Preparing myself mentally for this Saturday, when my family will spread my dad's ashes in a garden at his church, I came back to Neil Young's "Daddy Went Walkin'," a song that took on great meaning to me in the days and weeks after my father's death. I was surprised, as I searched online for Young's interpretation of the lyrics, by other people's impressions of the song.
In a PopMatters review of Young's Silver & Gold album, Bill Holmes's interpretation is that the song "deals with broken families from the perspective of a hopeful child." Concert reviewer Chris Nelson, writing on MTV.com, says of the song: “While the lyrics seemed simple, Young’s purposeful delivery rendered the lines cinematic. One could picture the song’s narrator, only as tall as the weeds, walking beside a towering father."
"'Daddy Went Walkin' is just a playful number about Dad going out and cutting wood, accompanied by the barnyard cat. Is that really worth a song?" asked Jeffrey Overstreet in reviewing Silver & Gold on Tollbooth.org, a Christian-themed entertainment site. "Like a William Carlos Williams poem about a red wheelbarrow, Neil Young is calling attention to the lasting value of simple memories, simple lives, simple tasks."
Other reviewers thought the song simple and rather stupid, and not worth their time.
Looking for meaning in a song, poem, book or movie is subjective, of course. Where others hear a child's voice or the value of honest work and living simply, I divine a middle-aged guy imagining his father in the afterlife, ambling along happily with his former pets, doing some chores and thinking about the day he'll be reunited with the love of his life.
Mama's waiting / at the top of the hill,
They'll be laughing / oh the stories they'll tell...
When he holds her / in his arms again
They'll be sweethearts / with time on their hands
I plan to recite, possibly even sing, these lyrics during the short service on Saturday. Listen to the song, and let me know what you think it means.
That's me up there, in 2009 before the last baseball game of my illustrious career. A teammate took that shot of me prior to our game in Cooperstown, aka the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. I played in one game of a tournament on the same field where they filmed parts of "A League of Their Own." Known as Doubleday Field, the diamond was built in 1920 and has hosted games of all sorts, including some regular season Major League exhibition matches, throughout the years. I felt honored to play on the field, but bummed because my appearance there marked the end of a five-year period where I returned to hardball after 25 years away from my favorite sport.
I stopped playing because it just wasn't right for me to disappear for a summer's worth of Sundays when I had two young kids. When I returned to the game at age 40, my son, Owen, was three. Two years later, my daughter was born. After five years, I considered joining another league that played weeknights, but opted out after Owen decided he wanted to play Little League. I coached his team and didn't know if I could commit to night baseball while overseeing his team.
Prior to my five-year return to America's national pastime, I played softball for a few years with my wife, Beth, and her father, Rich. I really liked playing, but as I crept toward 40, I harkened back to my youth, and my favorite game: baseball. I played Little League and Babe Ruth for seven years, and sandlot baseball seemingly from birth until I went away to college. I was never much of a hitter, but I prided myself on my defense.
I made two All-Star teams, one in Little League and one in Babe Ruth. I have no problem telling you that the reason I made the Babe Ruth team was because my best friend's father coached the team.
All of this is a long way of telling you, my faithful follower(s?) that last night I got back on a softball field for the first time in more than a decade.
Recruited by a neighbor, I joined a team with the unfortunate name of Awesomesauce. The only time on a field I had before the game was a brief batting practice last weekend with two neighbors and one other teammate. Felt good to be out there, which made me excited for a game.
I had no idea how much I would play, or what position. Mostly, I thought about not hurting myself. Every season I played hardball I managed to tweak something: a hamstring, a quad, a groin. One year I got spiked and hobbled around for a few games afterward.
I went to the gym yesterday morning, focused on stretching, a bit of cardio and not too much strength work. And of course, I managed to tweak my left adductor muscle doing an exercise I should have been smart enough to avoid.
Last night was a cold one for softball, but I was happy to be at Hoyt Field in Cambridge, a diamond I never knew existed although it's only 15 minutes from home. My teammates are all nice, and the game started well with us scoring a bunch of runs. I knocked in a run with a single in my first at-bat. I made a few plays at shortstop, and knocked down a ball that prevented a run from scoring (although that run and a few others scored later in the inning).
Trouble came in my second time at the plate. I hit a grounder to third and had to hustle down the line. About halfway down the base path that tweaked muscle announced to me that I was perhaps a fool to be doing what I was doing. I limped across the bag a second after the ball hit the first baseman's mitt.
I played in the field again, and had one more at-bat, during which I hobbled around the bases and managed to score a run. By that time, however, our team was down by quite a few. We lost to a team with a lot of big hitters.
I'm bummed about the injury, but hoping I can nurse it along with stretching, Advil, whiskey and taking myself out of the action a bit more. I had surgery two years ago to clean out torn cartilage in my left hip. My hip/lower back/upper leg nexus are weak and aren't gonna get any better. My right hip has begun to feel sore lately. If I can't play more than a few games this season, that'll be it for me.
It sucks that the older we get, the harder we have to work to do something as simple and fun as play softball. Last night I watched balls fly over my head, deep into left field, and thought, "Man, five years ago I could've run that ball down." My father-in-law played softball well into his 60s, and many of the guys from my hardball team are still chugging along well into their 50s and 60s, so hope is alive in them.
I know, I know. Sounds like I'm making too much of an injury. But it's a nagging one that has plagued me off and on for quite some time, and there's nothing I can do to make it better. Rest, stretch, baby it a bit. Maybe look into hip replacement or bionic adductor surgery....
It's been a long winter, and although spring has sprung, it hasn't brought very warm temperatures to Boston this week. But that's OK, because it's Opening Day!
One of my favorite memories of going to Fenway Park is the game that Beth and I attended with Owen and my dad in 2009 (see picture above). A friend of mine from college handed over tickets (free of charge!) to the State Street Pavilion. We had great seats along the third base line, didn't have to deal with huge crowds for food and beer and honestly I don't remember if the Sox won (I think they did) but it was just so cool to be there with three generations of Sox lovers.
My dad passed away a year ago today, the day after my 49th birthday. Those few days in the hospital with him and my family were the toughest of my life. I'm thinking of him today and remembering all the times we played baseball, listened and watched the Sox, both on TV and in person, and just enjoyed the simplicity of soaking in our favorite sport.
Millard went to the grange that first warm Saturday of spring with murder on his mind. Calvin, a fellow ranch hand, had kissed Millard’s girl, and he was going to hell. Disguise was the key. Tingling in ecstasy as he rummaged his mother’s steamer, Millard imagined the blood splattering on her striped cotton pajama pants. Her swim cap, which lent her elegance that his father’s meager salary denied them all, would make a nice kufi. Beetle-shaped silver earrings – where did these come from? No matter. A bracelet on his wrist, and two over his taut biceps; perfect. From the wooden peg he’d tapped ever so gently into the wall above his sister’s sweet-smelling dresser, he stole the golden mask that had won her flitting favor with the mayor’s son. The silk sash he plundered from the textile museum two towns over, and which his girl had refused, felt lush against his torso. The vest ripped from his father’s closet smelled of failure. From the shed, he took a length of chain, making sure not to get any gold paint on the odd pieces of metal hanging from the links. The piece de resistance: a whimsical horsehair mustache.
Skimming the edges of town, Millard boiled with anticipation. His enemy’s manner with the ladies was as smooth as his ruddy cheeks. The last dance he performed would find him not with a pretty paramour, however, but alone, whirling and twirling as the blood spilled from the cross-shaped wound above his adulterous heart. From the grove of pine trees behind the grange, Millard could see the building was filled with revelers, so happy in the innocence of the moment. Quiet as a ghost, he snuck up to the back door. The smooth pattern and earthy smell of the clapboards warmed his demon soul. In a flash, he was in the kitchen, closer to the ruckus and revelry, his fist tight around a stainless steel knife. The band was raucous, loud enough to cover Calvin’s screams. Millard’s outlandish outfit would sow confusion. The dim lighting offered an easy getaway.
Like a diva taking the temperature of the room, Millard peeked through the window on the swinging kitchen door. In a near corner he spied the young schoolteacher, Miss Hartley, laughing through her nose at the minister’s dim wit. Behind them, under the Stars & Stripes stood his boss, Mister Peavey. “He’d never know me in this get-up,” Millard snickered. A conga line passed close to the door, arms flailing and legs sprawling to the crazy Caribbean beat. He recognized no one. A female pirate. A cowboy. A devil. A witch. A harlequin. “What the deuce? What is going on here?” The calendar pages flipped backward in his mind. He saw himself writing “Masq Ball” on Saturday, March 30. He intended to ask Dolores until he saw that scoundrel plant a kiss on her outstretched hand. Then he marked the last Saturday of March as “Murder Day” on his mental calendar. But where was the Cad? Which of the ladies in disguise was his favorite flower? He could hardly go ripping masks off the celebrants. Join them, he told himself. This will be fun. Murder can always wait.
My dad passed away four weeks and a day after his 85th birthday. He would've been 86 today. He was a great man who donated time and/or money to countless organizations, from the YMCA to Springfield College, Simsbury ABC to soup kitchens in Hartford. He was a regular blood donor, helped coach my Little League team and was an officer for the retired men's organization in my hometown, Simsbury, CT.
He taught elementary school for 35 years, and after retiring at age 62, mentored and tutored students for many years. He also acted in countless plays over the course of his life. Through all of these activities, he received many honors and awards and various sorts of recognition. I was aware of all of these activities to some degree, but what I remember about him are the smaller moments.
In the fall of 1994, I moved back in to my parents' house for a few months, with my girlfriend (now wife), Beth. We had moved from Boston to Middletown, CT, in the fall of 1993 so Beth could complete a clerkship, after finishing law school. Our lease in Middletown ended in September of 1994, but she had a few more months of work to do before we made our planned move back to Boston.
Living with my parents was a bit strange -- when I moved to Dover, NH, in the summer of 1988 I didn't expect to be back for any reason other than visiting. But my parents are great people, and we all got along well. One of my fondest memories of this brief time comes to me just about every time I eat peanuts, one of my dad's favorite snacks.
I was working a temp job at Fleet Bank in East Hartford, CT. This was the only point in my life I used the bus to commute. One of my parents would pick me up at the stop, about a mile from their house. Beth drove herself to work and back, and worked later than I did, so I had time to kill each day before she got home.
My dad and I fell into a routine of watching "Lou Grant," a drama that was spun off from the incredibly popular sitcom, "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." I was never a huge "MTM" fan, but I did like Mary's boss, the grumpy Lou Grant, played by Ed Asner. "Lou Grant" ran from 1977 to 1982, but I didn't watch it then.
Thank God for syndication. The show was right up my alley: it starred Asner as a character I already liked, although he was more hard-nosed in this show than he was in "MTM." Grant is an editor for an L.A. newspaper; I worked for my college newspaper while earning a B.A. in journalism, and then for my hometown paper after.
My dad had been a fan of "MTM," I believe, so he was obviously into checking out "Lou Grant." The show dealt with weighty issues, ranging from nuclear proliferation to mental illness, capital punishment to chemical pollution (thanks, Wikipedia). My dad cared about societal issues such as these, so the show was right up his alley, too.
I liked Grant, and identified with the two reporters, Rossi (played by Robert Walden) and Billie (Linda Kelsey), and got a kick out of staff photographer, Animal (Daryl Anderson).
I have no great recollection of specific episodes. I suspect the show stands the test of time, as it won 13 Emmys and two Golden Globes, among other honors.
What stands out in my mind about the show is that it brought my dad and me together. We would discuss the issues, laugh here and there, and just hang out in my parents' rec room. I would often load up a plate with some peanuts, and cheese and crackers, and often my dad would offer me a beer in a frosted mug.
In my head we did this every day for the few months Beth and I lived there. I'm sure that's not true,
I miss my dad, and the simple pleasures of watching TV, snacking and drinking beer together. I think of him when I eat peanuts, or tell my kids a corny joke like, "What time do you go to the dentist? Tooth-hurty!" or steal food off one of my kid's plates.
Today I'm driving to Connecticut to meet my mother, sister and a few other family members for lunch. I'm looking forward to hitting the open road, where my mind can wander to so many good memories of my father. At lunch, I'm sure we'll share stories about my dad and have some laughs. I wonder if Ruby Tuesday offers a cheese, cracker and peanut appetizer, with a Piels in a frosted mug to wash it all down?
The first thing that struck me when visiting Panama City Beach, Florida, was the Waffle House sign directly across from our hotel.
I had no desire to eat there, nor at any of the many other Waffle Houses in the area. OK, I'm lying if I deny my curiosity about the Pecan Waffles and the Pork Chops & Eggs. Instead, we ate breakfast at the in-house restaurant each morning, and the ready availability of bacon, sausages and mini pancakes was terrific.
One place I wish I had eaten was Thomas' Donut and Snack Shop, which has been around since 1971. I believe a key lime creme-filled donut or a smoked sausage and cheese kolach would've felt just right.
If I'd visited Panama City Beach by myself, instead of with my wife and kids, I might have stayed at this place, which has been around for more than 40 years.
When it was built I bet the Fontainebleau was really chic. The hotel's web site mentions that its "rich history" includes "numerous celebrity visits," but let's face it, that list could include Joey Heatherton or John Davidson. Nowadays on TripAdvisor people complain that the front desk is unstaffed and that there is "MOLD! MOLD! MOLD!" As I drove past the Fontainebleau, I saw the shot I wanted: a guy in a white t-shirt standing on a balcony, probably smoking a cigarette, under that great big sign. I missed it, though.
To be fair, some folks on TripAdvisor reported having a fine time.
I wish I'd brought my copy of the Magna Carta with me, so I could've visited one of PCB's numerous pawn shops. Coulda scored me some guns, jewelry or coins.
There were almost as many drive-through liquor stores as there were pawn shops. There's a reason Panama City Beach is considered a crucial component of the so-called Redneck Riviera along the Gulf Coast.
While the halcyon days of old-school amusement parks are long gone, there are plenty of newfangled entertainment options. Such as the Vomatron.
And if you need a t-shirt to clean up your puke, or simply want to watch an alligator being fed, drop by Moby Dick's.
Haven't yet had your fill of giant artificial sea creatures?
Check out Big Willy's Swimwear or the Jaws souvenir shop.
For those of you who like a little turf with your surf, make sure to say hi to Big Gus before you strap on the feedbag at Angelo's Steak Pit.
There are so many blinged-out mega-hotels and condos along the beautiful white-sand beaches here, that when you're on the water looking toward the shore, it's brighter than Flavor Flav flashing his grille at high noon.
Seriously, though, the days of the modest motel in PCB are numbered. There are a few still standing, although Inn Paradise seems likely to be torn down soon.
The simply titled and quaintly situated Beach Motel seems to be doing OK.
A few doors down from the Holiday Inn Resort, where we stayed, stands the Bikini Beach Resort.
Somewhere between a motel and a hotel, this place features Bikini Dave's Tiki Bar. Now you're paying attention, aren't you?
Our hotel was really nice. We enjoyed the oversized hot tub a few times, and took a few walks on the beach. In looking through a pamphlet about area attractions, I saw mention of "historic St. Andrew's" in Panama City, which is a distinct entity from PCB. I convinced Beth and the kids to make the 20-minute drive across the Hathaway Bridge over North Bay, and check out this funky little neighborhood.
We ate lunch at the Shrimp Boat, a spot picked out by my son, Owen. It was a really great restaurant right on the water, with delicious soups and sandwiches, and an incredible chocolate cake we split four ways. As we drove into St. Andrew's and back out toward our hotel, I made note of several places I wanted to return to so I could snap photos.
The first picture I took upon my return early the next morning was this beast, which hangs right outside the Shrimp Boat. None of us noticed it when we were there for lunch.
This is a pretty good ad for the several charter fishing boats docked here.
Diagonally across from the Shrimp Boat is this old motel.
After seeing so many vacant lots along the beach that obviously used to feature motels, I got bummed when I saw this place. A sign on the front of the building says, "Cabana Courtyard Mall Coming Soon!" After doing some research into the place, I found out that the owner of the Shrimp Boat is redeveloping this property and will save at least some of the old motel.
St. Andrew's has become a hot spot for funky shops and restaurants lately, from what I understand. I wonder how much longer this topless bar will last?
A sign on the door lets patrons know that t-shirts are available. Obviously, these are not offered to the dancers.
I love this building. The members of this lodge might control the U.S. government, worship the devil or be in league with the Illuminati, but at least they have style.
Moving on....
This is the first museum I've ever seen dedicated to small-town publishing.
Beth spied this cool old sign on the road into St. Andrew's.
The little guy holding the "COAST TO COAST" sign is Speedee, the first McDonald's mascot. He was phased out in 1967 in favor of Ronald McDonald. Somewhere in there, according to various online sources, there was a character named Donald McDonald, who was portrayed by Willard Scott. Yes, that Willard Scott. Here's a commercial to prove it:
See, and you thought you were just coming here to look at some pretty pictures of the Gulf Coast. Didn't think you were gonna get a history lesson on fast-food mascots, did you?
I posted the above photo on a Facebook group, and a guy there who knows his stuff indicated that the muckety mucks at McDonald's didn't intend for restaurants to use the script logo for exterior signage. Rather, it was "supposed to be part of the packaging/trayliner advertising media package only. A lot of franchisees decided on their own to use it for signs and other unintended uses, and McDonald's was not happy about it. That's probably a reason why it's use was so short-lived."
You're still learning, aren't you?
From an interesting story about one of the most famous corporate symbols in world history, we move on to....a boring strip club.
Open 4 p.m. til 4 a.m. Friday-Sunday. Oh yeah, and they're hiring more girls.
After I finished taking shots in and around St. Andrew's, I took the long way back to our hotel. Here's an idea of the odd dichotomy you find in beach towns: humble brick apartment building just a few blocks from an opulent resort.
On our last full day in Panama City Beach, we ventured to St. Andrew's State Park. We went for a short hike, wary much of the time of seeing alligators. I think I was the only one who wanted to see one, albeit from a distance.
We didn't see any gators, but on a brief walk on a pier I saw this beast.
I'm no ornithologist, but I believe this is a heron of some sort.
Ah, 5th grade! King of the Hill. Top of the Heap. A Number One. Life was good at Latimer Lane School in Simsbury, CT. I had a cool teacher, Mr. Cashman who, along with the other 5th grade teacher, Mr. Stepanian, used to play kick ball with us at recess. We had a "bubble hockey" table in the classroom, a bunch of us boys formed an informal club that, all these years later, I can't recall if it revolved around yo-yo's or cool erasers on the ends of our pencils. Or maybe both. I discovered that it was OK to like girls. I acquired the nickname Wiggy. We got to listen to some kid's 45 record of "Brass Bonanza," aka the New England Whalers fight song, which on the B-side had an epic fight between the Whalers and the Minnesota Fighting Saints called by broadcaster Bob Neumeier.
Outside of school, I played Little League, on the Yankees. I was (and remain) a huge Red Sox fan, so I wasn't initially too excited to play on the namesake of my team's hated rivals. But all that really mattered was playing my favorite sport with so many of my friends. I also played baseball with my older brother, Steve, and my best friend, Pat, and his brothers. We played on the school's field, and used a tennis ball instead of a hardball, so none of us younger kids would get hurt when the older guys batted. I loved to play shortstop, imagining that I was Rick Burleson, aka Rooster, my favorite Sox player.
At some point during the 1975/76 school year, we were given an assignment to write a letter to somebody famous and request a signature or token of some sort. Although Burleson was my favorite Red Sox, I chose to write to Fred Lynn, who in 1975 became the first player to win the Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards in the same season, as center fielder for the Sox.
I don't recall how we obtained addresses for the people we wished to contact. These days, of course, it's easy to look up people and organizations online. Through some sort of educational sorcery, the teachers and librarians accessed the information. Wasn't hard to find the Red Sox front office address, I'm sure.
Let's pretend I have a copy of the letter that I mailed to Fred Lynn....
Dear Mr. Fred Lynn:
My name is Dave Brigham. I'm a 5th grader at Latimer Lane School in Simsbury, Connecticut. I have loved the Red Sox since I was born, because my brother and father like them. I play second base in Little League on the Yankees, but it's OK, because we're not very good. I watch your games whenever I can, which isn't often enough, because although cable TV has been around since the late 1940's, I have never heard of it and won't know of its glories and magnificence until the early '80s. In the meantime, I catch the occasional game on Channel 38, a UHF channel out of Boston that, through the miracle of science, arrives on my parents' black-and-white TV set in our rec room. But I digress.
A lot of times I listen to Sox games with my dad and/or brother, either at home or in the car as we travel around town or to such exotic vacation destinations as Cape Cod, New Hampshire's Flume Gorge and some YMCA camp in Torrington, CT, where some of my family got sick. Throw-up sick. Funny side story: once while we were at a swimming hole (do they have swimming holes where you're from?) in my town, my brother asked my dad if he could have the car keys so he could turn on the car radio and get the score of the Sox game. He turned the key to the right spot on the steering column and turned on the game, but somehow managed to bump the shifter into "neutral" and the car started rolling. Here's the funny part: I don't remember how this story ends, but everybody lives.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, can I have an autographed picture? You're awesome, you won the Rookie of the Year and Most Valuable Player awards. Sure, you and your teammates lost in one of the greatest World Series of all time, and taught me my first lesson in professional sports heartbreak, a lesson that I have a feeling I will learn again in 1978, 1986 and 2003, although I suspect at least two of those years won't be your fault.
So whatta ya say, Freddy Boy?
Sincerely,
Dave Brigham
I waited approximately 8,000 years for a reply from the Great Mister Lynn. In the meantime, I played hockey in the classroom, flag football outside (we had a league -- a LEAGUE! -- and I was on the champion Rams, which was QB'd by my buddy Tyler Brown), day-dreamed about Cathy Ruddy and found myself wondering whether the United States Bicentennial celebration in July would live up to the hype. I mean, think about it? How do you honor 200 years of revolution, industry, slavery, repugnant race relations, the likes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, Henry Ford, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the Greatest Generation, George Carlin, the guy who invented the beer ball and so many other things?
Finally, the day arrived! The postman strutted into Mr. Cashman's classroom like he owned the place, and started flinging envelopes at kids' heads and yelling, "Mail, suckah!"
I ripped open the delivery, wondering how Mr. Fred Lynn had managed to fit a glossy 8x11, signed photo of his famous face into such a small envelope. I quickly scanned the boilerplate mumbo-jumbo typed neatly on Red Sox letterhead.
Dear [Insert fan name here]:
Thank you for your correspondence.
Sincerely, [Insert name of sports organization].
At least there was a picture...of the whole team. With Fred Lynn's autograph...stamped on the lower right corner.
Despite being let down somewhat, I knew that Mr. Fred Lynn surely hand-picked the team photo -- heck, maybe he even TOOK the picture -- and no doubt would have signed it by hand if he wasn't concerned with injuring his throwing arm, but surely he flipped open the stamp pad, grasped the autograph stamp firmly in his left hand, firmly pressed it into the ink and brought it down with authority on the picture that was destined to travel the Mass. Pike from Boston all the way to my school in little old Simsbury, CT.
