I rode around the corner a few blocks from my parent's house and there was bla fire engine in sight down the street. I knew instantly that something was wrong my father. He's been at home alone a bit this week, and it's been a busy week for all of us, and I knew. My father. He's been feeling really good, and talking about playing golf. I pulled up and there were firefighters there in triage. The Chief had fallen down.
It's hard for me to imagine the world I live in today.
When I was young, it was a different place. Jets hurled through the sky a supersonic speeds and the sonic booms rallied the glassware to leap to the floor. My life was dominated by a Naval hero and a military haircut. During the 60's it was the Packers and the Dodgers, and sandlot broken window Sandy Koufax baseball in the driveway with the bat pointed at the neighbor's house. It was stingrays in the mud hole that we called a park and riding out to the swamps in the afternoon. There were fallout shelters and we hid under our desks at the sound of a bell to fend off nuclear war. I actually broke the frame on my ugly bike. My sister was a h i p p y and my brother was always in trouble. I remember once I put out the window of a house well past Home Run distance in a glorious and fright filled batting moment. I had to work for hours to replace that window. I had no idea the bay was polluted, and about ten other things. My father was there, building, making, working, fixing, being. Guiding me.
My neighbor Mrs. Miller used to keep the balls in a box in the backyard and not give them to us -- we used to sneak in and steal them back when she went grocery shopping. Me and
Vic the Sushi Man. Tonight, it was as if everyone knew something was wrong with John. The Chief. My father. The neighbor stopped by and the Chief didn't answer the door. Folks called from everywhere and the phone was busy. I heard that and raced across town on my bike. My sister in-law showed up right after I got there. Mrs Miller came over.
The Chief had fallen, he hit his head, and got a bit banged up. My father was a strong man. He was a sailor. He led us in a proud way toward a better life, a life. A good life. Through the valley of the shadow of evil. It was harsh at times, but there were many character building experiences. It wasn't necessarily always right -- but I am sure he thought it was.
The Chief grew up in a different era altogether. He was born in 1923. There were planes, cars, blimps. Buzz bombs, radio, radar, Tommy Dorsey, Amelia Earhardt, Charles Lindbergh and war came later. When my mother was 20, in 1941, she started smoking. She smoked for forty-five years. She will die of emphysema. She doesn't want the doctors to investigate much, she doesn't want to be resuscitated. She's in a different hospital, across town. She's scared now. Me too. We are all going to die in seperate places.
The world I live in today has cell phones, and mobile blogging, and this. And spontaneous world wide communications. As Jean Baudrillard said in 1948 -- it is --
An Ecstasy of Communication. It's a world my father can't fathom, and I can barely keep up with. It's extended the life of America by ten or fifteen years, but it hasn't lessened the pain of watching your parents fade. They were so strong.
I guess I need to be strong now.
