Going On Record

When I was in my teens, I knew exactly who I was and exactly who I was going to be. I was going to become the greatest writer of my time, travel the country in an RV, listening to the hippest music and smoking the best pot, achieve rock star status, and do totally amazing things for mankind with the fame and fortune.

It didn't work out that way.

Right out of college, a buddy of mine and I drove down to San Antonio, Texas and got jobs at Lone Star Ice & Foods. The jobs were fun and they PAID us! When we weren't working, our time was our own. No homework, no studying, and when we pulled an all nighter, it was because we were closing down Cooter Brown's Honky Tonk (think mechanical bulls and Chevy pick-ups), and not because we were cramming for a test.

We only spent a year in the Lone Star State, but I did learn one thing. The Alamo Museum was just across the street from the park that contains the remains of the old mission, and was next door to the downtown Woolworth's. A theater presentation tells the story of the famous battle that included such notables as Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett. But before the assault began, Presidente Generalissimo de Santa Ana offered safe passage to anyone who wanted to leave. Only one man took advantage of this offer, Moses Rose. You won't find his name in any history book. Every remaining defender, to a man, was killed.

We returned to Chicago and got an apartment by the lake and after moving in we walked over to the corner liquor store and got to talking to the owner. All of a sudden he says he's opening a gourmet food and wine shop in Union Station and would we be interested in working there! We jumped at the chance. For the next several years we commuted downtown on the El and had a blast dealing with all the commuters and travelers, and living in Uptown, where we would walk our pet ferrets on their leashes along the lake to pick up chicks.

The store owner lost his lease due to renovations in Union Station. We had a little cash in the bank and before it even ran low, my dad, who was a well-known lawyer in the Oak Lawn area, called me and said a business associate of his had an opening for an operations manager at a local newspaper. I went in and met with the general manager, and at 24 years of age I was suddenly a high profile executive of a well-respected community publication.

I was in charge of all special projects for the paper, and Circus Vargas, the last traveling circus under canvas in America was performing in our area. Their marketing rep and I met and he gave me some glossies and raw copy, and I edited the material into a wonderful series of ads and promotions that ran in the paper. The circus honchos were so impressed that the rep set up another meeting to thank me for the good work, and to offer me a job. I was young and unattached at the time, and I seriously considered it. So that was the time I almost ran away with the circus.

Unfortunately the paper was sold during that decade of corporate mergers and moved out of state. I decided to strike out on my own and use my creative skills, seeing early on the potential of desktop publishing.

Also, at this time, all my friends were getting married and starting families. I was a popular choice for best man because I gave great toasts and looked fabulous in a tux. I, of course, was looking for love in all the wrong places. But I was looking. I was introduced to a girl through a mutual friend and she was a whiz with the new PC's, and we soon became business partners, with me directing, and her producing. I became active in our Chamber of Commerce and was voted onto the Board of Directors (who were mostly bankers). We soon fell in love (me and the girl, not me and the bankers), got married and had a child of our own.

It soon became apparent that we needed steady jobs. I answered a help wanted ad for a high-end wine and spirits retailer that was opening a gourmet food shop that featured a twenty foot, floor to ceiling, open-air cheese case.

For you young folk, a help wanted ad was a form of communication where an employer would let it be known that they had a job offering.

I loved that job. I got to sample and work with foods from all over the world and introduce customers to all the amazing agricultural products that we brought in.

My wife and I decided to buy a house. We had always enjoyed exploring the farm country back roads and small town festivals of north central Illinois, so that's where we looked, with the added bonus that we could get more bang for the buck. We found a beautiful, 1890's, Victorian farm house. Hardwood floors, pocket doors, original woodwork, built-in butler's pantry, exposed brickwork in the kitchen, wooded lot, the works. We wrote up an offer on the spot.

My sons and I lugged heavy furniture up to the second floor, I did landscaping, including excavating and installing a water feature and rock garden, cleaned out fifty years worth of debris from the garage loft, and set up cinder block and plank shelving in the basement for storage.

Then I got sick.

The symptoms struck a year later almost to the day. Doctor after doctor, test after test, failed to reveal the cause. I underwent several surgical procedures, that still failed to provide a diagnosis or prevent the degenerative progress of the disease. I finally had extensive micro-surgery on my spinal cord that almost killed me and left me paralyzed from the waist down.

Okay, now bear with me. I am an early 70's hard rocker. But over the course of the years, my deep love and respect for musicianship has led me to, of all places, bluegrass. One of our favorite performers, a teaching professor in music history, guest lecturer, author, and walking encyclopedia of Americana, would tell long jokes and stories between songs in an apparently rambling way, but would always come to a punchline that would leave me rolling in the aisles. He would punctuate his storytelling by saying, “I tell you that, so I can tell you this,” and then off he'd go again.

Well, I tell you that, to tell you this. I had to leave the job I loved. I applied for Social Security, but in the time it took to get approved, we almost lost our house. I finally did get approved, and with that small monthly check, we've been able to just barely stay in our home. My wife went to work each day and I lay in bed taking prescription medicines to combat the chronic pain. Some of the pills zoned me out so much that I literally didn't know what day it was. I fell into deep grief and depression. I prayed all day and all night for God to take me.

Now I tell you that to tell you this. When I left college for parts unknown, I stopped writing. I still did a fair amount of writing at the newspaper, but work, parenthood, and day to day living, pretty much did away with any aspirations I had about becoming a published author.

My entire world was reduced to the four walls of my bedroom. My depression deepened. My family got me to try Facebook and it did help with my sense of isolation. I began posting small jokes and statuses and joined an online support group, but as soon as I posted anything “edgy” or controversial, I caught flack. If it wasn't a cute animal picture, an inspirational quote from the Dalai Lama, or what I had for breakfast, people weren't interested. I actually felt even more alone than I had before.

I told my family that I felt like just a useless eater. My son said, “Pops, you're not useless. Me and Ashly (my daughter-in-law) need you. Mom needs you. Your grandkids need you.” He said, “Not only that but you are by far one of the best writers out there, and we need someone to record the shit that's going down.”

I said, “How do I do that?” And my wife replied, “You can start a blog.” She showed me how to set one up and the floodgates opened. I uploaded my jokes from Facebook, my old short stories and poems, my holiday pieces, and all the pent up frustration, anger, and creativity inside me. In my own humble and unbiased opinion, I have the best written, most insightful, most humorously presented blog in the world. I look forward to waking up in the morning. There is promise in each new day. My pain, physical, emotional and spiritual, is bearable.

I tell you that to tell you this. Every second of every day since I woke up from surgery, my soul has screamed out, “WHY?” Why me? Why now? What could I ever possibly have done to deserve this? What could I ever possibly have NOT done to deserve this? I may be searching for answers where there are none. But if there is a reason, maybe it can be found in this tiny bit of cyberspace.

I tell you that to tell you this.