Though Ken would not delve deeply into the classical repertoire till the latter years of college, just when depression was about to kick in with a vengeance, the seed had been planted when he was a tyke. It was thanks to Grandpa Wicht, who always had classical music playing, that impressed him in that vein.
When I say Classical, I mean it. Neither Grandpa, and therefore Ken, had much interest in Renaissance, Baroque, or Romantic music.
But we were both distracted by the fact that we were kids and it was the 60's. Ken would point out that the first official rock hit, 'Rock around the Clock', was #1 when he was born. Nevertheless, we were both weaned on the Beatles.
We benefited form having a teenage lady from Ireland as a housekeeper when we were little. Her name was Pat Henebry, and the fact that my now single mom could afford anything, much less a live-in housekeeper, is amazing today. How poor was Ireland still then...
The radio was always on, and it was wonderful. Every day was exciting with the latest songs being broadcast, and the great race to the top of the charts. Everyone listened to the same 2 or 3 stations: WABC or WMCA, both AM stations. The only thing left today that I know of that kept whatever shared culture coherent in any meaningful as the radio did is baseball, and it's a rather sad reflection of the days when there was integrity and loyalty in the sport.
We were into Motown as it unfolded. Everyone was, black or white. Blacks were pissed that just as Motown was in full glory, these white boys from England were taking everything over. Civil Rights tensions were already on the rise. Again, keep in mind, they were all vying for the same few radio stations in New York.
For a few months after we moved into Rockville Centre in '63, Ken and I were trapped coming home from school in the parking garage in the basement of our apartment. It seemed to be on a daily basis then, as I would be held back while Ken had the shit kicked out of him. It almost became a ritual, and it was in part a hazing of sorts, being the new white kids on the block. We tried to find ways to get back into the apartment safely, but we were outnumbered. Ken would later claim it didn't hurt as they held him to the ground and punched into his gut repeatedly while I screamed and cried watching. Believe him? Before long, they were playing basketball together when they found out Ken could play as well as they. 'Beaver' Smith became center of the St. John's team years later. I remember his younger brother 'Chucky' whipping me with clothesline when we came to meet and walk with them to school one morning, with his poor mom trying to stop him.
It was a rude awakening of sorts, but the music would help us get by.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Eulogy Redux
Among other things, I write for a living , and so am naturally self-critical in what I put out there, though I try not to be too hard on myself when I can always blame it all on the cold, hard, cruel deadline.
Not long after Ken's wake, I realized that although I had spent much time thinking and writing what I would present at Ken's wake, just as I had had to prepare for everything else before his heart stopped, there was something obvious I missed.
It wasn't the CD of music I had compiled, burned, but did not play at the wake. These were pieces of music both mournful and beautiful, and mostly well-known and beloved by Ken himself, but something stopped me from using it that day. (I will present the music in a list before too long.)
No, it was geography...
As I lay in bed, my mind and soul reeling from the slow-motion fatal train wreck, my mind darted about late at night until I realized something very simple. The funeral home was ground zero of Ken's life. Let me explain...
Ken (as I) was born and lived for some years just a few miles west of Fullerton in Rockville Centre. Both one and three miles south of Fullerton were the homes we grew up in, as well as our elementary and junior high schools. A few miles north was Baldwin Senior High School, as well as the house he lived in for a few years, with our Italian step-family, across the street from it during dad's ill-fated second marriage of two years. A few miles further to the east is Freeport, where Ken and dad would share an apartment from the end of that time ('74) till their deaths.
I could have taken everyone outside for a walking tour..."see folks next door, that's St. Christopher's where we all went to church together before the divorce which meant excommunication for life then. Let's go up Grand Avenue past where those pix of as tykes were taken at the long gone Hamilton Studio, where dad had a few of his clients, where Ken's orthodontist from hell, Dr. Fischel (or "fish head" as we called him) had his office, and where Ken had his PO box for many years.
Across the street to the east on Merrick Road was where we went to the Venice Restaurant, where they still don't understand 'al dente', where the Carvel still is where mom loved to get her vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles, and that church across the street from there that used to be a movie theater like so many others. (Remember 'Bullit' with Steve McQueen and 'One Million Years BC' with Raquel Welch...?) A few hundred feet further, see?, that's the police station where Michael Gerdyk was booked for murder...
Not long after Ken's wake, I realized that although I had spent much time thinking and writing what I would present at Ken's wake, just as I had had to prepare for everything else before his heart stopped, there was something obvious I missed.
It wasn't the CD of music I had compiled, burned, but did not play at the wake. These were pieces of music both mournful and beautiful, and mostly well-known and beloved by Ken himself, but something stopped me from using it that day. (I will present the music in a list before too long.)
No, it was geography...
As I lay in bed, my mind and soul reeling from the slow-motion fatal train wreck, my mind darted about late at night until I realized something very simple. The funeral home was ground zero of Ken's life. Let me explain...
Ken (as I) was born and lived for some years just a few miles west of Fullerton in Rockville Centre. Both one and three miles south of Fullerton were the homes we grew up in, as well as our elementary and junior high schools. A few miles north was Baldwin Senior High School, as well as the house he lived in for a few years, with our Italian step-family, across the street from it during dad's ill-fated second marriage of two years. A few miles further to the east is Freeport, where Ken and dad would share an apartment from the end of that time ('74) till their deaths.
I could have taken everyone outside for a walking tour..."see folks next door, that's St. Christopher's where we all went to church together before the divorce which meant excommunication for life then. Let's go up Grand Avenue past where those pix of as tykes were taken at the long gone Hamilton Studio, where dad had a few of his clients, where Ken's orthodontist from hell, Dr. Fischel (or "fish head" as we called him) had his office, and where Ken had his PO box for many years.
Across the street to the east on Merrick Road was where we went to the Venice Restaurant, where they still don't understand 'al dente', where the Carvel still is where mom loved to get her vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles, and that church across the street from there that used to be a movie theater like so many others. (Remember 'Bullit' with Steve McQueen and 'One Million Years BC' with Raquel Welch...?) A few hundred feet further, see?, that's the police station where Michael Gerdyk was booked for murder...
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
11:30 pm, two years ago today
It was a Monday. The call came at 10:20. Kay and I were watching TV, and a rather cold-blooded staffer told me Ken had no blood pressure. He was the only person I had met at Calvary Hospital in the Bronx that I was unhappy with.
We got there at 11:15.
His eyes were wide open, and his mouth somewhat so, with a dark spot on his lower lip. We spoke with him, assured him we were there, then he let go. He clearly had been waiting for us. He exhaled some, and did one more time five minutes later.
I closed his eyes five or ten minutes after that. On cue, a chaplain came by for last rites shortly afterwards.
The phone rang 5 minutes after we returned home. It was the eye bank.
Doctors had said six months is average from the time of operation for this type of tumor.
Ken hung on more than 7 months since his August operation.
Five years ago today dad passed away, also in the evening, on a Thursday. He was 82.
Four years ago, Ken watched the clock and marked he exact time dad had passed away the year before.
Three years ago, his disease was just beginning to surface, though the doctors said it had begun over a decade before.
Even after breathing and the heart stops, the dying are still alive for some time, so keep talking. Then again, maybe they're still listening now...
We got there at 11:15.
His eyes were wide open, and his mouth somewhat so, with a dark spot on his lower lip. We spoke with him, assured him we were there, then he let go. He clearly had been waiting for us. He exhaled some, and did one more time five minutes later.
I closed his eyes five or ten minutes after that. On cue, a chaplain came by for last rites shortly afterwards.
The phone rang 5 minutes after we returned home. It was the eye bank.
Doctors had said six months is average from the time of operation for this type of tumor.
Ken hung on more than 7 months since his August operation.
Five years ago today dad passed away, also in the evening, on a Thursday. He was 82.
Four years ago, Ken watched the clock and marked he exact time dad had passed away the year before.
Three years ago, his disease was just beginning to surface, though the doctors said it had begun over a decade before.
Even after breathing and the heart stops, the dying are still alive for some time, so keep talking. Then again, maybe they're still listening now...
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The Equinox
The word equinox means 'equal night', therefore implying equal day.
Astronomically we can pinpoint the exact time the subsolar point is over the equator, which will be at 8:07 pm EDT this year. As noted earlier, this event can be viewed in a number of different ways. Another is that from now until the next equinox, days will be longer than nights. Yet, another is that we are half way between the shortest and longest days of the year. Life's not so precise down here 'below' heaven, though.
St. Patrick's Day was strange this year, as downtown Stamford looked more like winter in Bedford Falls in 'It's a Wonderful Life'. The snow itself had that same somewhat artificial feel and look to it. Normally, the last traces of winter are melting away by now. It'll take another week this year.
So, is today the last day of winter or the first day of spring? As we naturally tend to look forward, we traditionally refer to it as the latter, but it is also the former. Emotionally, I'm not sure which one it feels like yet. It reminds me of a New Orleans funeral march, with the first half heading to the graveyard sad, and the second half, when leaving, joyful. Guess I'm still stuck at the graveyard, as it doesn't seem to matter whether I hear mournful or upbeat music, so the sadness persists.
There's a lot yet to be written about Ken and music. Stay tuned.
Astronomically we can pinpoint the exact time the subsolar point is over the equator, which will be at 8:07 pm EDT this year. As noted earlier, this event can be viewed in a number of different ways. Another is that from now until the next equinox, days will be longer than nights. Yet, another is that we are half way between the shortest and longest days of the year. Life's not so precise down here 'below' heaven, though.
St. Patrick's Day was strange this year, as downtown Stamford looked more like winter in Bedford Falls in 'It's a Wonderful Life'. The snow itself had that same somewhat artificial feel and look to it. Normally, the last traces of winter are melting away by now. It'll take another week this year.
So, is today the last day of winter or the first day of spring? As we naturally tend to look forward, we traditionally refer to it as the latter, but it is also the former. Emotionally, I'm not sure which one it feels like yet. It reminds me of a New Orleans funeral march, with the first half heading to the graveyard sad, and the second half, when leaving, joyful. Guess I'm still stuck at the graveyard, as it doesn't seem to matter whether I hear mournful or upbeat music, so the sadness persists.
There's a lot yet to be written about Ken and music. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
St. Patrick's Day
St. Patrick's Day has become something of an Unholy Day of Obligation, as folks emerge from the chilly muck of March to honor the patron saint of beer drinking. Turns out he did not bring Christianity to Ireland back in the 5th century, but he was instrumental in establishing the church there. He's also the patron saint of "engineers, the dispossessed, and Nigeria", beer drinkers all, I presume.
But this blog is more about personal history. So I decided to let everyone know about it now, as it marks a number of different moments in our lives...
St. Patrick's Day fell on a Sunday 5 years ago, and it was the last time we were all together with dad (see photo), who would pass away the following Thursday on March 21st. It was a good time, as we drank some Jameson's and beer, listened and even danced to some Celtic music. It was a chilly day, so I had a fire on as dad sat there in his down jacket, as anything below 80 degrees was chilly to him. He collapsed the following Thursday in front of the apartment as Ken pulled up to take him to see the doctor.
I looked back since Ken's passing on just when I may have noticed the earliest signs of trouble, and it finally came to me. St. Patrick's Day '04. He met the three of us as we went for the St. Pat's run with a runner's club in Westchester. Who could turn down the free Jameson's? Only much later a symptom that became obvious manifested itself to me for the 1st time. It just struck me as a bit odd then, and it was the fact the Ken just stood in one spot for over an hour without moving, though otherwise enjoying himself. Looking at his last Mexico cave diving trip photos he took a month or so later, there were a large number of shots taken from one spot, and they were clearly not his usual quality. Ken knew he was ill far earlier than he let on.
But this blog is more about personal history. So I decided to let everyone know about it now, as it marks a number of different moments in our lives...
St. Patrick's Day fell on a Sunday 5 years ago, and it was the last time we were all together with dad (see photo), who would pass away the following Thursday on March 21st. It was a good time, as we drank some Jameson's and beer, listened and even danced to some Celtic music. It was a chilly day, so I had a fire on as dad sat there in his down jacket, as anything below 80 degrees was chilly to him. He collapsed the following Thursday in front of the apartment as Ken pulled up to take him to see the doctor.
I looked back since Ken's passing on just when I may have noticed the earliest signs of trouble, and it finally came to me. St. Patrick's Day '04. He met the three of us as we went for the St. Pat's run with a runner's club in Westchester. Who could turn down the free Jameson's? Only much later a symptom that became obvious manifested itself to me for the 1st time. It just struck me as a bit odd then, and it was the fact the Ken just stood in one spot for over an hour without moving, though otherwise enjoying himself. Looking at his last Mexico cave diving trip photos he took a month or so later, there were a large number of shots taken from one spot, and they were clearly not his usual quality. Ken knew he was ill far earlier than he let on.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
The Hunger of Memory
This is what Ken's blog will ultimately be about, especially when considering he was the repository of all that could be humanly remembered within our family. I was not surprised at all when he told me how he could remember and describe is perfect detail the apartment that he lived in in Rockville Centre before I was born, all before the age of 2 years and 9 months.
With Ken was lost a treasure trove of detail I can never hope to recall, even of my own life, though some will return in "dribs and drabs" as he would say. I have no doubt Ken could have told me everything else we did in Manhattan the day he took that photo of me on what was then the RCA building.
His memory cut both ways, as he remembered everything, but could forget nothing.
Without exaggeration, Ken could easily recall any time in his life in detail within a two week time frame, usually with a level of detail that was frightening. All you had to do was ask, "Ken, what was going on during the third week of April, 19xx (not to mention 20xx), and he would only have to pause for 5 to 10 seconds before you would get your response. Not just about himself, but about all kinds of news at that time, including baseball scores.
Ken was fully aware of the double-edged sword his memory was. It took many years for him to find some way to stop dwelling on the negative memories and relish the best of times, and eventually he did. Yet, the damage had been done deep within, and he would insist on dwelling in it all, alone in his room, black curtains drawn.
With Ken was lost a treasure trove of detail I can never hope to recall, even of my own life, though some will return in "dribs and drabs" as he would say. I have no doubt Ken could have told me everything else we did in Manhattan the day he took that photo of me on what was then the RCA building.
His memory cut both ways, as he remembered everything, but could forget nothing.
Without exaggeration, Ken could easily recall any time in his life in detail within a two week time frame, usually with a level of detail that was frightening. All you had to do was ask, "Ken, what was going on during the third week of April, 19xx (not to mention 20xx), and he would only have to pause for 5 to 10 seconds before you would get your response. Not just about himself, but about all kinds of news at that time, including baseball scores.
Ken was fully aware of the double-edged sword his memory was. It took many years for him to find some way to stop dwelling on the negative memories and relish the best of times, and eventually he did. Yet, the damage had been done deep within, and he would insist on dwelling in it all, alone in his room, black curtains drawn.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Bitterness
It is simply futile to spend your time comparing one person's passing to anothers'. The enormous number of people who have lost their own lives since Ken jumped off the train is mind-boggling.
Yet, in it's own way, that does not diminish the profundity of Ken's loss. Everyone we lose leaves an aching hole in our own lives.
Ken was taken out by a hideous bit of biology: the glioblastoma multiforme, stage 4. It was the kiss of death, and I knew from day one the Pope himself praying wouldn't make a bit of difference as far as keeping him alive longer. He was about the only one not praying as far as I know. There would be no feel-good Lance Armstrong story here.
He never needed the chemo or radiation therapy. And like most prayer itself, it was all to make the living feel better about themselves, not to mention the doctors and hospital a bunch of bucks. Should I be diagnosed with it, I will insist on pain killers: end of story. For some queer reason, it strikes white males in their 40s most frequently. Could it have been the prozac he took for years?
No, God is not some off-season Santa to beseech up in the stratosphere, but someone or thing far beyond our ability or willingness to consider.
Ken's in a better place? This ain't Mogadishu folks, and he had never been happier since he was a kid toward the end of his life. Besides, what's the rush when you've got a few decades here but an eternity in heaven?
On the other hand, none of this means we shouldn't pray...
Yet, in it's own way, that does not diminish the profundity of Ken's loss. Everyone we lose leaves an aching hole in our own lives.
Ken was taken out by a hideous bit of biology: the glioblastoma multiforme, stage 4. It was the kiss of death, and I knew from day one the Pope himself praying wouldn't make a bit of difference as far as keeping him alive longer. He was about the only one not praying as far as I know. There would be no feel-good Lance Armstrong story here.
He never needed the chemo or radiation therapy. And like most prayer itself, it was all to make the living feel better about themselves, not to mention the doctors and hospital a bunch of bucks. Should I be diagnosed with it, I will insist on pain killers: end of story. For some queer reason, it strikes white males in their 40s most frequently. Could it have been the prozac he took for years?
No, God is not some off-season Santa to beseech up in the stratosphere, but someone or thing far beyond our ability or willingness to consider.
Ken's in a better place? This ain't Mogadishu folks, and he had never been happier since he was a kid toward the end of his life. Besides, what's the rush when you've got a few decades here but an eternity in heaven?
On the other hand, none of this means we shouldn't pray...
Thursday, March 1, 2007
There are times
There are times when I wished I could have added a little levity to Ken's wake, as he did at our father's three years before. I couldn't then either, as I just was so overcome with grief. I do plan to write about Ken's great wit as time goes on. He made everyone laugh on a regular basis.
There were times when I wished Ken and I had spoken more during his final months, yet we found ourselves in ineffable disbelief and bewilderment. At the same time we both knew there really wasn't much to say. We knew, and we understood. We simply said "I love you" every day until he could no longer speak, though that didn't stop me. It's hard to know just when he actually lost his ability to speak after all.
With about a month to go, and Ken essentially comatose for weeks, I told him about how we hadn't spoken much, and why we didn't need to. His eyes opened for the first time in weeks, and with an heroic effort, slowly brought his right arm across his body, grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, and pulled my hand to his mouth to kiss it. It was the last thing he ever was able to do physically.
There were times when I wished Ken and I had spoken more during his final months, yet we found ourselves in ineffable disbelief and bewilderment. At the same time we both knew there really wasn't much to say. We knew, and we understood. We simply said "I love you" every day until he could no longer speak, though that didn't stop me. It's hard to know just when he actually lost his ability to speak after all.
With about a month to go, and Ken essentially comatose for weeks, I told him about how we hadn't spoken much, and why we didn't need to. His eyes opened for the first time in weeks, and with an heroic effort, slowly brought his right arm across his body, grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, and pulled my hand to his mouth to kiss it. It was the last thing he ever was able to do physically.
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