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Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Nathan's Private E-Journal, April 12th, 2014 : "Fathers and Sons" Part - II


The words "You don't look like your sick or like or in any pain..." echo inside my head as I draw nearer to Ted's father.  

How many times had I heard those words?  And how many times did I want to lash out at the person who spoke them to me?  Of course back then I hadn't changed and didn't have the strength to strike back.  But these days I'm a different man.  The pain and limitations Fibromyalgia caused me are but distant memories, but I never forget anything these days.  

Oh it might take me a moment or two to sort through a century and a half of accumulated memories, but it's all there.  There's not a name, a face, or an event I've been part of or witness to that I cannot recall in vivid detail.  I can even recall things from before I was changed that were locked away in the deepest recesses of my brain, including the looks or hints of disappointment from my father for my apparent weaknesses.  They still sting as much now as they did back then, but I loved him nonetheless.  And now I remind myself that Ted loves his father, so I restrain my impulse to grab the man by one hand and shake some sense into him. 

Instead I stop just before the man and say politely, "Please, come inside with me.  Both of you.  There's some things I'd like to show you."


Without waiting for a response I walk towards the end of the building we're in front of that happens to house my private club "The Crypt".  Behind me I hear Ted's tired footsteps follow.  A second later, his father joins us.

In a few minutes the three of us are safely ensconced around one of the table inside the empty club.  It's a weekday which means the place is not open to the public.  Which makes it the perfect setting for a difficult but heartfelt talk.  Or at least, that's what I hope to keep things.  A part of me is still sorely tempted to unleash a portion of my mist form so I can enter Ted's father and let him experience my memories of what Fibromyalgia feels like.  The old saying about walking in another's shoes may be just what the fellow needs.  Yet, I restrain my impulse.  Ted is not aware of what I am and it wouldn't be right to risk revealing my 'unusual' nature to him by doing something to his father.  Still, if things don't go the way I think they should...
"So what do you want to show me?" Ted's father asks gruffly.  

Staring at the man I quietly take his measure.  Like my own father, he's tall and well-built.  His solid figure tells me he's a man who's enjoyed many sports and strives to keep in shape.  But now I'm sensing something else, deep below the surface... physical discomfort. 

Suddenly, everything becomes much clearer to me.  I begin by saying, "As I said earlier, Fibromyalgia is quite real.  And is it not just a condition suffered by women.  Men have it as well."

"Yeah, you mentioned you have it," the man snaps, but there's a trace of unease in his voice.  "Besides yourself, name one other man who has it."





"Morgan Freeman, the golden actor himself," I reply and wait.  The effect of my words has on him is clearly visible.  Before he can respond I continue by adding, "Michael James Hastings, another actor  who retired because of his struggle with the condition."


Ted's father looks stunned, "He played Captain Mike on 'The West Wing'.  I loved that show."

"Many people have it," I continue, "To differing degrees.  Some can be crippled by the pain, others find different ways of coping through exercise, nutrition, medicines to help them sleep better.  But the bottom line is that its a musculo-skeletal condition with no 'magic bullet' cure.  It's a condition where pain is your constant companion.  Many days you can get through the day, but others are harder.  And some are just so bad you can barely get out of bed."

The man looks at his son for a moment and then asks, "Is that true?  Those days you complain about getting up aren't just because you don't feel like going to school?"

Ted has the good sense to not be sarcastic and simply nods.

His father turns back to look at me.  "How do I know you're telling the truth?"  

"You can look it up online," I tell him.  "It's all there.  There's even sites by these men and others who can attest to how difficult it is to live with the condition."  With that I get up and retrieve my laptop and set it up for him.  As I do so, I give Ted an encouraging nod towards the piano.  Obediently, he gets up and takes the guitar case with him.

Meanwhile I sit back down and watch as his father starts Googling the men I mentioned along with others.  For twenty minutes he says nothing, and I do not break the silence.  I merely wish that I'd had such resources to show my own father, back in the day.   Would it have made things better?  I don't know.  Maybe, maybe not.  As I said before, he did love me.  He just couldn't always understand why I was the way I was sometimes.  

Finally, Ted's father looks up at me with a pained expression.  "Okay, you convinced me.  It's real and men can get it.  But why do you believe my boy has it?"

I answer quietly, "Why can't you believe it?  You mentioned football earlier.  Was that your sport?  Were you simply hoping he'd follow in your footsteps?"

"NO!" the man thunders as his face turns crimson.  Then his expression softens as he explains, "I just want my son to have a chance at a good school."

Now things suddenly become clear to me. "Things are tight, I take it?" I say in a voice so low only he can hear me.

The man nods.  "Like my son mentioned earlier, his mother has Fibromyalgia and can't work.  So it's mainly down to me to bring in money, but she does try.  She does art and sells stuff on the internet.  And she's brings in some good money and we're doing all right..."

"But, the prospects for sending Ted to college aren't so bright," I supply quietly.

"Exactly.  We make too much to get him a Board of Governor's waiver, but not enough to really be able to pay for the classes over at the community college, much less a university."

Just then the strands of a guitar playing fills the air.  It's a sweet gentle melody, played with great tenderness and skill. 


The tune has an effect on my companion who closes his eyes and becomes lost in the tune until the song ends.  

"He's very good," I remark as the final strums fade away.

"I don't question that," my companion replies.  "But, is that going to be enough to get him anywhere?"

Smiling I turn to Ted, who is tuning the guitar ever so slightly.  "Are you up to a little 'Classical Gas'?"

The boy's face lights up as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder.  Meanwhile, his father is staring in shock.  "I love that song!  Can he really play it?"

Before I can answer, the familiar tune starts up with all the speed and skill it is known for.  Ted's father's eyes widen as his son's fingers fly over the strings with precision and dexterity that makes the instrument sing.  

Neither of us says a word until the song is finished, at which point Ted stretches his fingers and massages them slightly.  It obviously took some out of him, but he's grinning from ear to ear. 

His father begins to applaud and goes over to his son.  The two begin having a talk.  A real talk.  And although I try not to listen, I of course hear everything.  It lasts for several hours.  The results I'm pleased to say are better than I'd hoped. Ted doesn't have to give up the guitar.  However, his father does confess his concerns to help pay for his son's future education.  


At this point, I see the first rays of sunlight seeping through the window that peers out into the alley.  Although I'm quite safe here in the club, I'm certain Ted's mother is quite worried about what has become of her husband and son.  

Standing up, I wander over to the pair and casually mention some connections I have over in San Francisco with a certain music conservatory which has a wonderful guitar ensemble.  "I'm certain that if Ted keeps this up, he'd qualify for 'assistance'.  Plus, there's the money he can earn here at the club helping out at the turntables."

Father and son look at me questioningly.  

Smiling I explain, "Your son has helped out as a stand in DJ here at the club on a number of occasions.  I've been thinking about asking him to come on board regularly, provided it doesn't interfere with his schoolwork.  And before you ask, YES, he's as good at that as he is on the guitar."

Ted looks at his father questioningly, while the older man replies, "Let me think on it.  I appreciate what you're offering him, but I've had a lot to take in already tonight.  I'd like a little time to talk things over with my son and my wife."

I nod.  "That's fine.  It's a standing offer.  Take however long you all need."

"Thank you," the big man says and holds out a hand which I accept with feeling.  "By the way, I'm George."

"Nathan," I tell him, "And I'm very glad we had a chance to talk."

"Me too," he smiles and then says, "I think we've taken up enough of your time and we need to get home.  Ted, let's go grab your guitar.  I'm sure your mother will be worried sick about us."

Ted smiles and the two of them head over to the piano where the guitar and its case await.

As I watch them, a part of me wonders what it would've been like to have such a moment of acceptance from my own father.  Then as if in answer I feel a hand on my shoulder.  Turning I see no one's there.  But that's all right.  I know it was real, and who's hand it was.  Some things you never forget, and as I said before I never forget anything.  Especially not my father's way of letting me know when he was proud of me...

Sunday, June 19, 2016

E-Journal of Brian Weston, June 17th, 1990 - Father's Day and Nathan's Extended Family

We finally got him, hallelujah!  After all these years we finally got Uncle Nate but good, and he never saw it coming.  It all happened over at The Crypt, the nightclub Uncle Nate owns downtown, which is located in the basement of a big old building he bought back during the Great Depression.




It all started back on Mother's Day.  We'd spent the day spoiling and pampering Mom, and had gone out to dinner when the topic of Father's Day came up.  I asked my dad if there was anything he'd like to do on that day.  He didn't answer right away, instead he thought about it hard for a few minutes before finally saying, "I'd like to do something for Uncle Nate believe it or not."
This didn't come as a surprise to me and I told him so.  "I remember all the stories you've told us about how Uncle Nate stood in as a second father for your after granddad died.  Uncle Nate has also acted like a father figure to me whenever you were stationed overseas during your stint in the army."
"That's true," Dad nodded and then looked at me, "But did you know he's also been a father figure to a great many other people?"
"Of course I know, I hang out with a number of them like Jack, Tom, and..."
"I don't mean just here in Pointer, Brian," he interrupted me.  "I mean elsewhere.  There are a lot of families here in the United States, as well as across the sea who he's watched over and been second father to as well.  And they don't get to see him nearly as often as we do.  But they stay in touch with him all the same."
"What do you have in mind?" asked Mom at that point, with a knowing look on her face.
"I think you already know, my dear," he replied and then proceeded to outline the plan.





It took us a week to get in touch with all the people we knew about, and another week for them to contact others we were unaware of.  But soon enough we had a solid list of who could come for the planned gathering.  
      















The only thing missing was the guest of honor himself.  That became my job.  Luckily, I knew an easy way to get Uncle Nate to come to town.  I simply sent him an e-mail saying there were reports that the town council was thinking of trying to put his family manor up for sale, again.  They've discussed this several times in the past, but never made any headway.  Mostly because Uncle Nate would show up and pay a 'visit' to certain parties that always led to the motion being shot down.
Admittedly, this could be considered a little underhanded, but at least it would bring him running when the time was right.  And sure enough he did.  
In the e-mail I told him a bunch of us were meeting down in The Crypt this Sunday night to see what action we were going to take and that his presence and advice would be greatly appreciated.  Naturally we all knew he wouldn't show up until the evening, or even if he was already at the club, he'd be in the lower sub-basement resting.  In either case we'd be able to set things up for the party without his knowing.


As it turned out we got there way before he did and decorated the place in record time.  With so many people it was really easy.  Communications were a little hard sometimes between us and some of our visitors from overseas, but there was always someone who spoke both languages to help bridge the gap. 

In any case, we were more than prepared for Uncle Nate when he entered the club that night.  All the lights were off, of course so he couldn't see us.  But we could see him just fine as he opened the door and stood silhouetted from behind by the moonlight. 


As he stepped into the room the lights came on and all three hundred of us greeted him wildly.  


  To say he was surprised would be the understatement of the century.  He confessed to me later that he suspected something was up, but he never dreamed it was on such a scale as this.  Looking over the photos I took tonight I can't blame him.  I've always known Uncle Nate had network of people he referred to as his 'Extended Family', but I never dreamed how big it really was, or how much it varied.  We had one elderly couple from Poland who told us how he'd rescued them as children from a Nazi Concentration camp and then whisked them away, along with a bunch of others to a safe place.  For some reason they wouldn't talk about that 'place' but assured us that it was something wondrous.  
There were many others present but one man stood out in particular, in spite of his small stature.  He arrived a little late once the party was in full swing, but when he entered the room fell silent.  The white hair, the round thick glasses, and the cigar in his hand made him very easy to recognize.  At least one person murmured, "Oh my God..."
At which point the fellow shook his head and said in his famous gravelly voice, "Not really, but close enough."  



The place exploded with laughter, and Uncle Nate suddenly appeared at Mr. Burns' side and embraced him warmly.  Mr. Burns was accompanied by his son Ronnie and daughter Sandra, along with their spouses.  Mr. Burns shared some stories with us about his early days in vaudeville, and how he met Uncle Nate who had inadvertently demonstrated some of his powers without meaning to.  Mr. Burns also proceeded to give us a song or two with Uncle Nate on the piano.
Being it was Father's Day, Uncle Nate didn't let us forget to celebrate all the other fathers in the room and those who were soon-to-be-fathers.  It was obvious he was touched by all we'd done, and it thrilled him to no end that so many had come all this way for the occasion. 
Towards the end of the evening Dad took me aside and thanked me for all I'd done to help make this happen.  "It's amazing isn't it, that all these people are just a part of Uncle Nate's Extended Family.  There are still so many more out there."
"How did he get to know them all?" I asked curiously.
"The same way he got to know ours," Dad smiled,  "It just started out with a person or two here and there who learned his secret, and found a deep friendship with him.  As those people began families, he was there for them and soon their children would learn about our godfather, and ask him to help watch over the next generation as he had for them."
Startled I looked at my father, "Uncle Nate is your godfather too?"
Dad nodded.  "He's been godfather to a great many people in this room.  We're just lucky to see him more often because this is his hometown and we help watch over his family's estate.  He's been a part of our family for generations. He watched over my mother, her father, her grandfather and so on all the way back to the end of the Civil War.  And he has every intention of continuing to watch over all of us for a long time to come"
I found this a great comfort as I stared out at the crowded floor.  It's good to know that when I have a son or a daughter, he'll be here to help watch over my kids as well.
 Now, Uncle Nate is raises his glass in a toast saying, "I want to thank you all for including me in this Father's Day celebration.  But I also ask you all to remember your own fathers, and stepfathers, mothers, stepmothers, brothers, sisters, friends and neighbors who've also filled the role of a father figure in yours or another person's life.  For their efforts help shape the people we become in the long run, and their legacy leaves in each one of us.  Happy Father's Day everyone..."



Thursday, April 9, 2015

Nathaniel's E-Journal, August 2005... Beginning A New Chapter Part-II


Another night and I stand once more in my artist's studio located on the top floor of the building that houses my club "The Crypt".  No one's allowed up here unless I say so, and tonight I wish to be alone with my thoughts.  For two days now I've been wrestling with the idea of trying my hand at writing novels.    

In some ways the idea seems ridiculous.  Me? An author?  

Then another question comes to mind in the form of one word, why?

That's the sticking point for me.  Why would I take up writing?  Because I'm bored and want to try something new that I've never done before?   It wouldn't be the first time.  When I joined vaudeville, it was simply to keep myself busy and working behind the scenes as a stagehand at night seemed ideal.  But then I started to get to know the performers like Julius, Arthur, Herbert and Leonard... better known as the Marx Brothers.  Their range of talents fascinated me.  The number of instruments they could play, or the snappy patter they should spout on a moments notice never ceased to amaze me.  Plus, they seemed to sense the feeling of being 'lost' and 'adrift' in me, which made them reach out so I could be a part of their comeraderie.  But it didn't stop there.  Others in the troupe welcomed me as well, like "Fatty" (Roscoe Arbuckle), the Keatons, Harry and Bess Houdini, the lovely and sweet Mae West and so many others...




Before I knew what was happening they'd be teaching me all kinds of skills and even dragging me out on stage to help out in their acts.  I could write endless stories about those days and the ones that came before.  

My days on the battlefield while serving in the Union Army.  So many stories were lost there that only I know about.  The hopes and fears of my brothers in blue, as well as some of those who wore the rebel gray.  In 167 years of walking this world, I've not forgotten a single person who I've met, good or bad, I remember them.  I also remember the stories they shared, the sweethearts they pursued and the outcomes.  

So many stories to choose from, but where would I begin?  

I brought up the idea of my taking up writing to Brian and his family last night at dinner.  Much to my surprise no one laughed.  Instead they eagerly supported the venture.  Brian in particular urged me to take a couple of creative writing courses at the college where he teaches history.  "We've got some really good instructors there and they could really help you hone your skills?" Brian pointed out.  "I've taken a couple of them and they were really helpful.  Of course, you'll need to decide on a genre to write in.  Agents and publishers like to represent someone who has a specific kind of novel."

"You should write romance," his daughter Lisa suggested with a twinkle in her eye as she looked at me.  Even though she's only a child I have a feeling she's developing a crush on me.  I've seen that look before in girls her age and even younger, over the decades.  But only one ever managed to land me, but she was extremely persistent.  

Even now I can feel her eyes on me after seven decades.  Looking up I find myself staring into a pair of dark eyes, forever captured in oil.  Dark hair frames those eyes along with the lovely face and strong chin.  "Magda," I whisper and smile.

Our time together was not nearly as long as either of us had hoped, but it was magical.  Our first meeting and her prolonged pursuit for my love could fill several volumes.  Her persistence paid off and after three years she became my wife at the young age of sixteen.  

As I stand there lost in thought, the sounds of music reaches my ears from several floors below.  The Crypt is now open and is already filling up with the usual crowd.  Even from here I can sense the whirl of emotions and life down there.  Laughter, sorrow, broken hearts, lust, hopes for love...  

A flash of light through the window catches my eye.  After several nights of gathering clouds it looks as rain is finally drawing near.  I make my way up the stairs and onto the roof of the building to watch the approaching storm.



I see lightning in the distance over my hometown, it's going to be a good one.  But instead of retreating back inside, I stay where I am and feel the breeze on my face and close my eyes.  I can feel the storm's energy on the wind and without thinking, several lines of words describing the feeling come to mind.  Some of the words are trite, but they still help paint a picture within my head.


Suddenly my eyes shoot open as realization sinks in.  Painting a picture, but with words instead of oils or acrylics!   No pencils, no paintbrushes, just words that form an image or a scene within the readers mind.  That's what an author does. But they don't just paint one picture, they paint a whole series of images, coupled with emotions and thoughts.  Yet, I can still use my skills as a painter as well.  Illustrations and book covers... yes.  

And I have so much material to draw upon.  My own experiences as well as those of people who's memories lives I keep alive within me.  I've shared their stories countless times with descendants so they are never forgotten.  

But what kind of stories to write? 

From down in the alley I hear the sound of raised voices.  Looking over the edge I see a young couple having a heated argument.  The boy is obviously breaking up with the girl and leaves her in the alley alone.  But she does not remain that way for long.  Three others, friends of hers arrive and comfort her.  One of them is a young man who obviously has feelings of his own for her.  But instead of being foolish and declaring his affections, he merely gives her the support and comfort of the friend she needs right now.  

But I can sense a change in her.  It's not big, but her gratitude to him and the two girls with him is obvious.  I hear her say she wishes more guys were like him as they step inside.  Perhaps something will come of it eventually.  

However the thing that gets me most is the image that forms in my mind.  Just like the other night down in the club, I could see other figures, superimposed over the trio.  Their outfits changed several times within the span of a few seconds.  I saw flappers, soldiers, suits, gowns, hippies, but their actions were all the same and leading towards one thing... romance.

"Love Across Time..." I murmur as the first drops of rain start hitting my head.  

Why not?  I've seen and experienced it so many times in the last fifteen decades.  Oh, the settings and ways one behaved have changed over time, but the feelings never do.  

Feeling elated at the idea, I spread my arms wide and let the rain and story ideas pour over me.