A Father's Day toast to The Old Man

     I remember lots of little, ordinary things from a little, ordinary childhood.
     I can recall being small enough to ride on The Old Man's shoulders; an amazing thing, given my current size. I'd put my chin on the top of his head and giggle with the vibration of each step he took. Or maybe it was just that his crewcut tickled.
     Speaking of which, I remember how I would take two combs, hold them scissor-like and pretend to give him a trim. Particularly those oh-so-hip 1970s sideburns. He'd just sit there and be patient, perhaps thankful that unlike stereotypical little girls, I didn't make him sit down to tea parties with my dolls.
     No, I was the kid who preferred her Lone Ranger and Tonto or Six Million Dollar Man and Bionic Woman or Charlie's Angels action figures to Barbie dolls. I was the kid who ripped her knee open barreling full-tilt into a cinderblock retaining wall on her Big Wheel. I was the kid who played in the bar at the Club while The Old Man, Saint Joan and their friends had cocktails every Wednesday night in the summertime after shuffleboard.

No "Daddy's Little Girl" or "Butterfly Kisses" here, thanks.
The Old Man and Daughter No. 2 take a spin to the
Ella Fitzgerald version of "Laura."
It was at this point he looked at me, grinned, and said,
"I never thought we'd get rid of you." Gee, thanks, Dad.

     I have one sibling, my sister Linda. The Old Man took her to see James Bond movies when she was a kid, and continued the father-daughter movie date tradition with me. We had 007, too, but we started out with Star Wars and Indiana Jones. Yes, I'm a geek. He's responsible.
     Then, of, course, there's the basketball thing.
     Linda went to Villanova. Villanova = Big East-y goodness. As far back as I can remember, The Old Man — a hoops guy since high school under the supervision of legendary Berks County coach John Silan (mention his name in our house, and a choir of angels shows up, melodically intoning "C-ohohohohohohoh-ch" as The Old Man gets a reverent glow in his eyes) — would look at me and say, "We're going to root for the Wildcats, right?" I'd agree as enthusiastically as any little girl who thinks her daddy hung the moon could.
     I learned to love the sport. Through the years, The Old Man and I took in a seemingly infinite number of games together, on TV and in person. We've cheered at the Palestra, the Pavilion, the old Spectrum; blowout wins, blowout losses and triple-OT screamers against Syracuse and Georgetown. I'm not sure who thought it was cooler the first time I got to cover a Division I men's game at Madison Square Garden, him or me.
     The Old Man is the one who taught me how to drive, how to mix a good drink, how to prepare for a job interview. And who, together with Saint Joan, taught me how to be a strong human being with a mind of her own who's nobody's sheep.
     Once, while I was having a fight with Mr. Wrong (everybody has one; I'm not immune), he, assailing my perceived femininity and blasting me for being "contrary," spat at me, "God, your father must have really wanted a son." (Because only those possessed of dangly bits may have their own opinions, I guess.)
     You know, I don't think he could have been more wrong.
     The Old Man, I figure, was just ahead of his time. He never insisted that I hate Barbies, eschew tea parties or prefer jeans to taffeta and lace. Basketball? Well, maybe he nudged that one. But, plain and simple, The Old Man is supportive. Hugely supportive, in fact. (Something Mr. Wrong hadn't the first frakking clue about.) He just loves all his girls. Without question. Wherever my interests, my sister's interests, my niece's interests have taken us, The Old Man and Saint Joan — it may be Father's Day, but I can hardly forget my mother's sizable contributions to the strength of our family, now can I? — are often the head cheerleaders, even if they don't always understand where we're going with something. If it's important to us, it's important to them. That's just how it is.
     Respectively, we are a journalist, a nurse and a fledgling architect. The parentals certainly have done something right.
     So on this day that is carved out on the calendar to honor fathers, I'm more than happy to raise a glass to mine (and Mom, too!). Even if it brings to mind the picnic when I, then about 10, confused in which hand I held whose cup and accidentally took a healthy swig of my father's OFC and club soda as opposed to my ginger ale. Took me a long, long time to appreciate whiskey after that.
      Yep, be mindful of your beverage. Just another valuable life lesson gleaned from The Old Man.

One day at a time

For the past week-plus I've been embroiled in a family medical issue. I'll not go into that here. Suffice to say we've had a few tense moments. But life goes on, and we must all learn to roll with what comes our way, working with it and/or through it.
If nothing else, the whole thing has left me feeling reflective. In that vein, my dear Supportive Partner Man (anchor of the sturdiest mettle!) and I have had quite a few give and takes this week about the role family plays in our lives.

Getting a laugh out of the parental units.

I must say that I know how exceptionally lucky I have been in terms of my family. Sure, we have bumps in the road -- whose family doesn't? -- but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, we've got each other's backs. And that kind of love and unconditional support is everything. When there's an issue, we come together to handle it.
Even so, the players' roles shift as years pass.
In my mind's eye, my parents remain the very picture of indestructibility. Not perfection, mind you. The Old Man and St. Joan, by their own admission, have their flaws. They are, without question, the Battling Bickersons.
"I'm 80 years old," St. Joan opined one day last week. "I've got no regrets."
A perfect beat passed.
"Well," she continued, chucking a thumb at The Old Man, "maybe one."
Then she smiled at him. He just shook his head.

St. Joan being supportive
in my formative years.

After 61 years of marriage, this is their dynamic. St. Joan can be volatile, The Old Man longwinded. Both can be stupendously thickheaded. ... Stupendously. Thickheaded. (I'll admit that the apple didn't fall far from the tree, either.)
But their love and support of one other and their family remains unquestioned. No matter what happens down the road, I've know I've gotten to go through life with some really fantastic people around me.
And that, friends, is everything.
I have no answers for the meaning of life. At this moment in time, trying to figure out the "why" of it all has me completely at sea. Heck, I don't even have a clear, concise direction of where I want to take this particular blog post. I just had an itch to write it, because I'm one of those odd people who can best work out their feelings and thoughts by seeing them take shape as words crawling out across a computer screen.
I guess for the time being the best thing for me to do is keep channeling St. Joan's favorite observations: "One day at a time," and "If it's meant to be, it'll happen."
Wise woman, that one.

RIP, GVCC

In a week that saw the loss of pop culture luminaries such as Dick Clark and Levon Helm (and on a lesser scale, Jonathan Frid, the original Barnabas Collins on "Dark Shadows"), I got hit with another demise much closer to home.
I called to check in with my parents on Friday, and The Old Man was quite upset. Green Valley Country Club, he said, had finally been torn asunder, fractured for good. If you were well and truly a devotee of "American Bandstand"or The Band, you'll get the parallel. Honestly, I feel as though a giant chunk of my childhood has just vanished forever.

Green Valley Country Club

A bit of background here. Green Valley is the little club down the street, less than a quarter-mile down the hill from my parents' house. It was founded in 1926 by the owner of Berks County department store Pomeroy's as a gathering place or retreat for his employees. Over the years it grew into a private club, but not for the well-to-do. The Old Man always referred to it as a "working man's club." Originally a parcel of 100 acres, there were swimming facilities, picnic groves, summer bungalows, courts for everything from tennis to basketball to shuffleboard and, of course, the clubhouse, which featured a restaurant and a ballroom for banquets and dances.
My mother and father built their house in 1960, and The Old Man began moonlighting as a bartender at the club not terribly long afterward. He was as involved as involved could be, and ultimately served decades on the board of directors, including a good chunk of time as president.
Over the years, though, as membership declined, little pieces got stripped away. The bungalows were torn down. A large parcel got sold to the local school district for new elementary and middle schools. And now, as of a special meeting in the middle of this week, officially all that's left is the swim club. GVCC is down to six acres of outdoor facilities surrounding its two swimming pools. The clubhouse and remaining land were sold outright to a local restauranteur, who apparently already has begun remodeling.
I can only hope he'll have some sort of nod to the old place's history somewhere.
In the meantime, I feel a need to grieve and reminisce.
Quite literally, I grew up on the grounds. My mother, Saint Joan, was almost as involved as The Old Man. She cleaned, did laundry, filled in at the office whenever they needed her to. She also was heavily involved in the Ladies' Auxilliary. Wherever the parentals were, I was.
And there was always something going on.
During the club's heyday, the ballroom was packed every Saturday night. The Old Man helped bring in a roster of pretty impressive talent for a lot of years: Johnny Mercer, the Glenn Miller Orchestra, Duke Ellington and more. The acoustics in the cozy ballroom were superb. Lionel Hampton loved playing there so much he  insisted my father take his private phone number, saying, "Man, anytime you got an opening, you call me. I'll be here."
The clubhouse was huge, and I knew every nook and cranny. I lived at the pool all summer as a kid. Every sunny day I'd walk down the road with my lunch and change for the phone and some penny candy. The folks were seldom with me, but I never stepped out of line ... I knew they'd find out if I did.

The back patio of the concession stand.
I've personally tended bar out that window
 and cleaned off those tables.

Of course, the older I got, the more involved I, too, became. I helped wherever I was needed, from cleaning or helping set the ballroom to manning game or food stands at the Member's Day or Labor Day picnics, which drew hundreds of people in the 1970s and '80s. And as my older sister waitressed in the dining room in high school and college, so I spent four summers sweating my butt off at the poolside concession stand. I was grill jockey, sandwich board wench, counter help, bartender ... you name it. We worked hard, but we had a lot of fun.
And, of course, my wedding reception was held at GVCC. My sister's, too. Incredible parties, both, even though they fell 28 years apart. My sister's made smashingly good use of the original front porch for cocktail hour. Sadly, the porch has long since been closed in. As for mine, we shut the whole facility to outside traffic for the day. With more than 225 people, we had doings in the dining room, ballroom and both bars. Of course, I think it turned out so well because the manager at the time was deathly afraid of my mother hurting him if the slightest thing went wrong.
Sure, there will still be a restaurant on the property. Families will continue to sun themselves poolside and buy GV Burgers and penny candy (or is it quarter candy now? ... inflation, you know) from the concession stand. My logical mind knows the place has been trickling toward this outcome for a long time now. But the finality of it somehow still feels jarring.
In my childhood, I'd look at the darkened dance floor and imagine dancers swirling about as faint music echoed off the walls. Then I'd see my parents and their friends sitting around the bar or the picnic grove, young and real and vibrant ... laughing, coming together as a community. It felt like a home. And that's how I'll forever see it.
Rest in peace, old girl.