October 1962............

Maybe it was late September; I'm not sure.

I'm sitting in the back seat of a Lincoln Continental. (Nice.) My father's second best friend, Dutch, is driving, my Dad in the passenger front seat. We are in a traffic jam outside of Yankee Stadium.

World Series; Giants versus Yankees! I'm not sure how we got tickets, but I suspect Dutch's wife, Ginny, a big wig with White Castle, may have provided them. (I'm quite sure she provided the Continental.)

Alas, I am not happy.

Thrilled with the opportunity to attend a world series game featuring my beloved Giants, and equally thrilled that my parents have allowed me to miss a day of school, I am deflated because the game has been rained out. Woe is me. I am somewhat despondent.



As we sit silently in traffic, my attention is drawn to an elegant black man on the street.



"There he is! Mr. America. Mr America!"

Willie Mays, in his street clothes, is walking the sidewalks of the Harlem. I am the first to recognize him. He is, after all, my god.

Our car, being stuck in traffic, is stopped. I leap out, continuing to shout, "Mr. America, Mr. America!"

A police officer on horseback, clears a path for me, but Willie is ignoring my pleas.

My dad, the consummate gentleman, exits the car and offers his efforts. "Mr. Mays?"



Mr. Mays responds. I rush to him, shake his hand, and get his autograph.



Thanks, Dad.



I went to the game the next day; my parents understood priorities and let me take yet another day off from school. ( I can only imagine the negotiation between Mom and Dad.)

Giants lost. Crap.



Fast forward a few days to the last game of the series in San Francisco.

The Giants are losing 1-0 in the bottom of the ninth inning.

Matty Alou gets a bunt single for my Giants. Mays doubles. Roger Maris makes a nice play for the Yankees, and holds Alou at third.

Two out, McCovey at bat.



My recollection is that I'm watching this in my grandmother' s room in our apartment.



McCovey lines out to Bobby Richardson. I die just a little bit, and head out the door to escape as much of the world that a twelve year old can, or wants to.

We'll get 'em next year.



Forty eight years later, we (Giants) have yet to get 'em. Maybe this year. That would be nice.



But there is so much more to this story, more than I have recognized until now.



My recollection is watching the end of the series in my grandmother's room? If this is true, she gave up her stories, her soaps, so I could watch the game.

Nice.

But, what is really nice, is that my grandmother was living with us.



My parents, my sister, my grandmother, and me. Two bedroom, one bath apartment.

I can't explain it, but we made it work. I have to assume it was largely because of my mother's love for her mother, and my father's devotion to my mother.

Lessons learned.



Fast forward again; mid '80's. My parents are in need of assistance.

I loved my mother and father. My wife's willingness to have them live with us is......humbling.

A debt I can never repay..................



And here we are. It all happened for a reason, and I consider myself the biggest benefactor. My parents' in law apartment is now my in law apartment, as I chase the endless summer. Very nice.



I must admit, if the Giants win the series, that would be very, very nice.

But is it necessary? Absolutely not. I'm good.

But, it would be nice. I wish I could watch the series with my father; my first best friend. Or my mother, because, well, I would like to do anything once more with my mother.

Among the living, my first choice to watch the series with is........................the ol' ball and chain.
My bride, my better half.
She has witnessed, endured, tolerated numerous sophomoric episodes of inane behavior because of my unnatural devotion to the men of Orange & Black. It's embarrassing. Geeg has provided me with a life of unbridled joy. I'd like her to witness the only joyous conquest that has eluded me; a world series triumph for my San Francisco Giants!

But is it necessary? Absolutely not. I'm good.

Game 1 starts in 40 minutes.

New Library Privileges!

As many of you know, I took extreme advantage of various Connecticut libraries to enhance my personal music library; primarily Dave Matthews, but Leonard Cohen, Randy Newman, Elvis Costello and others as well.

Good news! The Indian Rocks Beach library now has sharing agreements with all other libraries in this county. I'm tellin' ya, life keeps getting better.

So, of course, my first choice was a further expansion into the world of DMB. Nice.
But I also went for something a little more obscure; The Blnd Boys of Alabama.

One song in particular has struck me; "I Shall Not Walk Alone." Spiritual, soulful, moving.

When I'm tired and weary
And a long, long way from home
I reach for Mother Mary
And I shall not walk alone.

I'm thinkin' this is a good song to hold on to and remember for the inevitable times when life stops keep getting better, like maybe tomorrow if the Giants baseball season comes to an abrupt end.

Yes, I determined that The Blind Boys of Alabama will not let me walk alone.
But then I realize the song was written by Ben Harper.

I don't know much about him, but I do know that he is fairly popular, mainstream, and relevant.
Now I'm concerned.
What's he talkin' 'bout in this song?

At first, I assumed this traditional gospel group was referring to Mother Mary, "Mother of God."

Or is it marijuana?
Is ol' Ben have a little fun with our sight depraved friends from the south?
And, isn't marijuana used to treat glaucoma? What's goin' on?

Also, Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground" is on the album!

Am I reading too much into this?

I'm so confused. Let's hope I am in no particular need of solace over the next few days.

Go Giants!

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.