WHERE DID HE GO

Where Did He Go ??

He had an Italian accent, sounded like some character from The Godfather, and talked thru a hole in his throat..."..Sum F------ J-- doctor needed a new fur coat for da wife, so he took out my F------ voice box to pay for it..!!.." he said while he watered the beautiful flowers in his family's nursery at the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Beverly Road in Flatbush Brooklyn. "yeah, I know, they said it wuz f------ cancer and had to be cut out.." And he used his hanky endlessly to keep from spitting on anyone around him thru that hole in his throat while he talked, and then would laugh at Michael, who was giggling through all this. Two year old Michael was this guy's favorite. We lived next door in a three story house turned into three apartments: us on the first floor, Miss Corrigan, a retired school teacher who coughed all night while she smoked cigarettes and paced - we could hear every wrack and step on the floor above us - till she dropped dead one night, and on the third floor another young family like us, a guy, his wife and two kids, in his case two girls, the guy was Louie DaGrossa, who was a butcher - get it? I always cracked up when we'd see each other and I'd always say.."Hey, how're ya doing, Louie DaGrossa da butcher?.." Anyway, when their mother and I wanted to walk down to the stores on Flatbush Avenue without the boys, the guy with the hole in his throat would take care of Michael while his wife watched 4 year-old Gene. And when we came back, Michael would giggle for hours more - I guess he still heard the guy's 'voice' in his head. Actually, Michael must have heard the 'voice' years later because 'f---' became his favorite word when he talked with and at kids on the school yard basketball court down Hudson Street in Long Beach. It became so frequent a word in his vocabulary I had to take him up to the Long Beach Boardwalk one day and sit in the middle of all the 'stoned-out' would be hippies - (this was the late 60s now) - and tell him to listen; all you heard was "mu---f-----" this and "m---f---" that. After a few hours, walking home, I asked how it sounded. "Stupid", he said, "Like they don't know how to talk". "Yeah.." I said. ( He still used the 'f' word afterwards, but at least in moderation, like his father.)

Michael, my second born, my son to whom I gave my favorite name, a name I'd given to a doll I had as a little kid -- (yes, you read it right - a doll -).. David .. as a middle name. Michael, who was born three hours before the funeral for my Dad was to begin, in Provo, Utah. The hospital was Utah Valley Hospital, (the same hospital where 16 years later my third daughter would be born, fortunately not on the morning of anyone's funeral. (Well, actually it's reasonable to assume there were funerals in Provo that morning, but no one I knew)).

Where did Michael go? Into Utah County Jail, among other places during the 'rough' years, (one of my favorite stories is this : I get a call from my Mom who lives in Provo, and she says: "What do you hear from Michael?" "Not much" I say. "Do you know where he is?" she asks innocently '. Now I had had a call from Michael just the day before telling me he was in County jail, but I didn't want to tell his grandmother this.. so I lied: "No, I don't" I lied (Yes, to my Mom, I lied, but with good intent, right, so permissable, right?) "Well, I do", she says. "In fact I visited him this morning!!". She'd read his name in the Provo Daily Herald newspaper, you know, in the section called 'Police Blotter' or 'Crime Statistics'...) on we go... into the U.S Army, then into the U.S. Navy serving on an aircraft carrier in the Far East and then off-shore to Kuwait during the 1st Gulf War. And then the 'rough' years returned, and into and out of VA facilities, until this past winter...

Where did Michael go, my Michael who brought such joy, and sadness, laughs and tears, intelligent, and banal argumentative conversation, to me over long periods of time, much of which, too much, with no contact at all...

"What's a 'wh--e' Dad - like in the song 'The Boxer' by Simon & Garfunkel?" "Ok, let's get in the car" I said. And in to Manhattan, New York City, I drove, to the 40s streets around Times Square, and pulled into a parking spot that miraculously appeared (Anyone who has ever lived or driven into NYC and needs to park the car, knows what I'm talking about. Living on that Beverly Road in Brooklyn at the start of this story, many times, I would NOT go anywhere because I didn't want to give up my parking space, and some times I parked so far away, I had to take a subway home -TRUE!! )anyway.. I pulled into the miracle space, pointed out some ladies in extremely short dresses, alot of make-up, sitting on stoops or 'parading' in front of apartment buildings, and said: "Watch them .. they'll talk to men walking past, and then go into the apartment with them, and very shortly come out, and start the whole thing over again". And we watched it happen just like I said it would. Then I played 'The Boxer' on an 8-track. "That's a 'wh-r-'" I said, and we drove back home.

Where did he go, my Michael, my curious, intelligent, articulate, care-free boy, unhappy man, father of two daughters, neither of which he raised, yet loved dearly.. where did he go, this contradiction of personalities, this irresponsible reflection son of another boy, ..my Michael.....where did he go??....

.........

Best Company

I consider myself to be totally honest with myself. My discussions with myself surpass those with my favorite others, and no slight intended. I agree with myself, I disagree with myself, I laugh with myself at myself, I interrupt myself. I enjoy input from others, am receptive probably to anything and everything, for a time: nonsense (obviously as defined by me), I will dismiss; wisdom and thought-provoking words, whether written or spoken (if I can hear them with my tinnitus/bad hearing), I will ponder, and decide, over time, whether it is applicable to and for me.

I consider myself to be a pragmatic agnostic. as defined at wikipedia.org/wiki/agnosticism i.e. "the view that there is no proof of either the existence or nonexistence of any deity, but since any deity that may exist appears unconcerned for the universe or the welfare of its inhabitants, the question is largely academic anyway."

I am aware this view is contrary to that of most of my family and acquaintances, as well as my own upbringing and earlier beliefs (which could be indicative of possible future view change??). Thomas Henry Huxley, 'credited' (depends on your own belief system) with coining the arbitrary label Agnosticism, also stated (among obviously literally hundreds of thousands of other statements (probably to himself as well as others)): "I neither affirm nor deny the immortality of man. I see no reason for believing it, but, on the other hand, I have no means of disproving it".

And Robert G. Ingersoll, another 'famous' (or 'infamous' - again depending on your own belief system) agnostic, in fact known as 'The Great Agnostic', said: "...there is no supernatural power that can answer prayer - no power that worship can persuade or change - no power that cares for man....Is there a God? I do not know. Is man immortal? I do not know. One thing I do know, and that is, that neither hope, nor fear, belief, nor denial, can change the fact. It is as it is...." ( Ingersoll apparently liked the word 'that').

I don't necessarily agree with .."One thing I do know" statement.. I personally would state: "One thing I do believe" .... As a matter of fact, I believe he may be possibly contradicting himself. Alas, he's not available for a 'chat'. (For the complete quote again see: wikipedia.org/wiki/agnosticism ).

Now you may ask (go ahead - ask -) "What does the discussion of 'agnosticism' have to do with being honest with myself ?" And I'll answer, to me, just about everything I think about, again probably due to my upbringing, my curiosity, my cynicism, the deaths of parents, son, friends, mortality in and of itself, meaning(s) of life, etc. etc.

Huxley states, "In matters of the intellect, follow your reason as far as it will take you, without regard to any other consideration. And negatively: In matters of the intellect, do not pretend that conclusions are certain which are not demonstrated or demonstrable" (Huxley, Agnosticism, 1889). While A. W. Momerie, (an English Christian Writer and a Reverend b.1848 d.1900) has noted that this is nothing but a definition of honesty, Huxley's usual definition goes beyond mere honesty to insist that these metaphysical issues are fundamentally unknowable.

I understand there are those who read this and will say: "Gene, Get a Life" or "Gene You've too much time on your hands" (same thing, right?), or "Gene You are Right On", or "Gene You need to get a set of beliefs" or "Gene Your life without a knowledge of God must be sad and empty". And my response to all would be, as per a reflection on the life of Thoreau: "He found greater joy in his daily life than most people ever would." And might hope for a review such as, again a reflection of Thoreau: "His work is so rich, and so full of the complex contradictions that he explored, that his readers keep reshaping his image to fit their own needs. Perhaps he would have appreciated that, for he seems to have wanted most to use words to force his readers to rethink their own lives creatively, different though they may be, even as he spent his life rethinking his, always asking questions, always looking to nature for greater intensity and meaning for his life.....". (I personally would change 'force' to 'encourage', and 'nature' to be an expanded definition beyond the normal Walden Pond 'nature', rather all encompassing).

Enjoy....

HEART SURGERY 12/30/96 AND RECOVERY
Gene Field Start 1/23/97
The New York City subway 'F' train hurtles under the East
River going from Queens to Manhattan. The 14 year old boy sits
on the straw seat facing forward - that is, the seat faces
forward - the boy is looking sideways at his reflection in the
dirty window under the dim lights of the IND system of the
Transit Authority. Maybe he just imagines he sees himself and
what he actually sees is the look in the mirror of the peanuts
machine, the Chicklets gum machine, any other mirror on any
station platform - checking his hair. Is it combed the way he
wants it to look before he gets to the 3rd Street Settlement
Music School off 2nd Avenue for his violin lesson, and the
Orchestra (and Cora Gordon)? Did the wind from the train mess
it up, even though he always tried to minimize this by standing
where the first car would stop, which really didn't help because
the train "pushed" the musty tunnel air into the station.
And was his hair still there? His Dad would laugh watching him
spend literally hours in the bathroom getting it "just right".
He'd point to his bald head - "Came out when I was 21 - and
so will yours". But it didn't - at 58, (and, amazingly, even now at 70)

the former boy still has his hair.
What he did inherit from his Dad, who died of a heart attack
at 61, is the emotional and physical devastation of emergency
open heart surgery the day before New Years Eve.
Wasn't it Eddie Fisher that sang, in 1954, "Green Years,
where have you gone to; wonderful green years, where did you
go? Your April kiss promised me that you'd always live on.
But youth is a dreamer, and when I awoke, my Springtime was
gone"
Is this what happened to that 14 year old riding the subway?