Then The Phone Rang...

Yesterday, I was supposed to post my installment of Tuesday’s Truth. I had a funny list of stuff to post for the “libations” section and was working on some great links.

But then the phone rang.

Not an unusual occurrence around here, but the caller ID showed a number I vaguely recognized.

It was the number of one of my father’s best friends. Actually, it was his cell phone number.

I answered the phone... it was my father.

He lives in Palm Harbor, Florida, which is just north of Clearwater Beach. I started off with the usual, “How’s it going down there?” I was curious as to why he was using his friend’s cell phone, but thought his battery might be dead. A phone call from the golf course is not unusual for him.

Much to my surprise, his normal witty retort about the weather didn’t come. Instead he said, "Not good."

He had a stroke.

He had lost control of the entire right side of his body.

He is 77 years old.

By the time he was able to call me, the feeling and sensation to the affected areas had returned. Good news!

He will remain in the hospital for a few days to undergo a battery of tests.

I got another phone call last night from my step-mother. (My parents divorced when I was 8 years old.) She told me he was finally in his own room and gave me his number, but not to call him because he was wiped out and was going to sleep.

I agreed to call him today.

I know he’s in good hands; my step-mother is a doctor of nursing education, as well as, a registered nurse and a former associate professor of nursing at the University of Massachusetts.

She also informed me that his “buddies” had immediately rushed to his side. His golf buddies, his poker buddies and he was joking with them all. He was concerned that he would miss last night’s weekly poker game and today’s round of golf. More Good News!

I was working on another “father” post to follow “Grandfathers.” It was going to run next week. But, I think I will finish it today, as time allows, and post it as soon as it’s done.

I look forward to sharing my father’s story, as he is a man who has fascinated me my entire life.

Grandfathers

I have been “tagged” by Angel from Angel’s Cloud to do a “5 Things About Me” meme. I have to admit that I am rather boring; I’m not claustrophobic, I’m not afraid of much, except maybe heights… but I got over that being a builder.

So I thought, instead of boring you with benign facts about your’s truly, I would explain a little bit about where I came from. More specifically, my relationship with my fathers’ and their fathers’ and what shaped me into the Dad I am today.

A little while back, I said, “Men learn how to be men from other men…We learn how to be gentlemen from watching true gentle men. Father’s are not easily impressed by their sons, but they’re always proud of them. As men, we’re remembered by the character of the men we raise.” For better or worse, we’re shaped by the men who have come before us. We raise our sons based on the influences in our lives. As we get older, we learn to extract the good and discard the bad. But all our experiences are there to draw on as we mold the next generation of men.

With that in mind, and being the fact that this is, after all, Long Island Dad, I’m going to start with a segment on my grandfathers. In order to truly "know" things about a person you must know where they came from; what influences they had in their lives and who were/are their role models. I’ll include some interesting facts about me to keep your interest… I promise.

My Middle Name - “Bryan”

As I told you a little while back, the Helper is not a junior because we don’t share a middle name. My middle name is “Bryan.” Not odd at all, except for the “y” spelling. It’s actually a family surname; my maternal grandmother’s maiden name. I am a direct descendant of William Jennings Bryan (please click the link to learn more about him). While I don’t share a lot of his religious beliefs or political views, I am, in fact, intrigued and active in both politics and religion.

My “Grandpa” (Maternal Grandfather)

In a previous post I described the relationship between me and my maternal grandfather; a great man who I still use as a role model to this day.

If you haven’t done so already, please read Pens and Pocket Knives, for an understanding of my relationship with him.

My “Poppa Sam” (Paternal Grandfather)

My paternal grandfather was a stoic man of finance. He was a banker. He attended the Wharton School of Finance (the same school as Donald Trump), and rose through the ranks, finally achieving the position of Vice Chairman of Commercial Loans for The First National City Bank of New York, now known as Citibank or Citigroup. (Right Photo: My Grandfather at his retirement party in 1965, before Long Island Dad was born.)

In his time, he was the man large national companies went to for money. They included AT&T, General Motors, DuPont Chemical, and many others. He was a money man. He taught me the value of a dollar, as well as, what to do with that dollar… to bad I haven’t listened so far.

Interesting tidbits; the Baby shares his middle name with my grandfather; my grandparents waited until my grandfather’s retirement in 1965 to take a honeymoon (after having been married for over 40 years), they sailed to Europe on the original Queen Mary in 1966 and spent many months touring Europe. (Left Photo: My Grandparents toasting their Bon Voyage aboard the RMS Queen Mary I, New York Harbor, October 1966)

Upon their return, my grandparents sold their house here on Long Island and retired to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. They became the ultimate “snow birds,” spending summers on the Cape and winters in Naples, Florida.

My grandfather had worked hard all his life and rewarded himself with a great retirement. Unfortunately, he only enjoyed it for eight years. He died in May of 1973; I was 8 years old. This was my first encounter with death; I remember his funeral like it was yesterday. My grandmother (being of 100% Irish decent) lived another 23 years after his death, until she finally passed in 1996.

The thing I remember most about my grandfather, who we called “Poppa Sam,” (to this day I still don’t know why), was the time he and I would spend together on Cape Cod. As a boy I would go up to the Cape every summer… yeah, I know, such a spoiled brat… after having his breakfast, my grandfather would take me for a ride in the car. We would stop for the morning newspapers and then it was off to the beach. He would sit on the bench and read the papers while I ran, jumped and frolicked like little boys do. In the afternoon, after his beloved Red Sox (I know… hurts me to this day!) lost and before cocktail hour, he would play a board game or he would color with me. (Right Photo: A much younger Long Island Dad coloring with Poppa Sam, Naples, FL 1971)

He was not a man of many words or outward signs of affection but I know he loved me. He wasn’t the grandpa who hugged or kissed you or tucked you into bed. He wasn’t the man who took you fishing or taught you how to use tools. He didn’t have a workshop – he hired “that” stuff out. But, in spite of this, and probably because of this, the time he and I spent together, alone, are some of my greatest memories from childhood.

(Left Photo: My Grandparents on their back porch, Cape Cod, Summer 1975, a year before my grandfather passed away. This is the last picture they took together.)

A Memory...

I have just finished watching last night’s edition of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. For those of you who saw it you’ll understand the emotion it generated. Something this particular show does quite well. Hence, it’s continued good ratings.

As I was watching this program I recalled an event that changed my life…

In 1985, I was a sophomore at the New York Institute of Technology. I was studying for a degree in Architecture. I was 20 years old and living in off-campus housing. I was working on a 2^nd year design project and was in desperate need of some insight and motivation. Like an artist, I needed my muse.

It was 2:30 a.m. when I decided to take the train into the “City.” College kids never sleep! I wanted to walk around downtown Manhattan with my notebook and camera… something that might get you detained today… how sad! I needed to experience the beauty of the architecture; I needed to see how form, really did, follow function.

I had been to the “City” many times before but never alone and never that late at night.

After a twenty-five minute train ride I exited Pennsylvania Station and started my walk south -- downtown towards the financial district and my destination.

After a quick subway ride and a twenty minute walk I had arrived.

I sat down on a large concrete expanse and had my back up against the corner of my inspiration piece. I tilted my head back and looked up. The lights of the city danced on the shimmering steel that soared above my head. I stared up into the night sky, memorized by the beauty and simplicity of the man made structure that pierced the sky.

I stayed there for a few hours until the first rays of sun reflected off my new found friend. Still with my back to the corner I could hear and feel the giant structure awake. As the metal was warmed by the heat of the great star it groaned and pinged.

The mammoth building was coming alive for another day’s work.

People started to fill the concourse, purposeful in their steps; my time here was nearing an end. I packed up my notebook and camera, never having snapped a photo or written a line.

I turned and looked up at my muse and understood what I needed to do.

After returning to my apartment, I quickly finished my project. I presented it a few days later and defended it to my professors, as is the case in architectural studies. I don’t remember the grade I received but I do remember that I had changed. I no longer wanted to just design buildings; I wanted to build them with my own hands.

The night I spent in the city showed me that man made structures do indeed have souls... The souls of the men and women who build them and the souls of the people who work and live in them.

Upon graduating, I received an offer to apprentice at a prestigious north shore firm… I turned it down to work as a carpenter for a local builder on Fire Island. For two years, I built homes for families on a small sand bar… the work was heavy, hard, and hot. But, I learned what it meant to put your heart and soul into something.

My beautiful muse, who taught me that a building is more than steel and concrete is no more… she was built by men, and at 9:59 a.m. on September 11^th 2001, my college inspiration piece, also known as, number Two World Trade Center, the South Tower, collapsed… by the hand of men.

The structure may no longer exist but its soul lives on in each one of us.

Off To See "Honey!"

This is an early edition of Monday Morning Quarterback. I had to write this installment as it was fresh in my head... you, my fellow bloggers will understand. I will regale you with the rest of this weekend's anecdotes tomorrow!


The Helper is gone! No, not forever… I didn’t sell him on eBay, folks! He was scooped up by Nannie on Sunday because we’re supposed to get snow in the middle of the week. What does one have to do with the other you ask? Nannie and the Helper need their weekly “fix.” They need to spend time with each other at least once every seven days or they start to show signs of mental deterioration. As you might recall, she had him last Wednesday into Thursday. But, if we got any sort of frozen precipitation where she would be unable to get the little guy, they’d both go out of their minds… not a pretty sight I can assure you!

Also, my father-in-law (my wife’s step-father, actually) is 98 years old. Yes, 98!
The more time my little guy can get with him the better. A note about my father-in-law; he’s 98 years old only on paper... he still has all his faculties, still very active, still does yard work, chops fire wood, cut his grass (although I helped him with that this fall, due to a short stay in the hospital), bundles the trash, takes walks up and down the block and “takes care of” my mother-in-law. He’s quite a man. One day, I’ll tell you his story. Suffice it to say, there are/have been/will be very, very few like him.

He and the Helper have a special relationship. My son does not see the advancement of his years. It’s his, “Honey.” Why “Honey?” Because when the boy first started to talk all he would ever hear my mother-in-law call her husband was “Honey.” Who are we to tell the little guy any different… it’s his “Honey!”

They play with each other, the Helper subjects him to stories of his latest adventures, then they sit and watch old westerns on TV. The difference of ninety-four years in age is never apparent. Grandfather to Grandson, man to man, they have a bond. My beautiful little Helper is named after me and his Grandfather. We thought it very appropriate to give him my father-in-law’s name as his middle name… now you know why the Helper is not a junior!

Tuesday's Truth - 2/6/2007 Part II

Are you a Dad or a Daddy?

Dads say, “NO!”
Daddies say, “YES!”

Dads ask, “Why?”
Daddies say, “Why Not!”

Dads are stern and commanding.
Daddies cuddle on the couch.

Dads enforce the rules and hold you accountable for your actions.
Daddies know when to break the rules and wipe away tears.

Dads say “Walk,” “Don’t Run.”
Daddies encourage running and jumping.

Dads teach you the value of earning your own money.
Daddies wallet’s are always open.

Dads teach you how to be a responsible adult.
Daddies want to keep you a child forever.

Dads show you how to give a proper handshake.
Daddies show you how to hug.

Dads teach you manners and civility.
Daddies teach you how to have fun and be carefree.

Dads teach you how to drive.
Daddies teach you how to ride a bike.

Dads teach you how to fish.
Daddies take you fishing.

Dads tell you when to go to bed.
Daddies read you a story, hug, and kiss you goodnight.

Dads tell you not to break things.
Daddies can fix anything from toys, to hearts, to egos.

Dads explain what True Love is.
Daddies provide examples.

My Helper uses BOTH of these monikers when addressing me… I must be doing something right…

Today’s Lesson:

Dads teach us to handle whatever life throws at us;

Daddies stand next to us and help catch.

Pens and Pocket Knives

My mother’s father was a larger than life figure… a true man’s man. And, someone I have tried to emulate my entire life. The other day, when I posted Tool Box Thursday, I started thinking about my grandfather, who passed away more than a few years ago. He was my ultimate resource for all things tool related and beyond. He was a man who could fix anything; from a broken radio to a crushed dream.

He spent most of his life working for Grumman Aerospace, now called Northrop-Grumman. The company is a large defense contractor that for years was based right here on Long Island, and built many aircraft, including the F-14 Tomcat made famous by the movie Top Gun.

Like many men of his generation he didn’t attend college, instead a trade school. He served in the Marines during World War II, then had children and moved to the suburbs. He was electrical engineer who achieved the prestigious job title of Final Inspector. Nothing left the hanger without his stamp of approval. Literally, he had a small stamp with his initials that embossed all the electrical components of a particular aircraft. The pinnacle of his career was working on the first lunar module that would land on the moon. The old joke in our family has always been that he never made it to the moon but his initials did. There are still warplanes today, flying around, protecting us, with his initials in them.

As a little boy I always looked forward to going to his house, often I would stay over night and just tag along from project to project. My grandfather never sat still, always something to fix, tweak, improve, tear down and build again. I was the original Helper. Now you know where my little guy gets it from.

One memory, that came rushing back the other day while I was writing my post, was my grandfather's pen and pocket knife. He always had the same Parker stainless steel pen in his front left shirt pocket and a small, very sharp, pocket knife in his left rear pants pocket. It seemed that with these two items he could rebuild an engine or frame a house. To be honest, he probably could.

Men learn how to be men from other men. We learn how to treat a woman by watching our fathers love our mothers, and our grandfathers honor and care for our grandmothers. We learn how to be gentlemen from watching true gentle men. Father’s are not easily impressed by their sons, but they’re always proud of them. As men, we’re remembered by the character of the men we raise.

To this day, I have never left the house without my stainless Parker pen or my pocket knife in my left rear pant pocket.

I love you Grandpa… thanks for the tools… and the knowledge and ability to use them... I'll make you proud!