Happy Halloween!

Don't you just love this time of year? Time for hot apple cider, The Great Pumpkin on TV, pumpkin spice lattes, and my very favorite: cute, costumed children ringing my doorbell and demanding candy!  LOVE IT!!

Now I have a new reason to love Halloween!  You may remember that in an earlier entry, I posted a video made by the acapella singing group "The Blanks," featured on the TV show, "Scrubs."  They're my friends from college, and I just couldn't be more proud of them!

Well, my awesome, talented friends have just released a new video, just in time for Halloween!  It's wonderfully silly, just like them!  Grab some apple cider, sit down, push "play," and enjoy!!

Dad's Key to Joy

Every June, at the conclusion of the school year, my Dad and several of his fellow teacher buddies would load their cars with fishing poles, burgers, buns, beer (Pepsi for Dad), and flannel shirts. They'd hitch up their boats and caravan for ten hours, through Erie, Pennsylvania and Buffalo, New York, over the Peace Bridge to a small marina located on the Key River in Ontario, Canada.

There they'd park their cars, jump in their boats and ride seven more miles down the bendy, gorgeous waterway to a small cabin owned by one of the teachers, Mr. Barrett. They'd spend a week fishing, eating, singing oldies around the kitchen table, fishing, laughing, pulling pranks on each other, and fishing some more.  It was a wonderful tradition, and one they kept up for several years.  They even made t-shirts emblazoned with their self-appointed name:  The June Crew.

Dad anticipated that week all year long, and always returned home from the trip relaxed and happy.  Mr. Barrett was generous enough to invite our entire family up to the cabin each August, so we got a chance to see this magical place for ourselves.  We have many, many happy memories of fishing and swimming along the rocky shore of that glorious Key River, and I'll never forget them.  But deep down, I think I always knew that Dad had MUCH more fun when he was there with The June Crew at the close of every school year.

So you can imagine my delight when my sister Laura sent each of her siblings a DVD last week, copied from a video she found when going through Dad's things.  It was titled "June Crew.  June 8th, 1990."  I popped in the disc and held my breath as the image of happy, smiling men loading their boat at the Key River Marina appeared.  I recognized them all immediately as my Dad's dear friends and fellow educators.

Two things became apparent immediately.  The first was you never saw my Dad.  He was constantly behind the camera, talking to whomever he was taping at the time. The second was that you could hear my Dad's voice distinctly, and I've never heard him sound so happy.  He laughed constantly, even appearing to giggle in some places.

It's important to remind you here that my father was a constant worrier. From the days of his youth when he was forced to pick up the slack for his alcoholic father, to his adult years raising his own large family, Dad fretted about EVERYTHING.  He worried about money and about the safety and purity of his children.   He was constantly imagining he "smelled smoke" in the house and kept all the doors locked at all times, even though we lived in the middle of nowhere on a quiet cul de sac.  He was always, always tense.  Except for that one week in June.

As he followed the men loading their boats and mugging for the camera, the anticipation in Dad's voice is unmistakable.  He asks them dumb, silly questions, like, "Are we gonna catch a lot of fish on this trip?"  When the inevitable reply was, "You betcha!" he'd laugh and yell back, "Atta boy!"

As I watched the DVD from start to finish, wiping a tear away at some particularly sweet moments, a thought occurred to me.  I don't know if I've ever been as happy as my Dad sounded on that tape.  I've been in some great places with gorgeous scenery, with awesome company, but I'm not sure if my voice has ever sounded as exuberant and giddy as Dad's did as he rode on his friend's boat down that Key River.  I'm so grateful he had that week every year.

How about you?  Do you have a place that makes you deliriously joyful?  Do you have a yearly gathering with friends or family that you anticipate, and never disappoints?  Oh, I hope so!  Everyone, at some point, should sound like Dad did on that tape.  It's my wish for you today.  I hope you find a place that you can share with the people you love the most in this world.  A place that makes you relax and smile, but also invigorates and inspires you!

If you've already found that place, will you tell me about it now? I'd LOVE to hear about it! And as always,

Thanks for Reading!!

Time to Celebrate!!

I passed a bit of a milestone a few weeks back:  On September 1st, 2009, I officially started this blog! My husband had been encouraging me to exercise my writing skills, and assured me that this would be a great way to start.  So, nervously, I did!!

I thought I'd post that very first entry today, as a belated anniversary celebration. I must tell you, I was TERRIFIED!  I figured no one would care about my silly stories, and I felt so vulnerable sending them out into the blogosphere!  I was so sure I'd get nothing but negative feedback, I initially disabled the comments option.

What I found, instead, was this lovely, encouraging blogging community that has been so wonderfully supportive through every step of the way!  Thanks to ALL of you!  I really, really appreciate it!

So much has changed in just one short year since I started this blog.  A year ago, I had just moved to York, PA, and my Dad was relatively healthy, living a happy life of retirement with my Mom in Florida.  Today, I live in Nashville, TN, and my Dad has passed away.  I'm so grateful I was able to record some of the wonderful memories of Dad on this blog, for all eternity.  Although he never read any of my stories, I'm certain he'd be proud of the words I've written here.

So, here it is, my first entry, from one year ago.  Can't you just HEAR my knees knocking?...

In The Beginning...

So, I've decided to join the ranks of Those-Who-Think-They-Can-Write-And-Who-Also-Think-That-Others-May-Even-Want-To-Read-Their-Stuff! Thanks to my husband Alan's gentle urging and reassurance that my technologically-challenged brain can actually maneuver this baby, I officially throw my hat into the literary ring.

So, here's my story: I'm a 45 year old white female, raised in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. It was in school there that I received my first creative writing assignments and discovered that I really enjoyed completing them. In seventh grade, my english teacher read one of my fiction essays out loud to the class. I was both mortified and completely jazzed. My mom bought me a thesaurus for my birthday. I was going to be the next Ernest Hemingway.

Then I was cast as the lead in Nordonia High School's musical production of "Anything Goes." That was it. My thesaurus never stood a chance. I became a musical theater major at Syracuse University, graduated, and began my quest for the great Broadway Stage. What I didn't figure on was how miserable I'd be living in New York City. I hated it. I gave it a few good years, did a few decent shows and somehow ended-up moving to Orlando, Florida. I spent sixteen years there, thirteen of them doing the Terminator 2/3D show at Universal Studios. It was a fantastic, awesome gig, and I loved every minute of it.

But, my stud of a husband (you'll hear more about him in later entries) got promoted, which brings us here to our new current residence in York, PA. So, with the lights of the theater fading behind me now, I keep spotting that old worn thesaurus out of the corner of my eye. It beckons me to give my first love a try. I decided to listen.

The name of my blog is a nostalgic nod to something my grumpy, old, Irish dad used to say. He had a lot of sayings: "Hit the Bricks!" (Get Out of Here!), "Tough Tarantula!" (Sucks to Be You!), or "Not too shabby!" (You did good, kid. I am proud of you!). When he was fishing off the deck of his beloved boat, a can of Pepsi in hand on a sunny afternoon, he'd lean back in his chair and say, "I wonder what the poor people are doing today!" But my favorite Jack Donnelly quote growing up was the classic, "Anything Fits a Naked Man." Simple, but true, no? Hard to complain when you're in need!

It is with that quote in mind that I undertake this new adventure. I'm just going to test the creative writing waters once again, naked as I am! Hope you enjoy...

Showing Up

This won't be a long post today.  I just wanted to drop in and thank all of you for your kind, supportive words regarding my Dad's death.

To all my dear friends and acquaintances from out of town who called, e-mailed, facebooked, and sent lovely hand-written notes, thank you.  I can't tell you how much it means to me.

You should've seen Dad's wake.   There wasn't an empty parking space at the funeral home, because so many people came to pay their respects to this brother, uncle, friend, colleague, and teacher they knew and loved.

Dad's former students were the ones that touched me the most. You may remember from an earlier post that Dad was a high school shop teacher for several years (although he hated that term, and insisted we call it "Industrial Arts.").  His students were often not the most  academically gifted in the school, but Dad's class offered them a chance to excel at something else; working with their hands and creating something to be proud of.

Imagine how much it meant to my siblings and I to have these grown men approach us as we stood next to Dad's casket, and tell us how profoundly Dad affected their lives.  They could have bought a sympathy card at the grocery store, signed their names at the bottom, and mailed it to the house.  But they didn't.  They showed up. And I'll never forget it.

They put on suits and uncomfortable shoes, combed their hair and drove a few towns away, just to pay their respects in person.  They grabbed our hands and looked into our eyes and told us how much they appreciated our father.  And I'll never forget it.

There were others who showed up, too.  Like the now grown-up boys who lived next door to us thirty years ago.  They used to make Dad crazy because they mowed the lawn in their bare feet (safety hazard) and yelled loudly at each other during spirited games of whiffle ball played in their backyard.  We hadn't seen any of them in years.  Yet, there they were, to grab our hands and gently say, "So sorry to hear about your Dad."  They showed up.  And I'll never forget it.

Then there were my friends.  Not friends of Dad's, mind you (although there were plenty of those, too), MY friends.  High school friends who didn't know Dad that well, but came to comfort ME.  They showed up with warm hugs, handing me their phone numbers written on slips of paper for "if you just need to talk, or get away for awhile."  Gay, my childhood friend, and her parents, whom I haven't seen in over two decades, showed up.  And I'll never forget it.

Many of the people I've mentioned above don't read this blog, and will probably never get this message, but I hope you'll indulge me as I send it anyway:

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.  Not only were you a tremendous comfort, you taught me an invaluable lesson.  Showing up means much more than I ever imagined.  Before that evening, if my childhood next door neighbor had passed away and I learned about the funeral,  I may have penned a quick note to their children and dropped it in the mail, feeling really good that I "reached out."  But now all that has changed.

I will show up.  I will curl my hair, put on makeup, hose, and a dress, and I will be there.  I will wrap my arms around you, and remind you how loved you are.  You have my word. Because based on my experience, it's the absolute best thing I can do.

Thanks for Reading.

Turn, Turn, Turn...

Rest in peace, Dad.  I'll miss you.

xo, Joan

Sigh....

I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm an enormous fan of the big band era, and the music of the 40's.  Give me Bing, Frank, and Rosemary on my car radio and I'm good for HOURS!

My XM radio's 40's station is where I recently discovered, and fell in love with, the voice of  Margaret Whiting. The recordings of her performing Moonlight in Vermont, A Tree in the Meadow, and my personal favorite, You Do, are so clear and pretty, they've actually reduced me to tears.

So I went on YouTube today to try and find one of those recordings to share with you, and was disappointed when I found none.  I instead came upon THIS lovely piece, The Lies of Handsome Men, and I knew immediately it's what I wanted to post today.

Like Rosemary Clooney, Margaret performed well into her later years, when her voice was much older and harsher.  This is a recording from those "twilight years," so you won't get to hear the clear, sweet tones of her earlier days.  But I think it's lovely, in it's own way.  And the slide show is just, well, DELICIOUS!  Swoon with me for a minute, won't you?.......

Priceless

My sister, Jen, and I had a heated debate recently.  It was the day after basketball star, Lebron James, Ohio native and player for the Cleveland Cavaliers, broke the collective hearts of an entire city when he announced he would be "taking his talents to South Beach," and leaving to play for the Miami Heat.  The televisions stations in Cleveland spent the next several hours mourning their exiting hero's decision, interviewing fans that quickly progressed from being heartbroken to really, really angry.

Despite growing up under the same roof as our father, the athlete, coach, basketball referee and ultimate Cleveland sports fan, Jen never shared the same sports enthusiasm as the rest of us.  I don't believe she ever really "got" the whole thing.  She declared that day that the worship this country bestows on it's spoiled, overpaid athletes is despicable, and we should all be ashamed for wasting our time pining over their childish antics.

Truth be told, I was never a fan of Mr. James.  He definitely, in my opinion, fits the description of the overpaid, spoiled athlete with multiple character flaws.  He was born and raised in nearby Akron, Ohio, and played for the Cavaliers for seven seasons, never achieving a championship, often because he appeared to simply quit when they reached the playoffs.  He showed up at Jacobs Field wearing a Yankees cap while attending an Cleveland Indians playoff game.  In Cleveland.  The Indians were playing the Yankees.  At a Cleveland Browns home game, he playfully tossed the ball on the sidelines with the quarterback.  Of Dallas.  The team the Browns were about to play.  Classy stuff.

When you view childish, disrespectful antics like this, you can certainly understand Jen's point. Yet I strongly disagreed with my dear sister about my city's devotion to it's teams and players therein.  Go to ClevelandBrowns.com and click on the "Community"  tab to see all the ways the Browns organization is involved in the city and it's surrounding suburbs.  The players and coaches have built playgrounds, read to children in the Cuyahoga County Library, fed the homeless in soup kitchens, and built homes for Habitat for Humanity.  They sponsor youth football camps and provide "Family Day" at training camp.  I know all other NFL teams have done the same.

Then there are some true classy players.  Talk to Josh Cribbs, Browns star kick-off returner and graduate of nearby Kent State University.  Ask him how much he loves the city of Cleveland and it's people, but make sure you've alloted plenty of time for his response (Josh tends to gush!).

There's former quarterback and hometown hero Bernie Kosar, who nearly brought the Browns to the Superbowl back in the 80's.  He's on the Browns staff now, and commentates the preseason games for the local TV station.  There's not enough space on this blog to list all the charities Bernie has founded to aid the people and children of the city he loves.  No spoiled brats here.

But there was something else I wish I had mentioned to Jen when we were debating that morning.  Ironically, we were doing so in the nursing home room where my father lay, sleeping peacefully in his bed in the corner. I wish I had pointed to my weak, slumbering father and told Jen the story about a preseason game that Dad and I attended several years back.  My first husband had just left me a few months earlier, and I was in the process of putting my life back together, one piece at a time.  Dad was never a great consoler, but I was back home for a few days, so he suggested we head downtown and try to scalp a couple of tickets to watch Bernie and the Browns take on Kansas City.

Dad was a FIERCE negotiator, and after talking some poor sap down to a few bucks per ticket, we took our seats in the old stadium and prepared for some Browns football.  Because Dad both played and coached football, he is extremely knowledgeable about the game, often telling which plays would be called before they were even set to snap the ball.  We watched Kosar (Dad was a big fan), and he made predictions about the upcoming season, how he thought our struggling team would do.  It was a great night.  All my worries about my marriage, my financial situation, and my future faded away as I sat there sipping a Pepsi with Dad, watching our beloved team and dreaming about the season ahead.

The Browns won that game.  And the next morning, a rerun of the game was shown on the local television station.  Dad and I took a seat on the couch and watched it together AGAIN, saying things like, "Oh, here comes that play where he faked right, then hit the receiver in the end zone!"  We cheered just as loud the second time through.

Yes, we probably place far too much emphasis on sports in this country. And the people of Cleveland should probably get over the despicable shunning of their once glorious "King James."  But for THIS Cleveland fan, rooting for my team and admiring it's players goes far, far deeper than buying a jersey that supports a millionaire's salary.  These players and this team represent my city, and the people who live there.  People who get together and cheer for them, year after heartbreaking year, simply because they're "our team."

And most importantly, they have provided the only thing over which my Dad and I have deeply, sincerely bonded.  And THAT, my dear sports fans, is priceless.  Or as Dad would say, "not too shabby."

Thanks for Reading!!