Tag: friends

The Thrill Is Not Gone

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Brian kicked the bass drum. His foot led the pace of the song. The sound transmitted itself through my chest, challenging my heart for dominance.  I watched Bob as he fingered a chord, ready to join the song. With the pick in his right hand, he raised it and strummed the strings. At the same time, I did the same. Instantly, I was in a band. Bobby launched into the vocals, enthusiasm pouring through the microphone and amplifier into the room. I stood nearest to my friend, Steve, the bassist.

Steve had introduced me to the band, inviting me to join him on a “Friends and Family” night when acquaintances could join the band onstage. That first night was the thrill of a lifetime. And instantly, I had the bug to do more.

I was nervous before joining them onstage that first night. When I’m anxious, I talk nonstop, trying to defuse the tension with humor. I offered to pay off the bartender to call out “last call” to avoid playing and potentially making a fool of myself. I playfully curse my sister-in-law, Steve’s girlfriend, for making me do this in the first place. Steve told me the three songs I would accompany the band with. I had practiced them incessantly for a week. Then, a few hours before the event, he texted me the songs again. Except they were different! I practiced the new batch until I had to leave. When I arrived at the bar, Steve told me the three songs I would be accompanying the band with. Two were different! I panicked. I had played them before but was not as comfortable with them as I was with the others.

And then something amazing happened. I joined the guys on stage, plugged in my guitar, the song began, and muscle memory took over. I did know the songs well enough to enjoy myself thoroughly. The other member of the band, Joel, is flat-out incredible. He plays the guitar (incredibly well), the violin, bass, and harmonica. There are cover songs the band plays where the original has no violin, and yet Joel can launch into a solo that catches your breath. He did that on one of the songs I was playing. Comfortable enough with the rhythm section I was playing, I found myself mesmerized by Joel’s violin. I thought to myself that I had the best seat in the house. When the song ended, I found myself applauding along with the audience.

The band practices every Monday night. I have not joined them as I am not a member. I can only imagine how fluid the band members become as they feed off of each other while playing, comfortable with their arrangement of any given song and working out any flaws. How powerful and collegial it must be.

In contrast, I have only played with Pink Floyd, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, P!nk, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, Eric Clapton, and other bands. Well, not really. I play along with songs by these bands, learning chords, strumming patterns, and pretending I can solo.

I learned to play the guitar in college. I’m left-handed, and so was my roommate, Eric. He played and had a couple of guitars. He taught me a few chords, and I fiddled with them, eager to learn. Bill, across the hall, was a major Ozzy fan. More than once, upon returning from class, I would hear Randy Rhodes midway through a classically inspired solo in an Ozzy song, Bill attempting to follow along. Eric was excellent. I was not. I’m still not. I’ve learned many more chords and can play along with hundreds of songs. And that’s fine with me. Playing the guitar is relaxing. I can play along and forget the stresses of life for a while.

As someone who likes to write, the creativity bug bit me hard before playing with the band. Other than learning the circle of fifths, I churned out eight songs in a week without the benefit of any songwriting rules. Some were new, while others were old poems I put to music. I’m sure they are awful. I’ve played them many times in my office, trying to sing along. Learning to play and sing at the same time is a skill. I’m getting there. I have an audience of one, me, who is critical enough. I doubt anyone outside of my house will ever hear these songs.

Playing with the band has been a thrill. All of the guys are very kind and have welcomed me. They are Crazy Pete’s Band. And like Pink Floyd, none of them are named Pete. There’s a story about the name. Something about a character in their town everyone knew. They play every third Wednesday at the Common Pub in Bristol, Rhode Island. They’re great guys, the music is fun, and it’s a good time and even better when you play with them!

Never Wasted Time

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My late wife had a best friend whose friendship rivaled any as the benchmark of friendships. From elementary school through her death eight years ago, Naomi and Lisa were connected at the proverbial hip.

In the years since her death, Na continues to call me every few weeks to catch up. I’m pretty sure it’s the last act of friendship requested by Lisa and carried out by Na. She checks up on me, asks about the kids, and fills me in on her husband, son, parents, brother, and sister. I appreciate her calling. It’s as if she’s maintaining a thread through the universe and time whose story has expired, but no one told the cloth.

Two days ago, Na called to tell me her dad had died. I did my best to ask the right questions, say the right things, and console Na. Inside, I broke down, and despite my best efforts, some of it snuck through. The last thing I wanted on that call was for Na to console me. I did okay. At least until I hung up. I knew I now had two more calls to make. One to each of my children. They have known Na and her family their entire lives, and Na checks up on them as Lisa’s emissary, too. Those calls hurt even more. I know I didn’t do okay.

Na’s dad liked to talk. And once he started, short of a natural disaster, there was no way of exhausting the discussion. One of my memories of him was that at every party I attended at Na’s house, I always talked to her dad for hours. Everyone else seemed to drift away, leaving me alone. They chuckled. I was the fresh meat. Except I never felt stuck. There was never one conversation I had with him that I regretted. And I know why.

As the newcomer in a relationship as long-lasting and deep as Lisa had with Na (and her family), I was obviously the outsider. To be taken in by Na’s dad felt like acceptance. As if he thought, “If Lisa thinks he’s okay, he must be okay.” I felt like I belonged. Now, he may have been just as comfortable talking to a lamppost for hours on end, but I don’t regret those times talking with him. I have no idea what he thought of me, but he was genuine enough that even my dimwitted perceptive skills probably would have gleaned insincerity in him.

He was a bull who owned his own machinist shop. If asked, to a person, I know one of the first traits people would mention about him was how he was the hardest working person they knew. He would also do what he thought was right. Some would argue that his demeanor may have hindered his medical treatment over the past year. More likely, his hardheadedness kept him going. Let me explain.

Have you ever seen a football game where the running back is handed the ball, gains a few yards, and is tied up but not tackled by a defender? Then another defender makes a hit, and they still can’t take down the running back together. Then, two more join in as the running back’s legs keep moving him forward. Finally, either the pile collapses or the whistle is blown, ending the play. For Na’s dad, the play only ended when circumstances and the universe conspired to overwhelm him with too many medical priorities. He was a force any running back would envy.

As a hardheaded bull (like Lisa and her enormous personality), I know it was hard watching this once-strong man wither and finally succumb. I saw every decrease in Lisa’s health through the end. I did not see his decline. However, I know how hard witnessing it is and what a toll it takes on caregivers. He is at peace now, like Lisa. If there’s a heaven, Lisa greeted him with a smile, a hug, and a cutting joke. I hear him laughing, a cigar in one hand and a popsicle in the other.

If you’re so inclined, have a thought for Na and her family today. They lost a giant.

Field of Memories

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Newport Historical Society Collections Online

Baseball has the ability to transcend time. Look at that photograph. Can you hear it? Ball meeting bat. Can you feel the contact in your hands? Not the connection of springtime baseball, the shock traveling from your seemingly electrocuted hands through your arms and into your teeth, but the solid contact made only in deepest summer. What position are you playing? Are you the batter? The pitcher? Infield? Outfield? On deck? On the bench? Can you hear the people in the stands? Can you smell the grass during the warm summer months? Look up. Can you see the soft white clouds watching the action as they carelessly pass overhead. That is baseball, and this was Basin Field in Newport, RI, in 1910.

Basin Field has hosted baseball games since the railroads backfilled the area initially used as a drainage area for steam engines. It is one of the oldest baseball fields in the United States and a gem.

Bernardo (Vlardino) Cardines was born in Venafro, Italy on November 15, 1895. After his father emigrated to Providence, Rhode Island, and paid for his son’s transatlantic crossing in 1907, they worked as tailors on Thames Street, eventually living with his aunt and uncle a block from what would become his namesake ballpark. Bernardo registered for service in June 1917, was drafted in April 1918, and was killed in action in France during World War I in September of that same year. Initially buried in France, his remains were exhumed and reburied in his hometown of Venafro at his father’s request, who had returned to Italy. Basin Field was renamed Bernardo Cardines Field in 1936. He may have been watching this game in 1910.

Perhaps it’s the story of the Italian immigrant, who, it is said, played baseball at the YMCA, or maybe it’s that baseball field that lives in my soul. It might be remnants of the recently played Field of Dreams game in Dyersville, Iowa, between my beloved Cincinnati Reds and the Chicago Cubs intertwined with scenes from the movie. It might be the link I share with my late father and brother, knowing we all played at Cardines. It could be that I’m just getting older and find myself warmed by the glow of glory days past, thinking of my teammates and adversaries, games and plays, moments and memories. Maybe it’s memories of watching Sunset League games played under the lights as a kid, knowing the 9 pm horn would sound from the fire station across the street and still jumping out of my skin when it went off. Cardines was the equivalent of Fenway Park or Yankee Stadium as a kid. The dream of eventually playing there was the equivalent of playing in the major leagues.

The photograph above struck me as a handshake reaching across time. The players in that photo are long gone. And yet, we share the experience of playing baseball on the same spot of land in Newport, Rhode Island. I know nothing about them other than they enjoyed the game. And that’s enough for us to be teammates and foes, brothers and friends.

Sonny and Pam

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When we first moved to Texas in 2008, it was for the worst possible reason, and naively, we thought, only for a short time. We rented a house thirty minutes north of Houston. It was a cute house, and it had a pool. To be honest, the only reason we rented it was because we needed a rental period of less than a year and finding a property owner willing to agree to that was becoming a problem. My wife had recently been diagnosed with a very aggressive form of breast cancer and, after witnessing the confusion regarding her treatment here in Rhode Island, I had done my homework online and found that her best chance of survival was if she was treated at the University of Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. We broke the news to the kids, and within weeks found ourselves living in Texas. We rented furniture and swam in the pool. The kids were enrolled in a high school four times the size of their Rhode Island school, I was working remotely from the house, and we were constantly on I-45 between Spring and the Texas Medical Center in downtown Houston.

The house was on a busy neighborhood street. Cars were always speeding by, and it seemed the police were always pulling someone over right in front of the house. When we moved in, the people who lived directly across the street came over to introduce themselves. They were older than we were and had lived in the neighborhood for many years. They could not have been nicer to all of us. Pam, like thousands in Houston, worked for a company involved in the energy sector. Sonny was an artist. Not the paint or clay kind, but in leather. He was a master bootmaker. He only worked a few days a week, but he loved it and was helping his nephew get his cobbler business established by teaching him how to use several of the dedicated machines in the shop. Lisa and Pam hit it off immediately, laughing as much as talking. Pam and I also shared an interest. We both loved To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Sonny and I also hit it off, and soon he was inviting me to go fishing with him to a secret spot on an estate his friend had access to. I cannot overemphasize how kind they were to us and how much it put us at ease having moved our family to a new state for the worst reason.

In those first few weeks, it amazed me how quickly life finds ways to get us to go about our routine, even in the face of devastating news and life-changing decisions. Groceries still need to be purchased, dirty dishes still need to be cleaned, and the grass continued to grow. We had handled the first two eventualities in our new life, but the third one stumped me. I knew we were not going to be in Texas forever. The plan was chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, and we’d move back home to Rhode Island, cancer-free and ready to resume life as we knew it. Why would I buy a lawn mower for such a short time? Lisa suggested I ask Sonny if I could borrow his mower for the brief period we expected to be there. I looked across the street and saw Sonny sitting in a lawn chair in his garage looking out over the street. I walked over and asked him if I could borrow his mower – weekly! He never hesitated in saying yes. He got up from his chair, walked me through the side yard into his back yard, and showed me where he hid the key to his shed where he kept the mower, gas can, and all manner of lawn equipment. And so it was that once a week, I would walk across the street, help myself to Sonny’s lawn mower and mow my lawn.

Having grown up on an island, I had done my share of fishing. Either from the causeway connecting Goat Island to downtown Newport, or at the piers where the Navy used to keep its ships, I caught mackerel, choggies, and basically whatever was running. Sometimes I would take a choggie, still on my line and cast it onto the pier where a seagull would swoop down and take it. I would then battle the gull with my fishing pole, reeling it in until it would release the fish and fly away. I used to take the squid I’d caught and bring them to my grandparent’s house where I would clean them for my great-grandmother to cook. I once went deep-sea fishing with my college roommate on his father’s charter fishing boat. I was allowed, between vomiting and violent seasickness, to fight and reel in a 636 pound Bluefin tuna. I share this background in fishing because the one time I was able to go fishing with Sonny, you would have thought I’d never seen a pole before, much less what to do when I caught a fish. Everything I did that day was a disaster. I jammed my reel trying to cast. I dropped fish I’d caught. I almost fell into the lake trying to put a fish onto the string we had set up in the water to hold the caught fish. But it didn’t matter. I was spending time with one of the gentlest, kindest men I had ever met, deep in the unknown parts of Texas. I had a beautiful day. One of those days that you know, while it’s happening, that you are creating a memory that will last forever.

When we returned to Texas because Lisa’s cancer had returned, this time not temporarily, but until the end, we moved back to the same town, but not the same subdivision. Such were the vagaries of real estate options available to us. And while we lived across town from Sonny and Pam, we still kept in touch and were always invited to their family Christmas Eve party. I no longer needed Sonny’s lawnmower. Having moved permanently, I bought a mower. As Lisa became sicker, we limited our time visiting and when Lisa died the kids and I knew it was time to go back home to Rhode Island.

I can’t say I liked much about Texas. But meeting Sonny and Pam was one of the great highlights from our eight years there. I heard from Pam the other day that Sonny isn’t doing too well these days. I can only hope that he continues to do as well as possible for as long as possible. This world needs people like Sonny and Pam, perhaps now more than ever before. I count them among the nicest people I have ever met. I can’t thank them enough for how well they treated Lisa and the kids during the most difficult time in their lives. There are very few people we encounter in life who show us the grace and compassion we wish we could display at all times and for which we would like to be remembered. Sonny and Pam are two of those people.