, lean on each other, and cherish all the good times and live every day to its fullest.  But, live it with honor and integrity, and always reach down to help someone else up.  You'd say take these incredible lessons of life that I leave with each of you and live them as you remember me. 

And I'd believe every word because ... you have never once steered me wrong.

That is the answer that I want at the end of my life's book.  And this, too, is a book that you can't work backwards from.

I've got some work to do.

A non-anniversary Wryku

Life is linear

From one end to the other

Going with the flow

Anniversaries are thought of by some to be the closing of a circle.  I think they're milestones along one journey.  Life is linear.  That's the observation I made to one of my beloved sisters on the first anniversary of our Mom's passing.  Just because some dude named Greg took some other guy Julian's calendar and changed it, doesn't mean that anniversaries are reruns.  They're not. 

But sometimes you have to stop.  You can't just let the days slip by.  Thursday is such a day for me.  The birth of my oldest child.  And 10 years later, the death of one of my dearest friends. 

Jeff, wherever you are, I'm thankful so often to think about you, remember, and wonder...  What the hell did Abe Lincoln and JFK have to say?!?  Do you guys hang out??

Oh, and I almost forgot:  What's the deal with crop circles... and is Morgan Freeman really God?

Call me.

It couldn't be in autumn: RIP Robert Goulet

How I'd leave in autumn I never will know

I've seen how you sparkle

When fall nips the air

I know you in autumn

And I must be there.

Farwell to an icon who gave us lots of laughs, and who laughed along with us...

... again and again.

A Trio Grows in Brooklyn

In honor of the approaching second birthday of Wry Toast, my first (and only) video.

Today. Again. (9-11 at 6)

"Today is the anniversary of the day that tore across our history and our hearts.  We come again as New Yorkers and as Americans to share a loss that can't be measured and to remember the names of those who can't be replaced. 

"This year, we have asked those who responded to the tragedy to help us lead the ceremonies, both the men and women in official uniform and the volunteers who said, 'Those are my neighbors.  Let me help.'

"On that day, we felt isolated, but not for long, and not from each other.  New Yorkers rushed to the site, not knowing which place was safe or if there was more danger ahead.  They weren't sure of anytyhing except that they had to be here. 

"Six years have passed, and our place is still by your side.  As the poet William Blake wrote centuries ago, 'Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too?'"

Mayor Michael Bloomberg, September 11, 2007

And so, Wolf, Larry, Brian, Katie, Charlie...  Please.  Don't tell us what it means.  Don't.  Even.  Try.

"... we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground."

Neither can your grinding dirges or all the grainy slow-motion you can throw into your CBSNBCABCMSNBCCNNFOX  "McEpic" Special Reports. 

Don't tell us what it means. 

"... the brave men*, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."  [*and women]

Joe's kids already said it all at his funeral, in the crayon drawing of their Dad playing golf in heaven. 

"... it is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced."

Mike's Dad still says it between the lines of the emails he sends now and again, and it's been in Mike's son's eyes in the last five Christmas cards.  It's also been etched on Lauren's Mom's face ever since her daughter became a young widow.

"... it is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us."

Just let us grieve, find our own meaning, hold on as tightly as we can... and move ahead together.

"... that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain."

H.J.H.

M.P.L.

M.T.O.

In reverent and loving memory. 

May God hold you and your families in the palm of his hand.

[The searing image at the top of this entry was taken September 11, 2006 at Ground Zero by New York Daily News photoghapher David Handschuh, who covered that awful day and was badly injured after the South Tower collapsed.]

A Memorial Day in 1945: (Uncle) Tommy, Can You Hear Me?

"Don't we mourn the dead on Memorial Day with volleyball and sunscreen?  Don't We the People commemorate the Fourth of July by setting meat and bottle rockets on fire?"

- Sarah Vowell, from Take the Cannoli

[This installment comes from a longhand essay written 10 years ago by my Mother, which I originally posted in August 2006.  I re-read it on Memorial Day, and thought I'd move it up.  Mom originally wrote it to submit to Readers Digest's 'Life in These United States;' something we didn't know until we found it in a notebook that we found after her death in 1998.]

Do You Remember?

This summer I returned to the beach where my family summered when I was young.  My brother and his wife still have a summer home there, and my children and I rented a cottage a few doors away.

While we were there, my brother and I reminisced about the "old days."  One day in particular:  VJ Day 1945.  Here we were, on the same beach, 51 years later and could picture it as clearly as if it were re-enacted before our eyes.

Jack was 9; I was 6.  It was a regular summer day when all of a sudden -- everything changed.  I didn't remember exactly how we found out the news, but Jack said there were neighbors with a short-wave radio because they had family in Europe.  My first recollection of the announcement was of our friend's Mom, walking down the middle of our small street with a spaghetti pan and large spoon as a drum, crying "The War is Over!"  As she walked by other houses, she was joined by more people, especially children, and all uf us had willing Moms to lend a pan and a spoon to this wonderful parade.

Then the Dads got in on the action and decided there would be a bonfire and singing on the beach that night to celebrate.  Our cottage was one of those on the shorefront, so it would be right outside!

We both laughed as we remembered Mom encouraging Dad to add some cardboard-like "wardrobes," which tended to lean and whose doors could never be opened without the whole thing tipping dangerously over our heads, for the fire.  Dad not only agreed, he took the shortcut and sent them sailing out the second floor windows.

We had very special company that week:  Our Aunt Kay and Uncle Tommy.  Uncle Tommy was in the Army and home on furlough after serving in Europe.  He was now waiting for expected orders to the Pacific.  He and Aunt Kay were younger than Mom and Dad and very glamorous to me.  Aunk Kay was very pretty and Uncle Tom was 6'4" and just the most handsome soldier I could imagine.  Jack and I both were very proud to go to Church and walk in next to Uncle Tommy, so tall and distinguished in his uniform!

Now the war was over!  This meant Uncle Tommy would not have to go back!

But where was he?

In all the hubub of getting the bonfire ready and people laughing, crying and already singing on the beach, where was Uncle Tom?

I ran upstairs to the guestroom and I shall never, never forget what I saw next:  Uncle Tommy was kneeling beside the bed with his head down and his hands folded.  I had been calling out his name -- but when I saw him, I knew I should be quieter.

I hugged him -- my hero -- and said, "Uncle Tommy there's a party because the war is over.  Why aren't your coming?  It's for you!"

Ne nodded and smiled a little and said, "I know, honey.  But first I wanted to remember and say a prayer for all my buddies who didn't make it home."

[I grew up with this story.  So did my sisters and our brother, Tommy.  But mercilessly... that's where it ends.  Just when I want to reach out for more, all that's left are vapors.  You see, Readers Digest only wanted 500 words.  It remains, however, a family story that marks our Memorial Day.]

A Memorable Scituation

According to the Historical Society, it flashes four times a minute... every 15 seconds.

By my count, that's some 42 million times since you took me there during Christmas Break 1986 (42,076,800 to be exact... counting the 5 leap years).  And still the candle burns.

Now, 20 years later, in case you happen to be reading, I just wanted you to know that I remembered... and remember. 

Come laugh with me, the best is yet to come

Within one block of a major thoroughfare jammed to near gridlock by impatient, irritable (and irritating) holiday shoppers, candles flickered, food was prepared, wine was decantered.

A door was opened.  And we came.  At the core are three people whose friendship will turn twenty years old when the New Year dawns.  Three who, in that time, have assembled four (or perhaps three and a half) engagements, two marriages, four children, 10 occupations, a handfull of funerals, separation of time and distance.

As we moved through the blur of our friendship amid comrades and cousins, brothers and others... refreshing a bond that may stretch but will never break, I heard within the laughter and Christmas carols the unspoken whisper...

Come laugh with me, the best is yet to come.

40 = (15+25) = 40 [Again]

Close your eyes, have no fear.
The monster's gone, he's on the run, and your Daddy's here.

He was 40. 

Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful boy.

I was 15. 

Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer.
Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better.

It was my first "I remember where I was when I heard the news..." 

Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful boy.

It snowed the next day in Connecticut.  My family went out to pick out our Christmas tree.  I stayed home watching the Dakota vigil on TV.

Out on the ocean, sailing away.
I can hardly wait to see you come of late.
But I guess we'll both just have to be patient.

Listening to this song.

'Cause it's a long way to go; a hard row to hoe.
Yes, it's a long way to go, but in the meantime.

That he wrote to his child.

Before you cross the street, take my hand.
Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

I didn't feel what it meant...

Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful boy.

Until I sang it to mine. 

Darling, darling,
Darling,
Darling Sean.

Now I'm 40.

Goodnight Sean.

Watching the wheels go round.

See you in the morning.

Fade to black.

All those years ago...

Update on Thursday, December 7, 2006 at 07:01PM by Wryter

Let me take you down...

Friday is December 8th. 

So this entry, which I posted last year, moves up to the front for one more sad, sad run. 

And I'm going to Strawberry Fields.

The Most Important Things [are] All You Need

I want mo Mo'.

Every once in awhile, a song comes along and makes the world stand still.  And "Matrix"-like, you're isolated from your surroundings, moving effortlessly while they're frozen.  ...... aaaaand then it all snaps back.

I like it when that happens.  It just did.  Act I involves something new.  Act II is a new twist on, well, "Something," among others.

ACT I:  Take a bow, Keb' Mo'!  I'd heard of you before, man, but never listened.  Then someone pointed me toward the breeze of a melody called "Life is Beautiful."  Wow.

Let's go driftin' through the trees
Let's go sailing on the sea
Let's go dancing on the juke-joint floor
And leave our troubles all behind, have a party

This guy is good.

So easily forgotten, are the most important things
Like the melody and the moonlight in your eyes
And a song that lasts forever
Each song getting better all the time

Life is beautiful, life is wondrous
Every star above shining just for us
Life is beautiful, on a stormy night
Somewhere in the world the sun is shining bright

So easily forgotten, the most important thing
Is that I love you - I do
And I want to spend my days and nights
Walking through this crazy world with you.

Okay, it's a deal. I was hoping you'd ask.  I'm there.

ACT II:  By George! (Paul, John and Ringo)

December is the Beatles to me.  It's when I got my first casette tape player, and my first tape:  The Beatles "Red" Album.  Years later, it's when I brought home the "Blue" Album on two vinyl discs.  Later still, sadly, it tolled The End. 

Listening to "LOVE," the soundtrack to the latest Cirque du Soleil show in Vegas, is an experience that defies the "Next Track" and "Shuffle" buttons on your CD player.  Get it, you'll know.  George Martin and his son--who have the keys to Abbey Road's deepest vaults--have done something here.  They've taken melodies and four-part harmonies that everyone can identify--and Feng Shui-ed their energy into new channels.  That's the best I can do to describe the indescribable. 

Hearing these songs anew is a reckoning.  They carried me back to the room I shared with my brother a generation ago--lying on the bed, listening, dreaming, scheming--and posed the question: 

Can you measure up to who you hoped you'd be by now? 

[There's GOT to be a lyric to make this point.  If you can think of one suggest it.  I'll put it in.]