End of an Era

I sold my Lionel trains a few weeks ago, a collection that started Christmas 1957. They were just taking up space; the last time I set them up was 1978. Now the only space they consume is in my memory. On the floor, in front of the faux fireplace, next to the piano with the Christmas village on top. Mesmorized by a motorized toy train.

Over the years, the set was expanded and moved to the kitchen. This was before the kitchen became my bedroom. (Don't get me started.) But interest naturally waned; the trains were long ignored. It was primarily a solitary activity; most of my friends weren't interesed.

So I sold them to a New Yorker from the Bronx; he really railroaded me. Played me like a freakin' fiddle, but that's okay. I easily let go of the trains. I hold on to the memories.

So............what's left?

Well, I've still got sports. Baseball has been a constant in my life, since even before the trains.

Amaysingly, (and to the chagrin of my wife and landlord) I still hold on to Giants memorabilia; even addded to the collection this year.

Even baseball, though, I could probably let go; the finances of the game (Yankees) have taken away much of the joy. If I can ever add a Giants World Series victory to my memory bank, (hopefully before dimentia, when I begin to imagine this victory) I may just walk away from the game.

(Nah, I'll probably always root for the laundry.)

Football? I've already started to slowly disengage. I can't get most of the games in Florida; I've chosen the beach over a sports bar. Plus, I've got my Giants Super Bowl memories.

As a fan, I thought football was life, As a grandfather, I see football as a brutal and barbaric activity for thugs, punks, and a couple of Mannings. Maybe I'll embrace soccer.

So.......what's left?

Music. This is a keeper. Even before baseball, there was music. Hair slicked back, Mickey Mouse guitar in hand, wriggling my hips to the songs of Elvis Presley, for the amusement of family and friends.

Admittedly, the music died, or least went into a coma for about 10 years. Then in the summer of 1966, I broke my wrist. Sports activities curtailed, I rediscovered music. Embarrassingly, the first album I ever bought was "A Taste of Honey" by Herb Alpert and the Tijuanna Brass. (This purchase continued an odd family history of first album selections - my sisters' first was "Broadway Songs" by Jerry Lewis. Not Jerry Lee Lewis of rock 'n' roll fame, Jerry Lewis of "Martin and Lewis, and oh, by the way, I can't sing," fame.)

Luckily, I soon discovered Motown, but it was a "Young Rascals" album that really opened my ears. By this time, the kitchen was my bedroom. (It's complicated.) I remember closing the shade that was my door and listening to lead singer Felix Cavaliere sing "Midnight Hour." He wailed. He moaned. I moved. "I wanna hold you, squeeze you, tease you , I need you, love me, Baby........ahhhh! Have mercy! Take it home now!" Raw. Gutteral. Tawdry. At sixteen I was severely wondering what I was missing.

Music still does it for me; insert requisite Dave Matthews reference. The instrumental interlude in the live version of "Lie in Our Graves" blows me away. I'm listening to it now, and .......................(I'm over here now.

Music is a keeper. I can't sing, can't play, but I can feel. Yeah, I got the music in me.

So........what else is left?

What always was, always is, always will be.

Mi famila. (It is so appropriate that "family' is feminine in the language of romance.)Returning south, to my other home, to my never ending summer, I bring my family with me. Literally in one case, unfortunately only figuratively in all other cases.

I bring memories, prayers, hopes.

A family to nurture and be nurtured by. To comfort and be comforted by. To share laughter, secrets, dreams.

We will return north just before Thanksgiving, but I don't need a holiday or a turkey to know how much I have to be thankful for.

Family tops the list. Always did. Always will.