So a few days ago I am reading the HuffPost and come across an article that really speaks to me. What would you do if you lived life by being aware of death? I know for those of you who are my siblings, which I may not express it as much as I should but I think about our Father all the time. He is not long for this world and I often wonder what is going through his mind. I want someone in Reno to print this out and deliver it to him as it is kind of like the letter I haven’t written to him, although I am always meaning to. I got to thinking about that article and my father and became intrigued with the possibility of communicating to my boys when, in the future, they might want to know a few things about their old man. I would love to know some stories about my Father, my mother, my siblings. Stories that those closest to them would want to know even when they are gone. If that sounds morbid, get over yourself and read that HuffPost. So instead of asking “What would you do if you weren’t afraid to die?” how about what would you like your family and friends to know when you yourself are dead? Everything on the interwebs is backed up and recorded now for all posterity’s sake. So I can imagine my great-grandson or daughter searching for information on me and what would I want him/her to know.
So I am writing to you in the future and hopefully these stories will help you to remember both me and the people who they are about. Let me be clear. These are stories of my life so some of my social network is bound to be in some of them. I will only sometimes change the names to protect the innocent, but you probably will know when I am talking about you or some memory I have of you. For some of you these stories will be old news. For all of your concerns, I say get over yourselves and embrace the story for what it is and enjoy and share it. The stories are not meant for you but for those who are alive in the year 2100.
So my first story will be about my father and one of my most cherished memories of my father and what he really means to me. You see, my first two years in high school were not awful, but not good either. I had yet to really figure out a way to make friends for my freshman and sophomore year. You see I had to transfer my eighth grade year to a new middle school, Swope Middle School. At my old school I had had more friends if only because I had basically been in the class with the same people since second grade. I was tested early and was placed in the Academically Talented Program. The only reason I had friends therefore was because, given enough time, I had been able to interact with them to such a degree that I was able to figure them out over time and learn what proper behavior they expected of a friend. This completely changed when I transferred. I know no one at Swope Middle School and, as the new kid with no social skills, was relentlessly teased by one of the most popular girls in the eighth grade, Nancy.
Nancy ultimately turned everyone against me and I remember that my only friend for the whole year turned out to be the art teacher who liked to drink on the job. I would help him keep his room clean, he would cut me some slack on the art assignments and we would talk sometimes. While I now know that Nancy was just a normal, typical adolescent girl, it did not change the fact that she bullied me and ultimately made me a very lonely eighth, ninth, and tenth grader. This was even more stressful during my young life because I had my first school crushes during those years. The first girl I ever had a crush on in school was Belinda. She of course took no notice of me because she herself was swept up in the popularity contests common at those ages. She would have probably been my friend if not for the fact that Nancy, as a cheerleader, decided who was popular or not. Still, I thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen and when I saw her she made life a little more bearable. Interestingly enough, eventually I became somewhat of a friend of Belinda, and she turned out to be the exact girl I always pictured she would be and I have a wonderful memory of being alone in her house with her (I do not know to this day how I managed an invite). Alone with my first crush, it was almost more than I could take but the kindness, openness, and understanding that she showed me when I confessed my crush speaks volumes as to how she deserved to have someone have a crush on her. That will be a story for another day, that odd visit.
Looking back now I also understand that class also had a role to play. We in America like to delude ourselves that class does not matter. Go back and talk to my old self in high school and you will find a different America. Quite simply, I lived in apartment central on Brinkby Lane in Reno. Brinkby nowadays is plagued by too many people in too small a place, something that happens in poorer neighborhoods. So one reason that I had a hard time making friends was definitely that I was the poor boy among a student population whose parents were much better off than me and lived in houses. Indeed it was not until my junior year in high school that I actually became friends with anybody. And that was due not to any change on my part but because I was friends with two very interesting fellows, Chris and Harry. For some reason everybody was interested in these two new guys and it was only dumb luck that I became part of that trio. The summer before my Junior year I was working at the Peppermill Inn as a lifeguard and became friends with the new runner who just happened to be the son of the then CEO of Peppermill. That was a great summer because they made me popular and we would go up to Lake Tahoe and try to hook-up with the ladies up there and smoke clove cigarettes. Harry also live in Apartmentville but had an energy about him and a definite charisma too him that seemed to always charm the socks off of the ladies. (In fact they even managed to eventually charm the two ladies from high school that luckily for me are still part of my social network.) Then there was pimply-faced and awkward me hanging out with these two and just being glad I was along for the ride. These are all stories I will expand on later but I wanted to return to my father.
Remember I said I was a lonely freshman and sophomore. My father is a good man. Yes he puts on airs of being a curmudgeon. Yes he can be negative and a bit grating sometimes. But he is really soft and loving inside. While he may have a difficult time expressing it (and really what man does not) but his actions have always called the loudest to me of his good nature and his deep love and affection for all of his kids. I mention this because he might have been sensing the depression in me or just wanted to hang out. It was also the middle of winter. I remember being called into the vice principal’s office. This was not uncommon for me as I was extremely bored in high school because of my big brain and I was also acting out because I was a little stressed from having no friends. Whatever I was not shocked to be called to the VP’s office but was surprised when I walked into the office and saw my Dad sitting there looking at me with a dumb grin on his face (the same dumb grin on Andy’s face in the movie “The Shawshank Redemption. I feared I was in real trouble but the secretary just said that my Father had come to take me to my dentist appointment. I didn’t know that I had a dentist appointment and was to learn a little later that I really didn’t have one.
You see my father had wanted to hang out with me. He wanted some company and so we went to get breakfast and I was a happy son. It is all hazy to me now because I was so happy to get out of school and even happier that my Father had chosen me to share an adventure with. Later, though, I remember doing donuts in the snow at the new Meadowood Mall in Reno. I can always bring up that vision of my father laughing his ass off, looking at me as I was smashed against the seat and was thrown about the car while my, and spinning the wheel on his maroon station wagon back-and forth.
So my Father rescued me for at least that day because he became the friend that I so desperately needed. He was not just my Pop, but he was my friend. So even when my father is gone, and it will happen to everybody someday, he will still be here every time I see someone sliding through the snow in their car, or when there is a movie where a car is fishtailing. This I believe is what it means to live on after you are gone.
I have more stories to come and I hope you return as I am going to attempt to write more often and about my memories I have with all my friends and family.
