And so the World Becomes a Little Less Magical. Remembering Harry Kalas

Last night, I checked on the score of the Phillies-Rockies game before bed, and read where Matt Stairs had hit a game-winning home run in the 9th inning. I went to the Phillies website, hoping to see the clip and hear Harry’s call. They had a clip of the hit, but it was the Rockies broadcasters making the call. I shook my head, hoping that they would have changed it by the time I woke up this morning. I really felt like I needed a dose of Harry. Living in Hawaii has it’s pleasures, but proximity to local Philadelphia telecasts and radio signals aren’t among them.

I got the news this morning when I logged onto my computer just seconds before my phone rang with confirmation of the news. At once, a very significant aspect of my life as a Philadelphia sports fan was forever changed.

Harry Kalas has died.

I am certain that in the coming days, writers of far greater skill than I will remember him and memorialize him. I am certain that the Philadelphia Phillies, for whom he was not only the voice, but in many ways the heart, will honor him appropriately. His family and friends will mourn and celebrate him. His fans will tell stories about where they were when they heard him call the 1980 World Series, or the 1993 National League Championship, or Mike Schmidt’s 500th Home Run, or even the Phillies winning the World Series this past year. They might even recall the night that the Phillies and Padres played until almost 5am, and the pitcher Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams had the game winning hit, as there were no players left to hit for him. They’ll remember how they felt when Harry’s longtime broadcast partner Richie Ashburn passed away, and now he and “Whitey” can watch the team from the best seats in the house. They’ll talk about how Harry died at work, getting ready to call today’s game with the Washington Nationals. Some might even say that his final call was a Phils win in which the team staged a 9th inning comeback, and how that is fitting.

But we will all do it in a world that is a little less magical than it was yesterday.

If you are not a sports fan, you may not understand. If you are not a Philadelphia fan, you may not understand. Harry Kalas was Philadelphia baseball to pretty much everyone to whom such things matter. Beyond that, of course, he was a husband, a father, a friend. But to millions of rabid sports fans, to whom the every minute detail of their teams is vital, Harry was the voice. He was the great constant of my life as a baseball fan, which much like the team we both loved, had some ups and downs.

The Phillies had some horrible seasons during my life as a fan. I’ve written in this space before about the joy in my house when the team won the World Championship in 1980. Along the way, through both the highs, like the 1983 and 1993 World Series teams, and of course last years Series win, and the lows, like finishing the season under .500 for the six years leading up to ‘93, twice coming within inches of loosing 100 games in a season…those were bad years. One might have been tempted to turn the game off.

But you didn’t. Because of Harry Kalas. It would have seemed rude to turn the radio off on a hot July day while Harry and Whitey were talking. They tried their best to make dreadful teams interesting during most of the 80’s and much of the 90’s. And we listened. And we watched. And we relished moments of success all the more when we heard how Harry called it. It was as though the moments weren’t real until we heard Harry tell us how it happened. That voice, now silent, permeated the malaise of whatever dreck was on the field. He was in the room with you, and a friend. Even during those drowsy summer afternoons, when the Phils were playing the Cubs, and it was the 7th inning of a 10-3 drubbing, Harry’s voice had the power to wake you up out of a sound sleep when you heard the crack of a bat, followed by “It’s a long drive, deep to left field…that ball is ‘outta here!”

You got jealous when you heard his voice calling NFL games during the Winter. Harry was our voice, and it just didn’t sound right to hear him calling a Lions-Seahawks game in December. But, you could allow him his small indiscretion, as you knew that once Spring Training started, it was just a matter of time until you’d have a chance to hear him again. He was our guy, no matter how many NFL Films shows he narrated.

The voice of Harry Kalas was Summer at the Jersey shore. It was sitting on the big orange couch with my dad, and dozing off in between innings, though we both pretended we weren’t. It was mowing the lawn with headphones on, and doing the last bit real slow so you didn’t have to go inside until the game was over. It was at times, the only reason to pay attention to the often dreadful Philadelphia Phillies. To hear him get caught up in the emotion of a moment, whether it be a title win, a dramatic homerun, or an amazing performance by a pitcher, it was simply all so genuine because he was not just an announcer. He was a fan. He was a friend. He was a Hall of Famer.

He was Philadelphia.

Take a look at this clip if you’d like to see him in one of his best moments.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBk3wTs-t2A&feature=player_embedded

I’m sure there is more I could say, but I’m no Harry Kalas. I’ve found this column difficult to write.

My little girl gave me a hug this morning right after I found out. She saw I was sad, and asked me why. When I told her that I was sad because Harry had died, she said that she wanted to draw an angel. And so she did, and I included the picture here. Suitable for framing...

The Phillies won today 9-8 in Washington. God Speed, Harry.

Ten Albums that changed the World. At least my world...

I had originally envisioned this column as an answer to some Facebook friends who were listing albums that were significant to them. Then, like most of my ideas, the project took on a life of it’s own.

Music has always been a vital part of my life, and the chance to really write about this topic-albums that mattered and/or made for some change in my life was a fun challenge. I hope you enjoy it. These are not in any substantive order. They are in order as I thought to write about them and are not meant to be in any sort of rank. I simply numbered them for ease. There are ten listed and a few honorable mention. Truthfully, there are probably another 30 albums I could do this with, but it is late and I can’t guarantee the kids will stay asleep, so, here we go…

Below are albums that changed the way that I think about music, life, myself, and everything else. I hope you enjoy it and as always welcome your comments both on the page and to me via the magic of email.

1) Marvin Gaye: What’s Going on?
This is among the greatest albums ever made. I’d listened to him sing for years-I loved his Motown stuff solo and with Tammy Tyrelle. I still remember laying on my bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon in 1984, listening to WPST 97.5 FM, out of Princeton, NJ, and hearing the news of his death. He had been making a comeback, and as I had grown to love his earlier work, and was very into his return. I was very saddened by his death. Although, at that point, being not yet 11...I hadn’t really embraced his genius. That came later, and the album did, and continues to, shred me every time I hear it. It is a musical open door into what Marvin wished the listener to see which was a world filled with both challenges and hope. It is among the most pure and unadulterated musical statements I’ve ever been subject to. The way one song flows into another and the layering of sounds that is commonplace today was far more complicated and deliberate with the technology Marvin had on hand during production. It is pure and inspired genius.

I spent a ton of money buying a vintage vinyl copy of this a few years back that was sealed and had never been played. Despite the protestations of the seller, and other vinyl collectors…The moment I had it in my hands, I ripped that sucker open and played it.

It has been said that Marvin felt that God was speaking through him as he worked on this album. I for one, choose not to argue with Marvin. Or God for that matter. If you’ve not heard it, write me. I’ll fix that. It’s that great.

2) Nirvana: Nevermind
It was the Fall of 1991, and I was on a van on the way from Wooster to the Cleveland Airport for break. They had the Cleveland Rock station on the radio, which I believe was 97.5 “The Hawk” or something of that nature. No one was really listening to the radio much, but Guns ’N Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” was just ending. I heard the station bumper, and then that guitar lick at the start of “Smells like Teen Spirit” kicked in and the van got quiet. Everyone stopped talking to listen to this song, as it was unlike anything we had heard before. When it ended, someone asked, “What was that?” Someone responded, “what that GNR?” “It couldn’t have been-they were the song right before…”

Popular music at that point was a lot of hair bands, C and C Music Factory, and Janet Jackson, you might recall. So the sound of “Here we are now…entertain us!” and the energy that whole album generated was a game changer. They burned fast and hot. By the time we all got back from break, we all knew who Nirvana was. And that album changed everything. It went from Poison and Paula Abdul on the radio, to Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam, and later on STP. It was awesome to witness such a dramatic shift.

Nirvana’s Unplugged album was excellent too. I would be sad we never got to see what that band could have gone on to do, had I expected them to last. I didn’t, and they didn’t. But that moment was one that reinforced in me the power of what one genuine artistic moment can make happen not only to music, but to a culture in general. Pretty sure I never wore my “Z Cavaricci” pants again…

3) Miles Davis: Kind of Blue
Grouping together Miles Davis with Bill Evans, Jimmy Cobb, John Coltrane, and Cannonball Adderley would have likely generated a great group of recordings anyway. What Davis did on this album is again, another game changer. He gave his group a broad idea what he was looking for, and then just played. The album stands up, and should be listened to on vinyl, and with very little light, at night, with a fine beverage in hand, preferably with a companion.

I was always into Jazz growing up-my parents littered out musical library with a large Big Band collection, and some really nice vintage Ellington’s and Basie’s, but also some real nice Dave Brubeck. I came to Davis and the “Cool” era of Jazz a little later, as part of a Jazz course I took in college. And once I heard it, I listened to it again. It got to the point that I would listen to it regularly, and try to follow a different player each time. One time, I’d follow Miles, another Cannonball. Then I’d follow Coltrane.

This was another one that I bought on Vinyl, and paid a lot, and have never regretted it. It just sounds better in that medium. It was simply unlike anything before or since and redefined what an album could be.

4) Paul Simon: Graceland
I listened to this constantly in 1986. I had listened to Simon and Garfunkel constantly growing up, and remember being so blown away by the rich texture of sounds and ideas that seemed packed into each song. I remember sitting in my room listening to that one over and over, and only getting up to flip the cassette. It was simply a great album that introduced me not only to “Ladysmith Black Mambazo” but also “Los Lobos” which was a nice bonus.

Honestly, the world just felt like a much smaller place to me after diving into this album. Perhaps that’s just idealistic teenage attitude coming back to me on echo through the years, but that’s what I remember thinking.

5) Kool & The Gang: Spin Their Top Hits
I was in sixth grade and totally into Kool and The Gang. They were form Jersey, which was always a bonus for me. I played their “In the Heart” album, and “Emergency” to destruction in those years, and each time they had a big hit, like “Fresh,” “Cherish,” and “Misled,” I felt like it was vindication of my fandom. Everyone else was grooving on what I already knew was cool.

I was in the old Jamesway on Route 130 wasting time on a Saturday, having already dumped my quarters into the “Donkey Kong” machine they had there, and I was looking at cassettes in the discount bin. A lot of junk, but then, I saw this album. As I looked at the cover, I saw that it had a photo of a huge brass section, a gigantic percussion array, and what looked like a choir, all on stage, under funky lights and fog effects. It was surreal, but I made plans to come back the next Saturday, after I’d made a few bucks mowing lawns that week, and buy it. To make sure no one got it first, I hid it in the classical section, turned around, so I’d know where to find it. Which, thankfully I did, the next Saturday. It hadn’t moved, and with great excitement, I rode my bike home, through the trailer park, cutting across that guys yard and into the woods that no longer exist, and right into the back corner of the Manor. I plopped it into my dual cassette deck…way cool I know…it even had high speed dubbing….and as I did so, the opening track, “Open Sesame” started with a weird and freaky sound that I’d never really heard before. I was being encouraged to “Get down with the Genie” who repeatedly shouted “Shazam!” over seriously righteous horns.

There was no James “JT” Taylor croons: This was not The Kool & The Gang I was used to, and at first, I was very upset by it, and reached for the stop button. As my finger poised above the button, I heard the leader cry out, “Abracadabra…get on your camel and ride” and the brass section answered him with a hammering response. Even listening to it now, I can feel my eyebrow raises with memory of the sheer audacity. I gently backed away from the stop button, and instead hit the volume, falling onto my bed and choosing to take the ride. The album includes famous tunes like “Jungle Boogie” and “Hollywood Swinging” which were hits, and would later gain even more notice in movies and as samples for other hip hop artists. The album showed me that it was always worthwhile to explore an artists' full catalog-a practice I still continue. In the end, I still feel like Kool & The Gang are kind of a personal preference, and when they come on, I feel like I’m in on something that no one else is. But truth be told, The album, and most of what they did in the '70's, still rocks. I’m not sure that “In the Heart” does…but it changed my thinking about looking at a group or a performer and allowing them room to grow and adapt, a lesson that would serve me well when Album #7 on this list came out.

6) RUN DMC: Raising Hell
I was a huge fan of rap in the 80’s. I remember as a kid in the Manor, we used to congregate up at the side street near Roscoe’s house, and we would spread out the cardboard and breakdance to the music that Roscoe was into that week. I remember Kurtis Blow, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, early LL Cool J, UTFO, and even some Afrika Bambaata.

But in the end, it was RUN DMC that the guys and I rapped word for word on the way to SPS. I know that our bus driver at the time raised an eyebrow or two when we reached the album’s last track, “Proud to be Black.” That notwithstanding, “Peter Piper” is pure and simple awesomeness that has been copied way more than anyone could possibly count. The guitars show up on “It’s Tricky” and by the time you get to “You Be ‘Illin” you are deep into a whole new type of album-there is rap, of course, but there is serious callbacks to ‘70’s funk and rock, and the whole conglomeration was just unlike anything I’d ever heard before. I think I was one of the first kids in my class to bring their “King of Rock” tape to parties, but the “Raising Hell” album changed everything, making Rap mainstream, and revitalizing Aerosmith’s career. Everyone had it and everyone listened to it.

Run-DMC created a whole new genre with this album. And yes, I asked for a pair of Adidas. I didn’t get them. Alas. But I did get a pair of Fat shoelaces. Once my parents saw how Foley strung them for me, with the shoes wide open and laces fluffed up, they were immediately confiscated and never seen again. So it went.

7) U2: Achtung Baby
OK, I was into U2 pretty much from the moment that I heard the guitar opening of “I Will Follow” from a tape Reid brought on the bus one day in middle school. I liked “War” and of course, there is no Junior High memory that does not in some way feel like “The Joshua Tree” was playing in the background. I liked them. The first Compact Discs I ever bought after getting my CD player (Complete with dual cassette deck as well…) for making honor roll all year in ninth grade was “Rattle and Hum,” and I played the daylights out of that thing. That was 1988. I played it a lot over the coming years, but truth be told, I was tiring of it by the time I left for college in the Fall of 1991. As I discussed earlier, there were other bands doing some new and interesting things-Nirvana, G’NR, Pearl Jam, and other bands were making noise that year, and driving the radio in a harder direction, which, despite my affection for Bobby Brown, (“Don’t Be Cruel” might have made this list were it much longer…) was a change that I welcomed.

And, then, the Winter of ‘91 came around, and U2’s “Achtung Baby” was released, and I was nervous the first time I had the chance to hear it. A girl on the swim team gave me one of her headphones and we listened to it together on a bus trip to somewhere. I was afraid I wouldn’t like it-I’d heard it was different, and weird and any number of other things. But, to me, The Edge’s first guitar lick on the opening song, “Zoo Station” was like call back to the way that he opened “I Will Follow” and I sat there feeling like I was in for a treat-and I was. There are some songs on the album that I’m not crazy about, but what the album showed me once again was that a band of genuine musicianship can grow and adapt and change and be relevant as long as they want to. Plus, it rocks. With “Achtung Baby” U2 became one of those bands that I will get every new record they put out. And that list, especially in this economy, is growing smaller.

8) Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band: Live 1975-85
“Screen door slams…Mary’s dress sways…” I first heard this line at a party during eight grade, probably someone’s birthday or something in early December. All I know is that I had to have it for Christmas that year, which was 1986. Fortunately, I got it, and I spent almost all of the Winter Break from SPS listening to it and reading the huge book that came with it. Reading the lyrics as he sang them was a pretty cool thing, as even back then, I had aspirations of writing. Although I am retired from the singer/songwriter thing now, I know that hearing lines like, “Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk,” and “You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain/Make crosses for your lovers, throw roses in the rain/Waste your summer praying in vain for a saviour to rise from these streets,” were powerful motivators for me then as well as now. I always found it interesting that he spelled "Saviour" in that manner.

The five and a half minute story that he tells about him and his father before a gut-busting version of “The River” still tenses me up, waiting for that harmonica wail. Gets me every time. By the time I arrived at the end of the marathon recording (Five LP's. Only 3 Casettes) with his trademark version of “Jersey Girl,” which for some reason, Tom Waits actually wrote, I felt like anything was possible. Not just artistically, but in general.

It’s still heady stuff, and when I thought about how young he was when he was writing this stuff, it gave me the sense that maybe something I had to say, either through music or other writing, was worth saying.

The second half of my eighth grade year was much better than the first half. I won’t go so far as to say the album is responsible, but Bruce is from Jersey…so one never knows. We do look out for our own...

9) Def Leppard: Pyromania
It was 1983. The closest thing to Heavy Metal in my home growing up would have been “The Canadian Brass Orchestra’s Holiday Album” that someone got from an old Getty station for filling up a certain number of times.

The guys down the street listened to Ozzy, and Judas Priest, and AC/DC, all of whom I would fall in love with later, but they had long hair and got detentions at school. So, at that time, that "type of music" was verboten in our house.

We had a family beach trip that Summer, to Island Beach State Park. My sister had a cute friend who joined us that day, and she brought a few tapes along for her walkman and being genuinely nice, she let her friend’s little brother listen to them.

I don’t remember what else she brought, but I know she brought “Pyromania,” as it simply blew my 9 year old little mind away. The sheer power of the guitars, led of course by the late Steve “Steamin’” Clark and Phil Collen were unlike pretty much anything I had heard before. By the time I reached “Too Late for Love,” I knew that this album was something special-I mean, it’s a ballad, and the lead singer is screaming over blazing guitars. How was this possible? Joe Elliot’s effortless high notes were both polished and gritty. I knew that I had to listen to whatever he had to say, but it was really the overall force of the band as a whole that had me back at Jamesway the next weekend buying this one on vinyl. I listened to it constantly and exclusively when my parents were not home.

Not only did it open a whole new world of music to me, it gave me something to talk about with her friend, who as I said was cute, and always really nice to me. I was still nine, and absolutely and in no way any cooler than I was before I owned a copy of the coolest album of 1983...but I felt cooler. That, and I realized that there was more stuff out there that I had never heard before…

10) The Smiths: Louder than Bombs
I came to The Smiths late in high school when Jason and Brian and Mike made me listen to them, and I liked them. I went to Princeton Record Exchange around 89-90 and bought this one on vinyl, as it was a double album, so I figured I could catch up fast. I brought it home and listened to it on my parents stereo before they got home, sitting in the big orange chair that we used to have in the living room. I was blown away by the musicianship. The songs were tight and Johnny Marr was such a powerful force he didn’t have to play loud. Morrissey was Morrissey.

The next day I went back to the Exchange and bought “Rank” “Meat is Murder” and pretty much every other one I could find. The Smiths were one of those bands that I missed at first, but was glad to have someone smarten me up. Morrissey’s writing had a genuine impact on the writing that I did at the time, and I am still glad for it.

Honorable Mentions:
---Violent Femmes: Add it Up
We used to sing every single song on this album during shows at HHS. Every word. Every line. It sounded like nothing that I had ever heard before. Still does. The music that these guys played was like an accidental finger-full of lemon juice on a paper cut. And it rocked.
Fun aside. I wrote and performed the music at a friends wedding a while back. It was all planned out by the note. Over a year of composition. And the day of the wedding, the minister asks if I can play something for the candle ceremony. Having mere seconds to come up with something, I move into a very “arpeggio-laden” version of “Good Feeling” from this album. I hoped it would come off as pretty, and I recall later that the bride’s mother commented on how ‘pretty that was” and the bride herself commented, smilingly, as I recall: “Did you just play Violent Femmes at my wedding?” It was a good, good day, as I recall.

--The Hooters: Nervous Night
This was junior high in South Jersey. This was the album that you had to have if you were having a party at your house. If you were lucky, that girl you liked might dance with you when “Where do the Children go?” slipped in on side two. I have some particularly fond memories of this album from the summer after grade 8, but that is another story entirely. In the end, they were a really good Philly band that not only made good, they opened Live Aid in 1985. I can’t hear “And We Danced” today without remembering all the times I did just that to that song both in the SPS basement and a variety of junior high parties. It was just such good standard fare for living in Jersey in the mid 1980’s.

Albums I might write about if I do a part two to this series include:
--Frank Sinatra: In the Wee Small Hours.
--Duke Ellington: Ellington at Newport
--Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young: Déjà vu
--Suddenly Tammy!: We Get There When We Do
--Muddy Waters: Folk Singer

This column kind of got away from me. Sorry about that, but music does that to me I suppose.

I am currently working on two more columns. The first is tentatively titled: “The Secret and Magical Life of Toys.” The second is my now annual look at why I won’t be purchasing Wrestlemania this year. Thank you as always for your support…Aloha!

St. Patrick’s Day: Daddy Pop, Engagement Rings, and Choosing Joy.

I don’t recall St. Patrick’s Day being a huge deal in my house growing up. I know we’d have Corned Beef and Cabbage, and cooked carrots and Potatoes, but to be honest, we’d have that several times a year whenever the mood struck to make it and Shop Rite would comply by putting Corned Beef on sale.

Though I’m not Catholic, I went to a Catholic school for grades 1-8, and we had a St. Pat’s dance every year. I didn’t get to go during sixth grade as J.C. and I were goofing off in the hallway, and Sister “She Hate Me” made me sit in the stairwell for the rest of the day. J.C. got to go, but I didn’t. But that is another story, though a good one, as that day really hurt. I had finally worked up the nerve to ask that 8th grade girl to dance, and I missed my chance. Perhaps I’ll tell that one day.

But I digress. St. Pat’s was a holiday that I embraced later in life-after college really. I’d always been interested in my family history-still am in fact. Through the work my great-grandfather did, along with my Uncle and his mother, and myself to a lesser degree, we’ve traced both my paternal and maternal grandmother’s families back to Ireland and Germany, among other places. My paternal grandfather was an orphan, and we know very little about his family except that his father was from Austria and I believe his mother was Liverpuddlian.

My paternal grandmother was a Buchanan. Her Grandparents were from Gort and Raphoe. Her father worked quite diligently to record our family genealogy, by some accounts to prove he was related to former President James Buchanan, who by nearly all accounts was among the worst Presidents in the brief history of our nation. His family tree is extensive, and goes back nearly 12 generations from my children, but perhaps his greatest accomplishment was that he was able to reconnect with the family still living “across the pond.” I’m pleased to say that we are still in contact with them.

I had some fun St. Patrick’s days after college, though most of them didn’t have a ton to do with exploring my heritage. I actually spent one St. Pat’s day in Switzerland, though it was not what I would call widely celebrated there. I was able to procure a few Guinness. That was a fun trip as I recall.

But why does the day matter to me? Certainly one could say that I’m embracing my cultural heritage and roots, but one could say the same thing about why I love Oktoberfest with my friends every year. I will freely admit to enjoying parades and corned beef (I’ve made 4 in the last week…) and beer. But that, I think is oversimplifying things.
I think there’s more to it than that.

Perhaps I love St. Patrick’s day for all those reasons, but I think I love it most as it’s taken on more meaning for me, and my family since St. Patrick’s Day, 1998.

Maybe that’s the place to start.

The wife wasn’t my wife then, though we had been together since 1992. We were clearly moving towards marriage but we hadn’t gotten there yet. Some would say I was taking too long. In fact many did. Loudly. I shant go too deep into that, except to say that though I always knew we’d get married, I didn’t feel ready to be married until the year before we got engaged. And then I had to raise money to buy a ring. And so forth.

Needless to say, when it finally happened, there was a great sigh of “It’s about damned time” from several circles in our lives. But I had a plan all along. Sorta. Here’s the story behind the first of many great St. Patrick’s Days.

We had been together since 1992, when we met at College in Ohio of all places. 1998 would find me working at a school in NY and her working at a Church in North Jersey.

If you knew me then, you’ll know that I was not what one would call the most fiscally responsible of young men. I tended to spend it before I had it, and while I have since learned much better, I had a damned good time at the time. So, the prospect of saving for an engagement ring was a daunting one. Even with promises from family friends that they could get me a deal, to say that I was starting the process already in the hole would have been an understatement. I was 24, living on a school campus where I paid almost no bills and had three meals a day most of the time, and traveling to see my girlfriend pretty much every weekend and taking her out whether I could pay for it or not.

So, I wasn’t making a lot, but I was spending more.

So, when I finally felt I was ready to get engaged, I did so with the rather daunting task of having to make some money, outside of my normal salary.

So, I became the “Nighttime Security Dean” on the campus where I worked. I basically took over for the Dean when he or she went to bed, and walked around with the emergency pager. I did this 3-4 nights a week from about 9pm until 6am. The emergency pager went off a total of zero times during my run at night, which would have made things more interesting.

I’ll admit, I tried to take a few naps in the office in between rounds of aimlessly meandering around the campus. I went so far once as to lay down on the couch in lobby of the administration building. I was tired, but guilt and devotion to service got the better of me. I could usually catch a nap from 6am-9am when my first class started, and then get a little more in the afternoon before lacrosse practice or whatever else I had to get done. And I was young, so I managed. It was tiring though.

But it was also paying off. After a couple of months, I had enough stocked away to start seriously planning out what I was going to get her. I knew exactly what I wanted and I had an idea what I could get it for from the friend of our friend. I opened a passbook savings account at my bank, which seems like an antiquated concept these days. I remember opening the account and they asked me if I wanted an ATM card so I could access the money, and I sent the septuagenarian bank manager out of her chair when I perhaps too loudly replied, “God no! Don’t let me touch it!” After apologizing for the disruption, I explained that the account was to buy my girl a ring, and that I wasn’t to touch it until I hit my magic number. And I didn’t, I’m proud to say.

My nights as the Nighttime Dean were relatively dull in general, so I started writing what in many ways might have been the Grandfather of this column. “Nocturnal Emotings” was basically my nighttime report to the Dean about the events of the evening. Since very little actually happened, I chose to either discuss other matters of life at the school, or simply choose to be a sleepy smart-ass about how exciting things were. While very few of these columns survive, the audience, who consisted of the Dean and his assistant, seemed to enjoy them. I would like to think I’ve improved since then.

But, I again digress. I eventually earned enough money to start a serious conversation about a ring. I kept my extra job a secret from my future fiancé, which was difficult at times. The student body alone was 150 strong, not to mention 30-40 faculty members who had to keep the secret whenever she came to visit. But, the secret held, and I soon had a ring in hand: round stone, Cathedral setting. Very nice. Part one of my plan was over.

Part two involved the way in which to pop the question. I debated a number of ideas before settling on St. Patrick’s Day in New York City.

Now, I have always been more of a South Jersey-Philadelphia kind of guy. But at the time, I was living in New York, She was living in North Jersey, and the spectacle that is the parade in Manhattan was an intoxicating one. Plus, I figured, it might be the kind of thing that masks my true aim for the trip.

It was important to me to surprise her. I knew that she knew it was coming, and found out later that she had suspected my intentions for St. Pat’s for some time indeed. I had asked her to get the day off about a month in advance, which was more forethought than I was known for at the time. But we’d enjoyed a number of Guinness toast Functions and the Irish bar in her town over the years she’d lived there, so it was not a stretch to think ‘we could have fun at the parade.’ I later learned that she initially had a hard time with her boss getting the day until she kinda flipped on him saying “I think he’s going to propose, so can I just take the stinking day off?!” He relented, and plans were set.

As we got closer to the day, there was excitement. I wasn’t nervous at all-we’d been together a long time. Long enough to know it was the right time and place. I had planned out pretty much every detail except one. I knew where we’d watch the parade. I knew where we’d have lunch and cocktails. I knew we’d somehow “Find ourselves” near the Natural History Museum, which just “happened” to be holding an exhibition on “The Nature of Diamonds,” which if you’re interested you can read about here: http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/diamonds/ And we would enjoy that. Well, I knew I would. I knew that she would likely be thinking about the ring case in my pocket all day, wondering when I was going to pop the question. And I was going to wait until she stopped wondering.

So, we went to the parade. We drank a few Guinness at McSorley’s. We had lunch at Maggie’s Place. If you are in Manhattan, you have to try Maggie’s Place: http://www.maggiesnyc.com/ It’s awesome, and would have made a great backdrop for our engagement. But it didn’t. If you click on the photo section of their website, the fourth one down has a picture of the room we ate in. Booth on the left-all the way at the top. Ah, memories…

We walked through Central Park. That too might have been good, but it wasn’t quite right, yet.
The museum appeared on the horizon just where it was supposed to. Under the auspices of needing to visit the restroom, we ducked in. I then suggested that we check out the exhibits-we were there after all…

So we did. We both promptly fell asleep during the “Titanic” documentary. We then walked about and meandered our way into the Diamond exhibit. Her pace quickened a bit, thinking I imagine that this might be it. Perhaps I’d worked our ring into the exhibit? Yeah, that would have been cool, but even Kugs didn’t have that kind of pull back in the day.

But I was dragging it out. It was a nice exhibit, and I actually found that I knew a great deal about Diamonds, having done a ridiculous amount of research on them before I bought one. Hey-I might have been spendthrift back then, but even I don’t drop that kind of cash without doing my homework. I had a lovely time, in fact at one point engaging in a very interesting discussion with one of the curators regarding their exhibit on Clarity. I could feel the eyes of my soon to be fiancé rolling behind me, and I knew that the time was nigh…

And we left the Museum. That might have been a nice spot for the ring to come out. But it didn’t.
So we walked out into the cold NYC afternoon. I noticed her flexing her hands a bit, as though she was trying to remind them not to smack me. And I knew the time was close. We walked back towards the park, and next to me I heard a sigh. A short one, to be certain, but it was just the kind of sigh I was looking for. We crossed Central Park West and walked a bit before pulling up at a small pond. She looked dazed and confused, so, I knew it was, as 'Ol Mandelbaum would have said, “Go Time.”

“Did you like the exhibit?” I asked.

“It was fine.”

And after surreptitiously working through the five layers of “ring security” I was wearing and pulling it out, I asked,

“Well, you saw all those other diamonds…I wonder what you think of this one?”

She looked over, my future wife and mother of my children, truly never more than in that moment the love of my life, and said…I can hear it like it was yesterday, blowing in on, as Rhode Island’s own Jeffery Osborne might have sung, “on the wings of love,” as she said,

“Huh?”

Yep. That’s really what she said. Un-panicked, I followed up with, what I thought was a very “Han-Solo-in ‘Empire Strikes Back’ banter-with-Leia-like” response of, “Well, are you going to marry me or what?”

She recovered, and countered with, “Well, are you going to marry me?”

To which I replied, “Well, I asked you first!”

And so it went. Ring went on. We went home. We later got married and stuff too.

St. Patrick’s day then had added meaning for us as a family. Over the next years, we would spend some together and some apart. I actually worked several when I was working at an Irish place in North Jersey. Those were always a good time. We spent that one in Switzerland. We actually started celebrating the “Halfway to St. Pat’s Irish Weekend” in Wildwood for several years. Any excuse to celebrate, I suppose. We spent out honeymoon in Ireland as well, doing among other things, visiting with my Irish relatives in Donegal, and seeing parts of the Island where my ancestors lived. It was a very cool visit, one which I probably should write about on its own at some point.

Last year, we went into Honolulu and got dinner and walked around the block party that the two main Irish places in the city run. It was ok, but nothing spectacular. We skipped that this year, and had a party at our house with friends over the weekend, and will be celebrating today with a simple family dinner.

In the end, I think I’ve always had an affinity to my Irish heritage and St. Pat’s for a variety of reasons. My family tree is extensive on the island, and it has been a tantalizing subject to research and explore. I’ve always had an affinity for the Irish Pub, and can’t ever recall a day where I had a bad time in one. I’ve enjoyed learning about the general history of Ireland. I like to travel, but usually feel like I’m ready to go when it’s time to go. I didn’t feel that way when we left, and seriously thought about staying longer as one of my Irish cousins was getting married the week after we left.

I remember saying when we drove through the countryside, and the cities, and seeing “Inch Level,” which was a coastal area that my ancestors retired to, not only in a painting on my cousins wall, but in person when he told me as I was admiring his painting, “Oh, that’s just down the street.” I remember feeling like I could live there, and felt very much at peace.
Ironically, the only other place I ever really felt like that was Hawaii. I never really thought about the irony until just now.

I love the genealogy and the history, and remembering my family, but those things are not limited to one day. Neither is my love for my wife. They coincide with that day, but they are as timeless as, well, as timeless as my Great Grandfather, “Daddy Pop” I suppose.

“Daddy Pop” was a genuine character who I remember only a little, but heard about constantly as I grew up. He did everything. He built stuff, and painted stuff, and had cat named Fred, and I used to take his cane and run away from him when I was little. He was seated or course. Apparently he used to get a kick out of that.

But as I was writing this, my mother reminded me of something he used to say: "The Top of the day to ye; and the Rest of the Day To Me’self.” I had forgotten about that, but it made me laugh out loud.

His picture hangs in my dining room. We named my youngest daughter for him. He was a character of the highest order, and as I remember him, he was someone who just seemed to get joy from things.

I think I’ve embraced St. Patrick’s Day for a genuinely simple reason: I chose to. I like it. It’s fun. It brings joy. So, Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Embrace the joy. Turns out she liked the diamond just fine, by the way.

What does a Stegosaurus Sound like? A tribute to the "Little Bear"

First off, I would very much like to thank you for reading. My last column in this space set a new record for the site, and I am both grateful and humbled by your support. This column is now being read in 11 countries, and I am moved by that in a manner that I do not have the words to express.

So, I will simply say both Thank you, and Mahalo, as they say here on Oahu. I hope to continue to be worthy of your attention.

For those of you who are new readers, and again, thank you for that, my current situation is that I am a retired educational administrator from New Jersey. I retired from a career as a high school administrator in order to be a stay-at-home-dad for my three kids, and to support the career and ministry of my wife, who works for the government.

I have two pieces I’ve been working on, and while I had considered combining them both for this entry, I decided to focus solely on revisiting a theme from last October, when I wrote “This is what I do now. And my kids are cool,” which you can peruse in the archive by clicking here: http://alohakugs.blogspot.com/2008/10/this-is-what-i-do-now-and-my-kids-are.html

We started calling our youngest “Bear” when she was really little, mostly due to the fact that she seemed to growl like I imagine a snuggly teddy bear would growl, were it inclined to do so. She rarely seemed agitated when she made the noise-we all just figured that she’d chosen that noise to utilize as a stopgap until she’d learned the language. I suppose there were moments that she sounded like a Pirate, but that doesn’t make nearly as amiable a nickname for a little girl.

So, she’s been the Bear for longer than we have lived here. It stuck, and it seems to work.

But she’s growing and learning, and has genuine conversations now. She uses complete sentences and is a real chatterbox of late. She still growls on occasion, but it’s mostly when she’s holding a Dinosaur Chicken Nugget, especially the ones shaped like a Stegosaurus. She growls then in imitation of what she imagines the Stegosaurus would sound like. She likes that one, since it’s Mommy’s favorite Dinosaur.

I don’t know what a Stegosaurus would sound like. I’m certain though that they would appreciate her tribute, being extinct and all.

But, besides the occasional growl, she is really very verbal now, and turning into a big kid right before my eyes. She told me the other day that she “actually like nuggets.”

Yeah, she went there. I think she was imitating her brother, but I wasn’t ready for her to use “actually.”

Now, when her brother and sister got big, it was my first time seeing the kids get bigger, and this was back in Jersey when I was working full time, so I missed quite a bit. And, seeing the kids age for first time, I don’t know that I caught as much as I do now, with the mantle of experience and the stay-at-home-dad life change thing having occurred. I’m seeing it all now. Every new word and new trick. I catch it all these days.

And it still seems at times like I’m moving in slow motion and the kids are on fast forward. Someone once told me that being a stay-at-home-parent meant that the days were long, but the years were short. I think that’s true. The days are really long sometimes, and they are challenging a lot. I can tell you exactly how many days of the last year I prayed for patience: 366. I added the extra day just in case…

But the Bear is really a person now. She likes to go to the store with just me and ride in the cart and has to make sure that we have strapped her in with the “buckles.” She likes to be strapped in until she doesn’t. Then, she really doesn’t want to be strapped in…

She has all sorts of adventures with “Baby Ruff-Ruff.” Ruff-Ruff is a little pink doggie. She, and the Boyo’s “Blue Doggie,” and the Girl’s “Pinky Dog,” have a whole adventuring family of their own. I wish I had their daily imaginations to work with. The way that they make magic happen with these doggies is truly an inspirational study of the joy and power of pure unadulterated love. If I could capture a tenth of what they come up with their dogs, and their other toys and animals, I’d be all set as a writer, I think.

Thursdays I take her to the library, and while she’s often not long for the Storytime, she does well with looking for books for her siblings-she picks them out, and sometimes she gets them movies too. Then we go to one of the two drive-thru Starbucks on the Island and get “Madeline” cookies for her brother and sister after we get them from school. She’s very thoughtful that way. She’s more thoughtful after she’s had her cookie though.

But, in addition to her ongoing case of “I-wanna-be-a-big-kid-it is” she’s really growing to be a very clever and thoughtful kid. And sometimes, she’s just a freakin’ riot.

Like today-we were dropping off the twins at school, and for some reason she fixated on the big Palm Tree outside the classroom. She walked up to the tree, and hugged it, and started singing “shakity-shake…shake the tree…”

It should be noted that she really likes the Disney Channel’s “My Friends Tigger and Pooh,” and in a favorite episode of the aforementioned Bear watched “Darby,” who is the little girl essentially playing a modern-day “Christopher Robin” it would seem, has to solve a mystery all by herself, without the other “Super Sleuths.” So, she and her trusty Doggie “Buster” go off to do some “Sleuth-erin,” as Tigger says.

One of her tasks on this case is to collect fresh lemons for Kanga’s “Cure-a-Cold” remedy, as everyone seems to be sick, and she finds the Lemon tree, and figures out that she has to shake the tree to get the Lemons to fall.

So she sings….and Buster helps.

And so the Bear, out of the blue today starts shaking a palm tree outside of the twins school, that, mind you, she’s walked past all year… and asking,

“Where Lemons, Daddy? Where’s Buster?”

I didn’t have an answer, so she shook the tree again…It was really something to see. She did it again when we picked the twins up at the end of school, only at this point, the twins were looking for lemons too. And Buster. It was genuinely funny.

She’s taken to playing a new game with rather simple but effective rules that she made up all herself. I’m assuming that she calls the game “I Got You!” as that’s what she calls out every time she sneaks up behind me and either grabs my leg or jumps up on my back. She’s undefeated so far, despite my best efforts to “Get” her right back. She’s genuinely crafty, and picks her spots well, when I’m least expecting it. This game is not to be confused with “Hi there” which while it can also break out at any time without warning, tends to be more of a playground game. She’s a grand Champion in both though.

She has a new affection for the Honu (turtles) and as they are a very popular local symbol here, she sees them all the time, taking great pleasure in calling out to them. “Honu, Daddy! Lookit! Hi Honu!” She has a similar reaction to Fishies, Girrafies, and of course, Ruff-Ruffs. She likes her animals.

That, and she’s subtly letting me know that she wants to go to school. Whenever we drop the twins off, it’s another edition of the “I come too!” monologue. I know she wants to go, and we could conceivably try to get her ready for pre-school in the fall, but I’m not sure that she’ll be ready. And I’m even less sure that I’ll be ready. Once she gets to school, as it was with the twins, it will be the first of a series of steps away…and I’m not sure I’m quite done playing with the Bear yet.

Of course, as I typed that last line, I heard a crash of monumental proportions from her room. Apparently Baby Ruff-Ruff couldn’t find her glasses, and pulled out a drawer from the dresser, which then crashed to the floor. The glasses were found. Actually, they aren’t glasses-it is the strap of her brother’s bike helmet, which Ruff-Ruff is riding in. You can see the whole apparatus in the picture above.

As I said, quite the adventures these kids go on with their doggies. When the time comes for the Bear to go to school, I suppose I should be comforted by the fact that it will give me some quality time with the twins, as they will likely go on different days at the start. It’s strange to think of this house being quiet. Kind of eerie actually… Not sure I’m ready for that yet.

As I’ve said in this space before, I blinked and the twins were four. Bear will be three this winter. The days are indeed long, but the years are going by fast. Too fast.

The Surprising Circle of Memory. Or; The Big Island begets thoughts of Thoreau, Moving, and moments from Hurricane Island

The family took a trip to the “Big Island” of Hawai'i recently, and it was a very interesting experience on a lot of levels. It’s nearly three weeks later now, and I’m going through some of my writing while I was over there.

In general, I found Hawai'i which is its proper name, a great deal more peaceful than Oahu. Part of that was most certainly the far diminished air traffic. The lack of Military traffic alone made the ambient silence almost unsettling at first. I am finding it is very true what they say about people being able to get used to anything. Between the commercial planes, and the fighter jets and the huge cargo planes, the noise on Oahu is quite substantial at times, but I suppose I had stopped hearing most of it, until it was absent. In general, I found the people we interacted with even more laid back than those on Oahu, if that is possible. There was a mellowness to them that was very genuine, and while there are areas of the island that were rather commercial, it was nothing like being in Waikiki. Waikiki seems more like Las Vegas at times. I found the climate a bit cooler and breezier than what were are used to as well.

You can’t believe the sheer size of the Mountains. Our first few days, we couldn’t even see the general shape of them-just a huge slope upward ending in clouds and vog. Now, I’ve never seen the Rockies, and the Blue Ridge down South and the Kittatiny’s of Jersey are quaint and all, but holy cow, once the clouds cleared about day three, it was like we were on another planet. Between the lava fields on the side of the two-lane highway, the jagged and black appearance of some of the coastlines, and the sheer size of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, I thought I had arrived on Mars. It was truly breathtaking.

Also, it was much darker on Hawai'i. The breakthrough light from Waikiki alone is quite bright, but it is even more noticeable when one travels a scant 170 miles West to Kona on the Big Island. The Island is home to the Mauna Kea Observatory, and from what I could tell, they chose a swell spot for looking at them there stars up there. Truth be told, I don’t feel I see them well on Oahu. I was nice to see the stars again in such an abundance, and if the moon were full as opposed to ¾ full during our visit, I would likely have been able to write by it. The night sky was crisp and black.

In all, it was a dramatic visual change from Oahu, and very much made me want to visit the other Islands.

It also made me think about the decision that we made to move all the way out here. There were a lot of reasons behind our decision and a year later, I stand by them even more. While there have been definite bumps in the road-some expected and some surprising, we have accomplished a great deal of what we came here to do as a family. We have simplified our life professionally, economically, environmentally, and personally. The wife’s career has done very well. We’ve challenged ourselves to move way outside our comfort zone.

I was reminded of a line from Thoreau’s Walden, recently.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Thoreau has always been a favorite of mine. When I came across this line, I thought that at its core, our choice to move to Oahu, while nowhere near as grandiose an experiment as Henry’s, was born of some similar motivations. We wanted to make choices about the kind of life we were living. I wanted the chance to be a full time Father to my kids. We wanted time to focus on our family. I no longer wanted to work the way I was working back home. I didn’t want to discover that “When I came to die” I had spent more time at work than I had with my own children and my wife. They, are my “essential facts of life,” so to speak.

Perhaps I am stretching the parallel to Thoreau, but, if I ever meet him and he asks me about it, I’ll just tell him I “heard a different drummer” and we’ll have a laugh about it and go have a beer with Hawthorne.

I think the newness of the Big Island really inspired me to think back on our move, as in all honestly, after we first moved here, Oahu felt like another planet as well, compared to New Jersey. It was somewhat humbling to see how things can change in a year.

As I sat on the balcony of our Big Island hotel one evening after the wife and kids had zonked out, looking at the stars that, for a change, were bright and twinkling as they should, I was reminded, and I’m not entirely certain why, of my time at the Hurricane Island Outward Bound in Maine.

I’ve never written about this trip before. It took place during May of my Senior year of High School, and was essentially a Senior Trip. It was the culmination of a series of courses we had to take to prepare during the year. Rock-climbing, ropes courses, that sort of thing. It had been a bad year for me. My Dad had died in October, and while I thought I was fine, I was a thorough mess in a lot of ways. It would take me a number of years to realize that, which of course is, another story entirely. But, suffice it to say that when I got on the bus to go to Maine, despite the fact that the SAT’s, the AP tests, the College decision, the Prom decision, all of the major choices of that time were made and paid for, I was a mess. I just didn’t always know it. I also didn’t know how to handle it at all.

I wrote in my journal during the bus trip North from Jersey that: “I just feel so alone here-I don’t know why, I just do. On a bus full of friends, I feel alone. Go figure.” We were somewhere in Connecticut, and it was dark and late, and I was writing in pencil for some reason, so there’s a lot of stuff I’m still trying to decipher, but I got that one out pretty clear.

Early on in the trip, our group did some rock climbing, and then moved on to a repelling area. Hurricane Island is off the coast of Maine, so our cliff faced out on the Atlantic Ocean. I can’t tell you how beautiful it was. I don’t know that I took any pictures, but my journal is non-stop about the beauty of the place.

I remember stopping about halfway down on the climb, and I tugged myself off and braced my feet. I then turned away from the rock wall and looked out at the sea. Hanging in midair, I remember feeling very small, and watching the sun move down towards the horizon, I remember exhaling, and feeling like it had been the first time in a long time that I had done so. It was just me, and the sun, and the ocean, and it felt in some ways like a reckoning.

A voice from above told me to put it in gear, and I finished my repel, and rejoined the group. There was a moment there where I felt like I could have made some peace.

The course continued, and I had a number of interesting experiences after that. The water and boat initiatives were fun for me, and I felt like I was really beginning to be part of the group.

I’m not proud of the fact that I was an emotional mess at this point in my life, but I will not apologize for where I was at the time. I was a kid. I was faced with a pretty serious challenge. I didn’t have the life experience or the stones to yet weather what it was I had to manage. I’m not proud of the fact that it took me a good 6-7 years more to get myself together. And even then, there were moments.

And that too is no ones fault: it was simply the way of things.

But there was a moment, on Bald Island, about 3-4 days into the course, when I knew, and felt deeply, that I was going to be alright. Someday. It’s a moment that would end up meaning a great deal, and had I been smart enough to cling to it, might have saved me some grief.

Bald Island was a stone quarry back in the early 1900’s. They took pretty much everything of value from the island, and as it stood when I was there, it was Bald by pretty much every estimation. It was kind of like a group of rocks just decided to live together in the middle of the Ocean.

Our group leaders dropped us there as out “solo” group activity. We were allowed to take five items, and our group settled on four sleeping bags, and a loaf of bread. Obviously we had our watch book and our med kit, but as memory serves, we later wished we had opted for that fifth sleeping bag. We managed though, some of us better than others. But that is another story.

As the sun went down, there was not a lot to do, and we had been at sea all day, so most of the group was winding down. The island was bald in every possible way, and there were clear ruts in the rock from where the rail system had run. It was such an empty space.

I was really drawn to this place, and I walked off by myself for a while, just down to the shore. The sun was rapidly descending. I walked out on the shoreline, my beloved “Duck Boots” giving me confidence on the rocky spots that were becoming the only thing to stand on, as the tide came in.

I walked out on the rocky shoreline and I looked around. If I tilted my head just right, I felt like I was standing on the water. There were other islands, and some high areas in the distance, but as I stood there on the rock that later became its own island, in the North Atlantic, I was alone, all out there, by myself, with nothing between me and the rest of it all but words and inclination.
I stood there a long time, and I remember the very moment that the sky turned red, and then, inexplicably, it turned purple, and as the tide had come in somewhat, I found myself standing on a small stone in the ocean, and the shoreline was several feet behind me.

And I looked to the left, and I saw a deep purple sky, where the sun had dropped down below a nearby and somewhat hilly island. I looked to the right and saw a gentle darkness.

In a moment that would become something of a "signpost" moment for me, I leaned back, spread out my arms to the sky and just breathed. I remember feeling in that moment like I just might make it through this whole mess I had found myself in. That I might be this broken now, but somehow, this moment would be the start of something.

I don’t know that anyone noticed me or my ocean moment, but as I jumped back, stone to stone to reach the shore, I came back to the group and immediately asked for the “group journal/log book.” My journal was stuck on the boat, as it was not one of our five items, and so I had to write in the log.

This is what I wrote in the moments after I walked back to the shore of Bald Island.

Mountains of Majestic Royal Stand before me
Defying the flight of a Prism sun.
Lucid Ice created a blanket around me, and I exist.

For but a moment, it seems the Mountains of Majestic Royal,
The Prism Sun, the Lucid Ice, and
The Conglomerate Sky,
Come Together. As one.

A Unified Force of Compassionate comprehension, and yet:
A diversified troupe of players.
Marionettes of our control? Or,

Independent agents of a universal appeal for a
personal understanding Of what truly is to be:

Beautiful;
Or Together;
Or Real?

This is real.

I don’t have any journal entries of narrative note after that one for the remainder of the trip. I will never claim to have been much a poet any more than I will claim to be a good writer. But, in terms of pure moments, that was one that I can point to in my life as a snapshot moment of where I was at a specific time and place. Perhaps I might even go so far as to say that I really knew who I was in that moment, and even briefly, I felt released from the pain and the insecurity that had been the hallmarks of my year to that point. Regrettably, that pain and insecurity would continue to be problematic for a long time after my moment on Bald Island. It would be a moment I revisited in my mind a lot over the coming years, and I remember some time later thinking to myself, if I can get back to some sense of that peace that I had in that moment, It would be a good thing.

I remember feeling at ease for the first time in a long time after Bald Island. There were a lot of long nights and hurt hearts to come in the next years, but I know now, looking back that my first steps towards a more whole heart were taken in that time and place.

The rest of the trip in Maine went well, and I’d like to think that I did well by my group for the remainder. I know that we had to write a song to get back on the boat the next morning…And I know very well that I slept badly next to another who slept badly for similar reasons at the time. But that is another story entirely.

When the course ended, our group gathered on the shore, and we talked about what we had learned. Most of our group talked about how they had discovered themselves, and how they had learned to trust and know themselves in a new way. These things were true and real and felt in the heart, and they mattered. I’m sure they still do in fact.

I was scared about what I would say when it came to be my turn. I remember it vividly. I said, when Wendy asked me what I had learned about myself on this trip…I said:

“I learned that I knew myself pretty well when I came here.”

To this day, I’ve wondered how that came off. I worried that it came off conceited. While I can’t speak to what the other members of the Cormorant group thought, I knew, very clearly, that I was a complete mess when I came to Maine, and I was still going to be a mess when I got home, but that now, just maybe, I would have the stones to fight it.

That it took me years to rediscover that peace that I felt on Bald Island is not consequential, in the long run. That it took me years to even start working on repairing the damage I had done to myself and to my relationships is even less consequential now. It happened.

What matters to me in this reflection is that Hurricane Island gave me a chance to reboot. I was able to face some hard truths out in the ocean and it allowed me the opportunity to have my ass kicked by its grandeur and simplicity. And, the course allowed me to be a part of a group that in a variety of subtle and quiet ways, put me on the path to normalcy.

Those three moments, mostly the one at Bald Island, were very much in my thoughts as we visited the Big Island. I think it was the quiet. The peace.

The Real.

It was there with me in Maine, and I know I felt it again while sitting on the balcony on Hawai'i.

Guess it was a good trip. Still have those duck boots, too. It was nice to have time with the family, and nice also to have some time, and space to breathe and listen. It's amazing what memory gives us to work with at times. It's really surprising how it all comes full circle when we have the time, space, and inclination to catch it.

I remember a lot of stuff, some of it at times seems silly. I mean, do I really need Harry Truman's hat size memorized? Perhaps not, but then again, who knows? Someday I just might.

At this point, I'm inclined to think that we remember nothing on accident.

Preview of coming attractions, and, Expanding on an idea from Facebook

Our entire family has been quite ill with a nasty stomach bug the last week, and things have been very busy in the weeks prior to this one, with a trip to the Big Island, and kid ballet, karate, and preschool classes getting started after the New Year, that I've not had much time to write.

I have some good stuff I wrote old-school style (read: in a notebook) while on the Big Island, including two pieces that I've not yet finished editing. One explores the interesting experience of seeing another Hawaiian island. The other is actually a piece that really surprised me. For some reason, I was inspired to write about two experiences that I had while a student at the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School back in 1991. I'm excited about the latter one, in particular.

But, those aren't ready, yet. So, I'm stealing an idea that many of my friends on Facebook have been doing. It's essentially publishing a list regarding "25 things you didn't know about me."

It's an interesting exercise on Facebook in particular, as I have reconnected with people as far back as grade school there, while I also use it regularly to communicate and share information with people we socialize with here on the island.

For those unfamiliar, Facebook is essentially a social networking website where you make a profile, and have the chance to connect with others as you wish.

I've enjoyed those "25 lists" that others have written, and thought I'd join in. Perhaps you know these things, or perhaps not, which I suppose is kind of the point. I've expanded and edited this version a bit from the one I posted there, but I hope the Spirit remains the same. I enjoyed writing it, and hope you enjoy reading it as well. I hope to have some of the above mentioned columns ready in the coming week. Thanks as always for your support and feedback.

25 things you don't know about me:

1) I have a really nice record collection. Vinyl. Old School stuff. A lot if was my Dad's, but as I grew older, I grew to seek it out myself, and have a collection I am growing proud of. A few items missing though...

2) My Paternal Grandfather was an orphan.

3) I was a Black Studies major in college.

4) I still have every card and every letter that was sent to me after my Father died.

5) During 6th grade until about the middle of 8th grade, I was considered by my school principal a "serious discipline problem." I kinda grew up a little around the middle of the year. Played the Angel Gabriel in the Christmas Pageant that year. Must have been that.

6) When called by said principal during school one day following an incident in Religion class (I was right, that time...) my Mother hung up on her, having had enough calls from her of late, and said, "Call his Father." She did. That is another story though. A good one...may have to write that one here someday...

7) I have boxes of "stuff" from friends and relationships from Junior High all through College, and can still tell you the story of it.

8) I seriously thought about studying to be an Astronomer.

9) I once worked as a garbageman.

10) I planted a Lime Tree in our yard here in Hawaii. (No limes yet)

11) According to our family tree, I am related to one former President and one former First Lady.

12) I watch Wrestling. Professional. Have for years.

13) I once bought a loft at College that my roommate hated, just because I had a crush on the girl I bought it from, and it was a way to spend time with her.

14) I have teared up every time I have seen the scene in "Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers," where The Battle of Helms Deep is close to ending and King Theoden rides out assuming to his doom, only to find Gandalf, Eomer and the Rhohyrrm, at the top of the hill, poised to charge, and Gandalf says:

"Theoden King stands alone"
And Eomer rides closer, charging replies, "Not alone...TO THE KING!" and they all charge down the hill. Gets me every time.

15) I got an A on the American Studies "Grapes of Wrath" exam, having not read the book, and a D on the "The Great Gatsby" exam, having read it twice and loved it. I went on to teach English. I loved telling my students that story. Some of them got the point.

16) I went through a "scarf" phase in High School, where I wore a different scarf to school, every day, for months, even if it wasn't cold out. I wore the scarf to class, and pretty much all day. It was my trademark.

17) I went on to coach a Championship Soccer team, and be assistant coach for 2 Championship Lacrosse teams, though I never played soccer beyond grade three, and never played organized lacrosse.

18) Once, in a snowstorm, driving a van, I skidded off the road on a long hill. The van was undamaged, but I was stuck. I tried a bunch of times to get out, but I was stuck. I stopped, prayed harder than I ever have in my life, made some specific deals with the Almighty, tried one more time, and got out and home safely. He held up his end, and I have held up mine.

19) I am one of two Dads in the MOMS Club.

20) During summers at the Jersey shore, I sometimes pretended to be English while trying to meet girls while playing pickup basketball games at the old Pacific Avenue Courts. It didn't work.

21) As a kid, I practiced my Grammy Award, Tony Award, and Academy Award acceptance speeches in front of the mirror. Regularly.

22) These days, I imagine my interview with Terry Gross on NPR's "Fresh Air" about my debut novel. I don't practice it in front of the mirror though. At least not until I finish it. OK, maybe once.

23) I have a collection of signed/rare books, including an autographed "To Kill a Mockingbird."

24) My wife and I had our first date at Wendy's. Classy, I know.

25) I still remember the phone number of the first girl who ever gave me her phone number.

So, these were the few that popped into my head while the twins were watching a show and the Bear was napping. Hope you liked it.

How many of them did you know?

There is a haze over Leeward, Oahu. Oh, and Happy New Year

The Fireworks started weeks ago. But now that New Years Eve has arrived here in Hawaii, I see that everything up to this point was but a prelude.

A year ago today, I wrote about our experience in the apartment in Waikiki, which is beginning to shape up much like this evening. The kids are asleep. The wife is asleep on the couch, and I am outside on the porch writing, powered by candlelight and Andre Champagne. It is 10:39pm, Hawaii time, and the fireworks have been constant since 5pm.

While there has been rain tonight, the sky cleared up briefly. Both the smell and fog of powder fill the air in a way that is only overshadowed by the noise. In our small neighborhood, there are probably 120 homes. By my estimate, I would guess that 117 have purchased copious amounts of fireworks, which were on clearance at Foodland tonight.

Back home in Jersey, Fireworks were an event. One had to travel to see them-it was a big deal, and often, watching them on TV was a more amenable prospect. Here, they are constant. I’ve seen more fireworks in the last few days that I’ve seen geckos, rainbows, and children riding unsecured in the back of a pickup truck combined.

This year is very different that last year. I remember sitting on that balcony and watching what I thought were different towns lighting off their community fireworks, but as it turns out, every display I saw last year, and there were many, was one person shooting off their New Year’s Cheer. As I sit here on my porch, which faces the South Shore of Ewa, I see fireworks from every possible angle. My neighbors both up and down the street have taken turns shooting things off, some of which have been as impressive as anything we’d see in NY or Philly.

They take this stuff seriously. I’ve had people tell me, that yeah, we might have gone slower on Christmas, but you don’t cheap out on New Years in Hawaii.

The funny thing is, as the smoke builds up, I can’t see and appreciate the good ones. I can see the streams and the colors from the Beach that I like to go write at, but the colors are all blurry with the smoke. But the noise…that’s for real.

There’s a family down the block that strung their part of the street with firecrackers. They went for about 20 minutes until they just stopped, but if the hollering I heard is any indication, the fire went out, and they are re-gearing it…yup-there they go. Crack after crack, followed by ¼ stick… wow.

I just spent the last half hour talking with the guy next door. New Years Eve seems to a time in our little neighborhood where people walk around in broad darkness and talk to one another. It was cool.

You can’t believe the noise. I heard a ½ sick of dynamite go off a while back, and fully credit the miscreants I grew up with for my ability to discern the difference between an m80 and a ½ stick. I’ve actually impressed my neighbors with that knowledge.

The firecrackers have been constant, although there was a lull of all noise at 11:30 PM Hawaii time. I think everyone was reloading.

It’s been constant for the last, and the constant bombardment of sound has been intense. From every side there are celebratory flares both percussive and visual. The guy on the other side of us seems to really like the m80s.

Time Shift: I’m finishing this after the fact, On New Year‘s day actually. Happy New Year.

I was outside for the actual turn of the year, and there was no grand countdown…no ball, and no Rockin’ Eve. Just all of a sudden, everyone lit off their best stuff at once. There’s a guy around the corner that built a scaffold, and set off what he claims was 2009 firecrackers, all in a row. It sounded like more than that in execution. What I really liked was that he and his crew went through the wreckage and pulled out any that did not go off, and then set them off, to make certain that they had all been fired. The attention to detail was impressive.

I walked around the neighborhood a bit more, and what was most surprising was as loud as both the build up and blow-off to the New Year actually were, what was most impressive was the absolute silence that followed. Once the fireworks were done, they were done. People swept up the street, and went to bed. The next day was eerily quiet, like I’ve never seen our street before. It was like the entire neighborhood was asleep when they wouldn’t normally be. It was quite a turn of events. There was a light rain overnight, so the smoke and grime have been washed from the street, and you'd never know anything had occurred last night.

So-that was New Year’s in Hawaii. A lot of noise. A lot of lights. A lot of smoke…and then, quiet.

Like a wave, so to speak.