"Stack, QPWC, large fry, small fry, and two large tea-a-mas." - Tom Devane, at McDonald's
"Well, of course you are!" Schlom, on getting someone's name completely wrong, and being corrected
"It's a poor man who can't keep a roof over his tools."
***********
Really long post this time out, but the subject is near and dear to my heart.
"Schlom" is Thomas J. Devane. Bon vivant, realtor, bachelor, former roommate, cook, and one of the best friends your intrepid scribe ever had. He had more nicknames than Carter had little pills; "The Big Kid", "HBK" (Heavy Blond Kid), and the list goes on.
Above all, to me, he was just Schlom. Impossible to define, he was truly a force of nature. He had more varied interests than anyone I've ever known. Beneath the impossibly rumpled khakis, and constantly tousled red-blond hair lay a man of considerable intellect, sizable girth, and unparallelled kindness. He shared anything and everything he had, and more than a few things he didn't, technically, have.
The Big Fella was known to enjoy the occasional cocktail. He also loved golf, and combined these two pursuits in tandem with a passion seen in few others. I once watched him stagger from bed, dress, throw his ancient weapons in my car, and break 80 at Troy CC, on what had to be memory alone. I'm fairly certain we were on the third tee before he fully grasped where the hell he was.
He was my partner for over a decade in the Schneider Cup, a benefit tournament at Troy in honor of a great friend of ours, and while we were never a threat to compete on the course, we were frequently the leaders in the clubhouse in other pursuits.
Nothing if not innovative, he proposed the formation of the Cocktail Tour, whereby one's blood alcohol content would be factored into one's score, thus leveling the playing field somewhat. Even with Dewar's as a proposed sponsor, sadly, the idea has yet to catch on in the golf world.
Tommy enjoyed considerable success at various points in his life, but whether or not the fates were with him at the moment, his kindness and generosity never wavered, ever. He was a gentleman in the classic, old-school sense; he would spend the last ten bucks he had to ensure that he did not arrive at an invitation empty-handed, because you just didn't DO that. This was no affectation; it was how he lived his adult life.
As a house-guest, he had no equal. Bride & I had him in our home a million times over the years, whether for a planned "Former Roomates Appreciation Night", an impromptu "Tapas and Scotch" session, or simply because the boys had not seen Uncle Tommy in a week or so. We've always enjoyed entertaining, and Schlom never failed to be an enthusiastic guest and participant. He'd take over the kitchen in a heartbeat, and it's revealing that he's about the only friend I've ever had who would be regularly permitted to do so.
Boy, did he like to travel. The stories of his travels are too numerous to print here, and some likely unfit to print at all. I had the pleasure of a week in Italy with him for a friend's wedding nine years ago, and we'll try the sanitized version of that trip here. If names have not been changed, assume extreme guilt.
I've never minded flying; in fact, I usually enjoy it, and my work has caused me to do it fairly often over the years. Schlom was studying at the time for his pilot's license, so we were of a mind when it came to taking to the air. As long as the number of landings equal the number of takeoffs, I'm pretty good with it.
We board a 20-seater prop-job for the hour trip from Albany to JFK. I've been in smaller aircraft than this a number of times before, and turbulence is not new to me, but typically it's been of the up & down variety; this trip featured side-to-side pitching, and it was difficult to take. I had never experienced anything close to nausea in the air; it was coming on hard now.
Schlom recognized the conditions, explained to me what the pilot was doing to combat them, and settled my mind considerably. After a 60-minute trip became 90, we were wheels-down at Kennedy, to a well-deserved ovation for the pilot, led, of course, by Schlom. Only after we were strolling through the concourse did he explain just how difficult a job the pilot faced, and just how well it was done.
Sixteen sleepless hours later, we've crossed the Atlantic in coach, seating unfit for men of our dimensions. We land at DeGaulle Airport in Paris, for a layover of about two hours before the final hop to Rome.
Three important things to consider here: I am toting a virgin US passport, having never been outside the country before, and we've been up about 24 hours by now. We're also schlepping more luggage than is medically necessary.
These three factors cause Schlom to temporarily lose his temper for the first time in my memory. I'm sure it had happened before, but I had neither seen nor heard of it.
I get us heading in the wrong direction in the damned airport, which does not help. The carry-on luggage is doing us no favors, 24 hours into the trip, either.
Then, we meet French airport securite. Long story short, we get in one line, wait therein, then get directed to another, only to be sent back to the first line, all while within sight of our aircraft. This is proving irksome to Schlom, who exchanges some uncharacteristically sharp rebukes with the poor young fellow who finally has to process us.
Moods change quickly. We board our Air France 737, with the Big Kid still steamed, although by now due equally to the process snafu, and his embarrassment at his reaction to it. Things look up, however, at the arrival of a lovely flight attendant who offers us breakfast and champagne. Crisis averted.
Many hours later, I still have, to my consternation, an unstamped passport, it's 2pm local time in Rome, and we're sitting on the edge of our hotel beds, 30 hours since last we slept. The urge to fall backwards and submit to fatigue is STRONG.
We overcome it, get up, and spend the next six hours strolling the ancient streets of Rome. He'd been there before, so we hit the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Via Veneto, and a local eatery before heading back to the hotel. It's at this point that I have the most (some might say only) intelligent idea of the whole trip.
Two blocks from the hotel, and we're really dragging. I spy an appropriate store, and grab a half-liter of Bushmill's. In the room, we drain half the bottle, and fall out for six solid hours. At 2AM local time, body clocks a wreck, we awake, drain the other half, and fall back out until 930 AM Roman time. We are now roughly in synch with the world around us.
Not the textbook way to combat jet lag, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Two days later, we've seen the Colosseum and the Vatican, the two big items for me, among many other locations. The Vatican has always held interest for me, and when we departed our tour bus, I am staggered by the sheer scale of the place. Standing on the sidewalk, I'm the typical American tourist, goggle-eyed. Schlom, sotto voce: "Keep in mind, Roon, we're still a mile away."
Hours later, we've been to the top of the dome ("The Pope's jogging track." "Careful, Schlom; I'm pretty sure God can find us here."), seen untold sights, and are standing with our backs to the front door of the Basilica, looking down the length of this magnificent cathedral. Schlom, as mind-reader: "No, Roon. You could not drive a ball that far, even on marble."
Last travel note, I promise: Day 3, Rome to Rieti, Italy, for the wedding itself, and three days of celebration. We've checked out, and, bags in hand, are following our directions (a sketchy proposition throughout the trip) for getting on the "Roma-Rieti" bus for a 90-minute journey. My Italian is non-existent, and my Spanish is sufficiently outdated as to be no help. I pantomime our need for bus tickets, and acquire them for the appropriate hour, about 40 minutes hence. We cross the street, luggage in tow, and find the bus in the lot, sign proclaiming our destination. It's warm, we're in the shade of a tree, and there's no one else nearby. Beautiful.
Fifteen minutes to departure, still no one but the driver around. I rap on the door, to be advised that our bus is across the parking lot, surrounded by a throng, with everything up to and including carry-on poultry. We ride 90 hellacious minutes, me in the aisle, an exhausted Schlom in the well of the side door.
Outskirts of Rieti. Did I mention sketchy directions? There are three Rieti exits, and we know not which one. We finally grasp this, and split the difference, opting for door #2. We leave the bus without a means to contact anyone we know; all we know is the name of the hotel. I'm staring at a map trying to figure out where the hell we are, when a young man, in excellent English, asks if he can help us. We give him the name of the hotel, and he chuckles. All he does is point. There, 100 yards away, in meter-high letters, is the name of our hotel.
Three days later, we return to Rome for one last night's sleep, and the trip home. More memories than I can recount, and the best trip of my life, largely due to spending it with Schlom.
I've written elsewhere in this blog of the horrible days upon learning of his passing, some eighteen months ago, and I will not repeat that here. While the shock has passed, my sadness at his loss remains. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him, and miss him.
This is not attempt at revisionist history in his memory. Schlom was not a saint, but then he never claimed to be. He was who he was; good, bad, and indifferent. He lived the day in front of him. I believe completely that the good greatly outweighed the bad, and that's not a bad way to be remembered, in my book.
To you, my friend.
Excelsior!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
On Heroism
"We can be heroes, just for one day." - David Bowie
"The streets of heaven tonight are paved with heroes." - Aaron Sorkin, via Josiah Bartlet
************
All too often, heroism implies tragedy; the selfless grunt who falls on a grenade to save his platoon, the firefighter who goes back into the burning building, the brave souls in lower Manhattan on a crisp September morning. Those who "march to the sound of the guns", whether real or metaphoric, are indeed heroes. They who do what must be done, regardless of the risk, lift us all up by their acts. Lincoln called it "the last true measure of devotion", and whether we're talking about Audie Murphy, or the doctor who has retrieved a young life from death's door, heroism may be what defines us, above all, as human.
It is, at its essence, the giving of oneself in service of others, and in the recent news, I'm struck by two rather notable acts of heroism; one ending in tragedy, and one in glorious triumph.
In the first case, Darin McGahey, 42, of McDonough, GA, was on a Florida beach with his son's travel baseball team when he noticed his son and a teammate struggling in the ocean current. Although not a strong swimmer himself, without hesitation, he dove into the water to reach the boys. He was caught in a riptide, and instead of trying to swim parallel to the beach, and get out of the current, he attempted, quite naturally, to swim back directly to shore. By the time rescuers were finally able to reach him, the two boys had safely made it to a sandbar, but Mr. McGahey had lost his life.
The backstory just adds to Mr. McGahey's selflessness. A promising ballplayer himself as a youth, it became apparent to him that dreams of a professional career were not to be, so he became an electrician, and he and his wife settled into raising a family. Wanting more for that family, he supplemented his income with a number of rental properties in town, and the upkeep of those properties ate considerably into his time. What time he did have left over he dedicated to coaching youth, including his son. He enjoyed success in his coaching, and as was his nature deflected any praise he received toward the kids on his team.
While racked with grief over this tragic loss, friends and family of Mr. McGahey's were not even remotely surprised at his actions of July 7, 2010. It was yet another example of an unassuming, dedicated man, doing what had to be done.
Sixteen year-old Bryane (Bree) Heaberlin, of St. Petersburg, FL, is apparently one of the finest young goalies in the world, according to folks far more knowledgeable than your intrepid scribe. She's so good, at 16, that she was invited to play for the 20-under US national team at the FIFA U20 World Cup this month in Germany. I don't know beans about soccer, but she sounds pretty good.
That's not the story. Back in March, Bree's national team played a "friendly" against the Haitian national girls' team, and defeated them handily, 9-0. The result was hardly unexpected; the American girls held a significant advantage in resources, training, and skill. At the end of the match, the Haitian goalkeeper, obviously embarrassed and upset with the magnitude of the loss, was racked with tears.
Bree went up to the opposing keeper, and gave her a long hug, one that ended in both teams embracing at midfield. This was, after all, just two months after the devastating earthquakes that have torn Haiti apart. Bree knew there were players here who had lost friends and family, and decided then and there to do something about it.
OK, she's a terrific goalie, but what the hell can a 16 year-old do that governments and telethons couldn't?
Deliver.
All this remarkable young lady has done is raise over $15,000 to bring that Haitian team back in December for a two-week Disney International Tournament. She started a foundation called "Many Hearts, One Goal" to help the Haitian team; when word got out of her efforts, Disney donated lodging, meals, park passes, the whole smash. A local construction company has started building 12'X24' collapsible structures for shipment to Haiti, and other efforts are ongoing.
Please read Kevin Blackistone's July 19, 2010 column in FanHouse.com about Bryane Heaberlin, and David Whitley's July 18 FanHouse column on Darin McGahey; they have written their stories far better than I can.
The point of all of this? While heroism can take many forms, the stories of Darin McGahey and Bryane Heaberlin illustrate just how we can be heroes, for one day, or for many.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
"The streets of heaven tonight are paved with heroes." - Aaron Sorkin, via Josiah Bartlet
************
All too often, heroism implies tragedy; the selfless grunt who falls on a grenade to save his platoon, the firefighter who goes back into the burning building, the brave souls in lower Manhattan on a crisp September morning. Those who "march to the sound of the guns", whether real or metaphoric, are indeed heroes. They who do what must be done, regardless of the risk, lift us all up by their acts. Lincoln called it "the last true measure of devotion", and whether we're talking about Audie Murphy, or the doctor who has retrieved a young life from death's door, heroism may be what defines us, above all, as human.
It is, at its essence, the giving of oneself in service of others, and in the recent news, I'm struck by two rather notable acts of heroism; one ending in tragedy, and one in glorious triumph.
In the first case, Darin McGahey, 42, of McDonough, GA, was on a Florida beach with his son's travel baseball team when he noticed his son and a teammate struggling in the ocean current. Although not a strong swimmer himself, without hesitation, he dove into the water to reach the boys. He was caught in a riptide, and instead of trying to swim parallel to the beach, and get out of the current, he attempted, quite naturally, to swim back directly to shore. By the time rescuers were finally able to reach him, the two boys had safely made it to a sandbar, but Mr. McGahey had lost his life.
The backstory just adds to Mr. McGahey's selflessness. A promising ballplayer himself as a youth, it became apparent to him that dreams of a professional career were not to be, so he became an electrician, and he and his wife settled into raising a family. Wanting more for that family, he supplemented his income with a number of rental properties in town, and the upkeep of those properties ate considerably into his time. What time he did have left over he dedicated to coaching youth, including his son. He enjoyed success in his coaching, and as was his nature deflected any praise he received toward the kids on his team.
While racked with grief over this tragic loss, friends and family of Mr. McGahey's were not even remotely surprised at his actions of July 7, 2010. It was yet another example of an unassuming, dedicated man, doing what had to be done.
Sixteen year-old Bryane (Bree) Heaberlin, of St. Petersburg, FL, is apparently one of the finest young goalies in the world, according to folks far more knowledgeable than your intrepid scribe. She's so good, at 16, that she was invited to play for the 20-under US national team at the FIFA U20 World Cup this month in Germany. I don't know beans about soccer, but she sounds pretty good.
That's not the story. Back in March, Bree's national team played a "friendly" against the Haitian national girls' team, and defeated them handily, 9-0. The result was hardly unexpected; the American girls held a significant advantage in resources, training, and skill. At the end of the match, the Haitian goalkeeper, obviously embarrassed and upset with the magnitude of the loss, was racked with tears.
Bree went up to the opposing keeper, and gave her a long hug, one that ended in both teams embracing at midfield. This was, after all, just two months after the devastating earthquakes that have torn Haiti apart. Bree knew there were players here who had lost friends and family, and decided then and there to do something about it.
OK, she's a terrific goalie, but what the hell can a 16 year-old do that governments and telethons couldn't?
Deliver.
All this remarkable young lady has done is raise over $15,000 to bring that Haitian team back in December for a two-week Disney International Tournament. She started a foundation called "Many Hearts, One Goal" to help the Haitian team; when word got out of her efforts, Disney donated lodging, meals, park passes, the whole smash. A local construction company has started building 12'X24' collapsible structures for shipment to Haiti, and other efforts are ongoing.
Please read Kevin Blackistone's July 19, 2010 column in FanHouse.com about Bryane Heaberlin, and David Whitley's July 18 FanHouse column on Darin McGahey; they have written their stories far better than I can.
The point of all of this? While heroism can take many forms, the stories of Darin McGahey and Bryane Heaberlin illustrate just how we can be heroes, for one day, or for many.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Friday, July 16, 2010
On Writing
"Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright." - Aaron Sorkin, by way of Sam Seaborn.
************
From the dawn of civilization, humans have used some sort of written communication as a means of documenting their lives. From ancient glyphs and runes, to today's blogosphere, the written word remains Man's foremost method for expressing our fears, joys, and ideas.
That said, I DO have a few concerns.
Again, (I have used this phrase before), this is not some Luddite rant against change; quite to the contrary. Technological change has a very positive history when it comes to the written word; we've gone from papyrus scrolls, to Herr Gutenberg, to the electrons that allow you to read this essay. Further, the Internet has brought the ability to access the written word to more people than ever before, and that's not even remotely debatable.
Herein lies the problem.
I run the risk of being labeled an intellectual snob with this particular rant, and so be it: Is it too much to ask that we encourage the preservation of the written word, and not just let it degrade into high-octane texting jargon? "CUL8R" is perfectly fine for a transmission when one is character-limited; no objection there at all. However, the Internet allows for any number of long-form capabilities, and it is e-mail that I will particularly target for today's screed.
E-mail was originally designed to replace paper-borne memoranda in the business world, and has come to largely replace paper correspondence of all kinds, save for the bills we all love to find in the mailbox. As a transmission medium, it's utterly brilliant; instantaneous delivery of information targeted to a specific recipient. It's addressable, forwardable, can be easily replied to, and requires no postage. What the hell is wrong with that?
As Marshall McLuhan might say, "It's not the medium, it's the messsage."
After thirty years in the business world, I long ago adopted for myself some fairly high standards for expressing ideas therein. Without question, I utilize instant messaging capabilities for the electronic equivalent of a "Post-It" note, but if I have allegedly important thoughts to express, I typically utilize email, and take my time in doing so. I will usually edit the work; I've never minded being edited, as long as the result was an improvement.
I first noticed five or six years ago what was to me an alarming relaxation of those standards in a communication from the subordinate of a friend of mine to a customer. Appalling use of grammar, spelling suited to a first-grader, and the notable closing of "cya" were just some of the high points of this little communique, and about the only positive aspect of the whole affair was that the sender's boss got to him before I did. We were in the process of responding to a bid with this particular government agency, and I was not looking to have all that work sunk because some idiot could not be bothered with his native language.
Some might say, "Pull the bug out of your butt, Miss Manners", and proceed to write this off as an old fart decrying the times. If I were attempting to rail against email in favor of snail mail, they'd have a point. Is it too much, however, to simply ask for a little Goddamned grammar?
What's the point of all of this? There is utterly brilliant writing going on every day, all around us. Writing that inspires and informs, and that brings out the best (and worst) of the human condition. Regardless of the means by which it's transmitted, let's take the time to do our best with what we write; it may well be our legacy.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
************
From the dawn of civilization, humans have used some sort of written communication as a means of documenting their lives. From ancient glyphs and runes, to today's blogosphere, the written word remains Man's foremost method for expressing our fears, joys, and ideas.
That said, I DO have a few concerns.
Again, (I have used this phrase before), this is not some Luddite rant against change; quite to the contrary. Technological change has a very positive history when it comes to the written word; we've gone from papyrus scrolls, to Herr Gutenberg, to the electrons that allow you to read this essay. Further, the Internet has brought the ability to access the written word to more people than ever before, and that's not even remotely debatable.
Herein lies the problem.
I run the risk of being labeled an intellectual snob with this particular rant, and so be it: Is it too much to ask that we encourage the preservation of the written word, and not just let it degrade into high-octane texting jargon? "CUL8R" is perfectly fine for a transmission when one is character-limited; no objection there at all. However, the Internet allows for any number of long-form capabilities, and it is e-mail that I will particularly target for today's screed.
E-mail was originally designed to replace paper-borne memoranda in the business world, and has come to largely replace paper correspondence of all kinds, save for the bills we all love to find in the mailbox. As a transmission medium, it's utterly brilliant; instantaneous delivery of information targeted to a specific recipient. It's addressable, forwardable, can be easily replied to, and requires no postage. What the hell is wrong with that?
As Marshall McLuhan might say, "It's not the medium, it's the messsage."
After thirty years in the business world, I long ago adopted for myself some fairly high standards for expressing ideas therein. Without question, I utilize instant messaging capabilities for the electronic equivalent of a "Post-It" note, but if I have allegedly important thoughts to express, I typically utilize email, and take my time in doing so. I will usually edit the work; I've never minded being edited, as long as the result was an improvement.
I first noticed five or six years ago what was to me an alarming relaxation of those standards in a communication from the subordinate of a friend of mine to a customer. Appalling use of grammar, spelling suited to a first-grader, and the notable closing of "cya" were just some of the high points of this little communique, and about the only positive aspect of the whole affair was that the sender's boss got to him before I did. We were in the process of responding to a bid with this particular government agency, and I was not looking to have all that work sunk because some idiot could not be bothered with his native language.
Some might say, "Pull the bug out of your butt, Miss Manners", and proceed to write this off as an old fart decrying the times. If I were attempting to rail against email in favor of snail mail, they'd have a point. Is it too much, however, to simply ask for a little Goddamned grammar?
What's the point of all of this? There is utterly brilliant writing going on every day, all around us. Writing that inspires and informs, and that brings out the best (and worst) of the human condition. Regardless of the means by which it's transmitted, let's take the time to do our best with what we write; it may well be our legacy.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
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