Take Your Shot

I am a fan of basketball but never really played basketball. For years I watched two of my neighbors and friends play CYO basketball. One played only in school and the other went on to make basketball his career and is now a college coach. It’s no secret that I am in awe of an athlete. I am drawn to most sports and genuinely appreciate and soak in the amount of training it takes to perform or compete. Some people have the raw gift it takes to perform well – exceptionally well. For some it takes more training than others. Not everyone has a God given talent. Not everyone is inclined to play sports. Some people are born with a tiny flaw which prevents them from excelling into the big leagues. Perhaps some of these same people though will play and enjoy every little nanosecond of the game even if they do not score a basket, a goal, a touchdown, or a hole in one. It does not matter. What DOES matter is their ability to get out there and try.

Each year Jake’s Challenger basketball team will play a huge home game at our Bethpage High School. The crowds are tremendous. Teachers, administrators, staff, students, cheerleaders, kickline, parents, grandparents, and Goldie, the school mascot are in the stands cheering our Eagles on the court and the sidelines. Each player is introduced in grand fashion by the game announcers (who by the way rival an ESPN panel). The team members line up and wave to the crowd. They place their hands on their hearts and sing the National Anthem with such intensity that you feel prouder to be in front of our flag than ever before. 

The tears start when I look over at my Jake on the sidelines. Once a Challenger team member himself, he is now holding a clipboard and calling off the first team members who will start on the court. He is proud of his position and spends countless hours at home making sure that he and the team are ready for each game. This game though is nothing short of spectacular. The game begins and now I am openly sobbing. 

The players were moving the ball back and forth – basket to basket. Some people score easily while others struggle and will need a little TLC to score. The players help each other even if they are not on the same team. In a world where it seems so cut-throat these days, it is heartwarming to see player helping player. What gets me every time though is watching players move the ball down the court and take three-point shots and score. They know how to play the crowd and in true dramatic fashion will shoot the ball and SCORE at the buzzer. 

The faces of the players when they score give off enough energy to light up a whole city. The pride they feel literally lifts them off the ground and carries them to the next spot on the court. You can feel their joy in your seat. Yesterday I caught the reaction of one player’s mom, and I was transported back to the day when Jake first scored a basket. The kid who I was told would most likely never speak. Never interact with others. Never function beyond elementary school level. Watching that ball slip into the net was not only two points on the scoreboard but a score in life. He did it. He did something that someone without a disability could do naturally. To me that basket and being on the court was proof that you can do anything you want to if you try. The crowd’s roar dragged me back into the game. I looked at the scoreboard and there were 17 seconds left in the game. A high school freshman was dribbling the ball and set himself up for the three-point shot. One of the coaches gave him a sign to pass to his teammate. That player brought the ball in and launched the ball. Nothing but net at the buzzer. We won but it wasn’t about the one-point win at the buzzer. Every player on that court won and every fan in the stands won for being there to cheer on each player. My tears dried and I was smiling and laughing. I looked up at the hoop. Take your shot no matter what you are going through. You will always score. You just have to try.  

Flight 27

I grew up at airports in the 1970s not because I was flying to and from different places. My mom, sister, and I were always driving and picking up my Dad at the airport. What I will share today will share our stories from 1965 on when my flight arrived.

Pre-Internet – most, if not, all business was conducted face-to-face. Depending on what line of work you were in meant you could be away from home anywhere from one day two weeks at a time to close a deal. As President of an International Export Management company, Daddy was forever flying to suppliers here in the United States or around the world to his company offices in England, Belgium, Sweden, Japan, and Italy. Other various countries were places for deals. In the end, there weren’t many countries Daddy had not worked in.

When it was time for a trip, my mom would help Dad pack his luggage. I wrote notes to hide in the suitcases. I tried to sneak my fave stuffed animal in so that they could see the world. We’d all drive to the airport and at that time could walk to the gate and wave goodbye to Daddy as he boarded the plane. When it was time to come home, we’d return to the airport and grab a quick dinner at an airport restaurant before waiting for Daddy to emerge through the gate. It was so glamorous to me yet all very normal to us as we grow up.

When Daddy was away, we’d go out to restaurants that he hated like Beefsteak Charlie’s or Farrell‘s Ice Cream Parlor. The long trips were hard. I missed Daddy terribly. I’d wait for his calls every day after school. Dad and I had a special bond through postcards. The old-fashioned postcards that were pictures of the country or region where he was. Our Mail Carrier would announce the postcard arrival as he walked towards our front door. I clutched that postcard and read every word my Dad had written in his near perfect penmanship. By the time he retired, I had boxes of these postcards.

When he returned home from each trip, we had a tradition where we would follow Mom and Dad to their bedroom where Dad would empty his suitcase with gifts from the trips. My sister Kathy and I would sit on the edge of the bed and Dad would push us down saying goodbye in various languages. We would pop back up roaring with laughter screaming “more Daddy!” He must have been wiped from the travels but he made us feel like princesses for a few hours!

Each time Daddy would travel he’d return with more stories and tales from these countries. This is how I learned about different parts of the world, the local customs, the currency, food, and the looks from the hundreds of pictures Daddy snapped.

There were years of departures and years of arrivals. Each time Daddy arrived home from a trip he would jump back into our family activities and quickly earned a place in the St Martin of Tours parish community where he served as a church usher, Pre-Cana, instructor, Counter, a member of the Parish Council, and the Bethpage St. Patrick’s Day Parade Committee. Dad threw himself into each role as if it was a full-time job.

Our Dad was involved in it all. He loved to talk to anyone and everyone. You would always come away from a convo with Daddy smiling! He would treat everyone like he wanted to be treated. He was genuine and looked you in the eye. He made you feel special – as if you were the only one in the room. I used to joke that I couldn’t get past my Dad when I called to ask my Mom a really simple question but the truth of the matter was I loved talking to Daddy about anything and everything. He always made time for me. Always. There was one story in particular that I remember so well. I was a Freshman in college and I was just feeling really blue one day. I knew he was busy at work but I dialed Dad’s office from the hall pay phone. His secretary picked up and said he was in a meeting, but she would see if he could speak to me really quick. Dad picked up the line and said tell me what’s happening and how are you are feeling. We talked only for a few minutes but it was enough to pick my spirits up and get me through the next few weeks.

After retiring and spending some time in the Bethpage Sports Center that he purchased on a trip downtown, Mom and Dad enjoyed years of their own personal travel. They became Atlantic City fans, traveling back-and-forth every few months to their favorite casinos. It was so much fun to watch them having fun!

These past few years were very rough for us after Dad was diagnosed with Vascular Dementia. In total, he suffered 10 strokes. Each stroke left him weaker. We watched Daddy slowly slip away. First the memory faded. After that, the words started to disappear. Last year, his faculties vanished, and he was confined to bed. Daddy no longer knew who any of us were. That was possibly the most heartbreaking piece for me. He just didn’t know who I was or what we had been through for the last 58 years together. I would sing to him. We would hold Spelling Bees. I’d feed him ice cream and tell him “Once upon a time” stories. We would relive Daddy‘s life over and over to make him feel comfortable and special.

On Saturday, January 27, 2024, we met at Mom and Dad‘s and spent the entire day and evening watching old family movies. We howled with laughter and cried very hot tears. I thought to myself, I truly did have an awesome childhood and this was proof.

I kissed Daddy goodbye at 7:30 p.m. and thanked him for making my life the best it could be. I left, knowing that would be the last time I would see that twinkle in his eye. Two hours later Kathy called to tell me to return. Daddy was gone.

Today we gathered not at the airport, but at St. Martin’s to say our goodbyes to my Dad, a husband, an uncle, grandfather, father-in-law, and one of the greatest guys you’ll ever know.

Today Flight 27 boarded one passenger with nonstop service to Heaven. Have the best flight Daddy. Please wait for me at the gate when my flight arrives home someday.

I love you,

Karen Anne

The Eagles Are Turning 58

We turn 58 years old this year. For many of you it’s just another check mark or scratch on the calendar. For me it’s downright crazy. This year is not considered a milestone birthday by the Hallmark Store gold standards of birthday cards. In fact, I defy you to find a stock Happy 58th Birthday card. When you think of the other milestones, we have experienced in our 58 years on this earth up until now, I consider this an outrageous accomplishment.  There is one event taking place this year that I truly believe we should all celebrate together. 

Did you know that we graduated Bethpage High School 40 years ago? FORTY YEARS AGO. Let that sink in. We walked across the stage on a very hot June 26, 1983, in our blue and gold gowns and then threw our graduation caps in the air when Mr. George McElroy declared us graduates of Bethpage High School, class of 1983. We took pictures in the parking lot, on the football field, in our cars, and at the many graduation parties that we had over the next few months. On June 27, 1983, our new lives began. 

We’ve flown all over the country and world during these last 40 years. We’ve married, divorced, started families, battled illnesses, experienced loss, and some of us have started to help our children start those cycles of their own. There are some who did not make it to this 40-year road marker, and we remember them with smiles and gratitude in our hearts. 

We definitely didn’t know the tiny and minute details about each other’s lives during those four years as an Eagle. I didn’t know what your favorite breakfasts were, your dog or cat’s name, or even where you actually lived. We may not have known your parents, grandparents, or how many siblings you had. What we did know was who you were in class – eight classes a day…five days a week…. for four years. If we were lucky, we saw each other after school at clubs, sports, trips, or maybe even downtown for a slice of pizza, or ice skating at the Community Park. There are thousands of stories that we all have to recall either by ourselves or together if we have run into each other over the years. 

We are meeting on October 7th for a night of celebrating US. This will be a night to get together to say, “Remember when?” A few hours to belly laugh and think of the times that meant the world to us and sometimes wish would never end. It will be a time to take pictures together (this time via selfies on our phones and not through the deafening sound of a Polaroid camera or flash bulbs popping). I for one will be there in October hugging each of you with a huge thank you for giving me what I now know was one of the best periods of my life. Once an Eagle…always and Eagle class of ’83. See you then!

Left Rights

When I was a kid, many a family vacation was planned out by the now antiquated Rand McNally Road Atlas and the Hagstrom maps. They were the key to creating the most direct route from our house to any destination that did not include air travel. It still amazes me that to this day I could pour over these maps in the car and have my bearings complete with Longitude and Latitude or a spot on the map called B6. I could read a map but have absolutely no sense of direction if I was plopped on a road or in the middle of a street. Fascinating. Somehow, I was able to navigate from Anywhere U.S.A. to Everytown U.S.A. with my index finger and a pencil.

It is now 2023 and the world’s coordinates are run by satellites and GPS. If you’ve been following along with my home game, you’ll know that GPS and I are not friends. I don’t know if it is truly my having no sense of direction or if it is just my disdain for the robotic voices urging me to make a turn at the next light. 

Last night I received word that one of my classmates from back in the day was gravely ill. I’ve been following his progress on Instagram for years as I keep in touch with him and his husband through posts and comments. It’s strange how your old relationships blossom into a completely different model all because of social media. I find the whole concept crazy yet comforting. Yes, I digress. As I read of this friends’ state, I was getting updates from my high school reunion committee group. Just two days earlier we met to discuss reunion plans. Our conversation somehow drifted to some of our parents passing away at the ages we are now. The sobering thought of this sent me down a rabbit hole as I drove home. I’ve been living in the abyss for a few days now just thinking about how fragile life really is. 

My phone started buzzing with group texts from my gym family. One team member is retired but drives a school bus. He is often heard talking about being placed on different school routes which either involve a few special needs students or sixty elementary and secondary students. The routes he says are sorted into a series of “Lefts and Rights” on paper. There are no GPS routes for these buses. It is good to know that your school tax dollars are not being squandered. Major eye roll here. I think I just sprained my eyeball trying to convey the sarcasm…I thought about what this member said. He plans the lefts and rights so that he optimizes his time and can move efficiently throughout the route and deliver each student safely to either their schools or homes. I often joke with him that I’d be terrible for that job and the kids may not arrive home for dinner…if at all. The drop off and pick up topic though sent me deep into thought. 

Aren’t we all our own drivers picking up and dropping off people in our lives? Some passengers stay on our bus for a few stops. Some just for one – others for a lifetime of stops. Some will be with us until we reach our final destination. I took the thoughts further (overthinking and create Kiki for the win). There are people who board our bus or vehicle and even though they exit they have left you with a memory or two hundred that stay with you throughout your entire drive through life. For example, this friend I heard about last night. He was in my homeroom in middle and high school for six years. He and I nodded and had a connection each morning. I hugged him when he signed my yearbook. He exited my bus after graduation. It would be years before I even saw his name again, but I never forgot how nice he was to me all those years and the look we gave each other after the goodbye. I realized that no matter how long people are on your bus that they leave something behind. It isn’t something you can place in a lost and found but something that stays in your heart – sometimes deep in your soul. 

My thoughts never stop. Our internal GPS will tell us where to go…when to turn…when to stop. Sometimes we can back up and go the other way. More often than not though we just keep going. In my case, if the bus breaks down, you work through the challenge of what caused the halt and merge back into traffic. There are more people we need to meet and discover. You never know who will board your bus and when. I for one am ready to greet everyone with a smile and get to know them as we drive. Each trip we take is a piece of your journey towards our finish lines. It is your trip. Your road atlas. Your map. Who you allow on your bus will help you to determine where you are headed next whether you realize it or not. Wishing everyone a happy drive as we enter our next season of life. Enjoy the lessons you will gain from your passengers. Write your own set of lefts and rights. They will bring you to where you want to go.

Things Change…and that’s o.k.

Autism sucks. No wait, it doesn’t suck all the time. There are days when I thank my stars that Autism came into my life like a Cat 5 Hurricane and leveled everything good, I had ever known and worked for. When the storm was over, I clearly saw the good that Autism has brought into my life in terms of the extreme changes to the way I previously viewed the world.

Change is scary. It brings a different level of unpredictability. You need change although we can fear it and sometimes resist it. Eventually change brings new life to a situation. Change to someone living with Autism though is debilitating. Depending where you are on the Autism Spectrum, change can be excruciating and cause physical pain to an individual and if left unchecked, to those around the person. 

Such is the case in Chez Fikar. If you have been playing along with our home game and are familiar with MOFK posts then you know that my Jake was diagnosed with Autism as a toddler. This was a shock to my system after waiting so long to create a life. It was a blow that I just did not see coming. It was a change to what I expected but hey, life gives you lemons and you make lemonade. By the way, I love a good lemonade but hate the cliché. I adore lemons, but I digress. 

In the early days, I read everything I could on Autism and spoke to anyone who even whispered the word Autism. I was a sponge and wanted to know what I could do just to help Jake feel whole and be able to express himself. It was a full-time job, but I was silently relentless in my quest to help Angel One feel comfortable in his own skin. One of the first things I figured out was that everything in Jake’s world stayed the same. He became agitated and distressed if things changed. The same foods, the same routines, the same bedtime stories night after night, the same red shirt on Wednesdays. Same was the name of the game. I found however, that when we shook things up and tried something different, Jake would react, sometimes vehemently but the next time a similar situation popped up, he would sail through it with ease. Hmm, I thought. Let’s try this change thing. Let’s shake things up as much as possible on Third Street. 

As Jake grew older, I would explain that things weren’t always going to stay the same and that you needed to learn how to deal with it. Hell, I hate change too I told him. When MAC discontinued my fave “Hodgepodge” lip liner, I fell into a tailspin that still gives me shivers each time I pass a makeup counter at Ulta. Ok, that’s a humorous scenario and while true just shows you that change is different to every single person in every situation. Jake seemed to understand my change scenario as he knows that makeup and I are fast and furious friends. 

The years rolled on and Jake and I would talk about how a shift in routines can make him feel. Our therapy sessions lasted anywhere from five minutes to two hours. We would explore his feelings and I would ask him to try and tell me what was bothering him and why. Two summers ago, he started journaling his feelings. I am happy to report that this decreased a lot of frustrations and taught Jake how to look at things from different angles rather than boxing things up and coloring them black or white. Again, this is a lifelong process and strategy, but it has helped Jake to see the world in a different way and realize that hey, change is not so scary. We developed a phrase that we are going to market “Things change…and that’s o.k.”. It is our Madre/Jake Mantra. 

Last summer, we hit a rough patch at home. Jake was arriving home after his summer job (yes, Jake works two jobs) beyond agitated. He would have frequent meltdowns (which by the way are extremely intense at times) which started to change the fabric of our daily lives. These waves of anxiety were ripping apart the comfort blankets that kept Jake calm for so many years. The suggestion to make a shift in summer employment came from Julia who suggested that maybe Jake take a summer off and not work this position. She said it’s simple Jake, you need a break. It isn’t that simple in Jake’s head. He’d worked for years in this position and the thought of a new plan terrified him. He was absolutely beside himself trying to make heads or tails of what to do. On Monday, the email solicitation was released to district employees interested in working the summer education program. My phone buzzed. It was Jake texting his thoughts. He said “Mom I think I’m going to take a break. My mental health is more important than six weeks of this program.” I stopped what I was doing at work and burst into tears. I simply responded “Good decision Jake. Proud of you.” The next day we received a screen shot of Jake’s email reply to the program director that he would not be returning to the program this summer but thank you for the opportunity. My God, this was huge. 

Last night I looked over at Jake on the couch after dinner. Phoebe had curled up next to him. He was calm and had his signature grin on his face. I said “Jake, I just want you to know how proud I am of you. You took a step today to protect your happiness. That’s not easy to do sometimes but you did it!” He looked at me and said, “Yes Mom…Things change – and that’s o.k.”.

TV Time

Shirely Feeney is dead and I’m mad.

I can’t tell you why exactly but maybe I’m mad because Cindy William’s death is just another reminder that parts of my childhood just slip away. They will never return but will always stay a part of my life forever. Thanks to the endless amount of streaming services and YouTube clips, “schlemiel schlimazel hasenpfeffer incorporated” will still be humming along in my brain when I think of my old fave tv shows that filled my early years with so many laughs.  

Life is a series of Laverne and Shirleys. They were little pockets of gold that entertained you on nights when things may not have been so good during the day. You might have had a bad day at school because you thought the girls were talking behind your back on the bus ride home. Maybe your dance class was cancelled, and you were left waiting on the curb to be picked up for an hour because there were no texts or emails to alert you back in the day. Whatever the day held, our choice of shows that made us laugh always delivered a shot of happiness that returned your body and mind into the upright position. Early on in Kiki/Karen history there were heartthrobs that caught my eye and I could not wait the 7 days to see him again on tv. If I was fortunate enough, there would be a new “Tiger Beat” magazine out at the stationery store that week which if I was lucky enough carry at least a glimpse of the crush I was looking for. David Cassidy or Donny Osmond were never in short supply on tv or in print!  

When the kids were small, the Disney Channel was in its infancy and was jam packed with fun shows for them. I became addicted to their world that included such gems at The Suite Life of Zack and Cody or the animated Phinneas and Ferb. Julia can still recite lines from each show much like I can tell you the entire season catalog of Happy Days episodes from 1974 to 1984. Yowza…Yowza…Yowza. If you know, you know. Vintage “Emergency” and “Adam 12” still play on in our house thanks to Jake discovering these classics and memorizing the characters and story lines.  

A throwback to the early shows and days also brings back memories of sneaking down the hall to catch glimpses of “The Merv Griffin Show” some nights when I couldn’t sleep. Across the living room with the brownish/rust colored Berber carpet was our television set on the brass tv stand. Merv would welcome his guests onto his very mod looking chairs on the set and they would smoke and talk about their upcoming film or project. It was glamorous and I loved every glimpse I could soak in. My parents would be laughing along while glued to each word. Our dog was nestled between them feeling like the luckiest  miniature schnauzer in America.  

Heavy sigh…farewell Shirley. Say hi to Laverne and The Big Ragu for me. They have all gone to that big sitcom in the sky. Hopefully they are entertaining everyone up there that has enjoyed them for so many years like we did back down here on good old earth. I’d love to hear about your selections and discuss someday. There were so many choices despite the only 13 channels and gasp…no remote control.

Silent Night

The church was filled with the smell of incense and pine needles. An occasional smell of cough drops and “old lady perfume” would waft by as people stood up and kneeled down during the Catholic mass calisthenics.

The Christmas mass was ending and the priest led us in an accapella version of “Silent Night.” My hand was wrapped up tight in my Dad’s hand as he proudly crooned the lyrics…”Silent Night…Holy Night…All is calm…All is bright.”

I was proud to be anywhere with my Dad. He was a strong personality and a friend to anyone he came in contact with. If you met John Eastwood once, you knew him forever. I am in awe of his gift of gab and spitballs of knowledge in a gazillion topics.

The years rolled on. There were decades full of Christmas masses and us singing our favorite Christmas tunes. As it happens in all families, we grew up. Kathy and I started our own lives and Mom and Dad settled into their retired routines. The saying time flies is really one of the truest statements ever. Fight me on that one.

Time took flight and started to pick up speed and a passenger. Last year my Dad was diagnosed with Dementia. Shortly afterwards he suffered not one but five strokes. This led to we were told Vascular Dementia and now late staged Alzheimer’s. It’s called “The Slow Goodbye”.

We are watching Dad lose his words. His memory is completely gone. His zest for life still glimmers but he is really fading fast and we are here trying to keep him happy while he falls silent.

Alzheimer’s is so mysterious. Despite my Googling each day, I cannot figure out how this force of nature swoops in and just takes over a once vibrant and brilliant life. It silences the brain and the person. Dad is here with us but not as he once was. Our family has become a team of nightingales. As I write this, it’s 11:55 p.m. on a Friday night as I take the overnight shift at my parents’ house.

Dad just woke up and I put him back to bed and gave him a kiss. I whispered “I love you Daddy” and held his hand tight. I then told Alexa to play Silent Night 2x. Bing Crosby started to croon and as I turned out the light I heard Dad singing “Silent Night…Holy Night…All is calm…All is bright.”

May the world’s brainpower find a way to silence this horrible disease and help save the strong and brilliant souls for many years to come. If you are suffering through this journey as well, I am wishing you peace and strength as you go. May our voices and wishes be heard yet never silenced so that all will be calm and all will be bright.

T2G

It never ceases to amaze me that we learn something new every day. The smallest moments can deliver lessons which range from something so trivial to major life lessons. You just never know how you will learn, and who or what the teacher will be.

This weekend I returned to the famed Woodloch Pines resort in Hawley, Pennsylvania. Woodloch is a wildly popular family resort that offers a plethora of daily activities, spanning anywhere from jewelry making to Family Olympics to Scavenger Hunts. Let’s not forget the outrageously popular game of Bingo. Yes, Bingo – a seemingly benign game of marking letters and numbers called by an announcer. Bingo, though, in my world is the evil twin of that other anxiety provoking game named “Musical Chairs”. (I am happy to report that Woodloch did not offer this game option as I can’t be certain I would come out of that game unscathed! But I digress…).

Eight members of our party of fourteen signed up for Bingo and filed into the North Lodge on Saturday night. We purchased multiple sheets and those huge magic markers. There was a buzz in the room as the game started and it continued to escalate as the first game moved along. Inevitably, the first game came to a close when a lucky soul screamed out BINGO from the west side of the room.

When the game was called, people at our table tossed their markers…cursed…swore they’d never play this effing stupid game again – all to pick up their markers, start to pray, and proclaim their love of bingo the very second the Caller announced the next game and of course the jackpot for the winner.

Maybe because I was tired from running all over during Saturday’s resort activities or maybe because my brain was overstimulated by a ginormous serving of carbs and 78 cups of black tea – I started to think about Bingo and how it reminded me of our lives. Surely there is no one calling out a number of life challenges with the letter and number combo – “Hey Karen it’s time for work B11 (or in Bingo Lingo “Chicken Legs”).

Sometimes though it does feel like I’m playing a Bingo card each day. I’m checking off experiences of my every day with an oversized marker. I’m living in the anticipation of getting it all done. I just want the bingo. I want the prize. I pay careful attention to the numbers called so as not to miss anything. I checked the Big Board of Life to make sure I didn’t mark off the wrong combo.

We keep marking off our numbers on our sheets with amped up anticipation. We say things like “Come on… I only need four”… “I can taste winning”… “I only have “2TG“ which is fancy bingo-eze for two to go (you’re welcome). The anticipation is palpable. In life – someone does call Bingo when they win something, whether it be a planned goal, a promotion, or maybe even winning a real life Lotto drawing.

Even when someone wins though, the game is never really over right? Another game or life lesson starts right away. We can’t just stop playing or living just because your numbers didn’t come up or because you didn’t win the jackpot. We need to keep going and marking off our progress, even if we may not win.

May every card you play in the every day game of Bingo deliver a lesson or winning numbers. Here’s hoping that at some point your game sheet gets 2TG, then 1TG, and then perhaps the ultimate… Bingo!!!

Level 57

Last week I had a conversation about video games. The question was posed “are you into video games Kiki?” I thought about it for a bit and then said “Oh hell yes”. That’s when the memories came flooding back from years gone by and where I am today. The video craze started when I was maybe 7 years old. Atari had introduced “Pong” in 1972. We didn’t have the Atari gaming system in Chez Eastwood. We had the Sears knock off version. That didn’t matter to me. I played our model with fever. My competitive nature reared it’s head early and I would spend lots of time in the basement of 36 Grant Avenue with this game. I tried my hand at Miss Pac-Man when my friends when I would visit the mall but as I was reminded last week, it was game over quickly because 4 games cost a dollar.

The years passed and the video gaming world was exploding. I’m not technical by any means – in fact those who know me know that figuring out the iPhone timer feature when taking a selfie was considered a HUGE feat for me. Sometime in the early 90s we purchased a Nintendo 64 system. The game Tetris became my best friend. Ernie worked nights at the time. He would leave for work at 3:30 and I’d arrive home at 4:30. Jake and Julia had not yet busted onto the scene so I had plenty of alone time to keep myself entertained. I’d fire up Tetris while still in my work garb and play for hours. There were many nights when Ernie would come home from work and I was still sitting in my work clothes… In the dark…famished from not eating…and obsessed with beating my last level of cascading colored blocks while a Russian techno song played over and over. How I never had a seizure during this period of my life is beyond me.

I’ve yet to find a game that matches my love of Tetris competition. I tried with other games like Super Mario Brothers and such but nothing ever came close to Tetris and beating each level. After this video conversation that I had last week I started to think about the different levels in the game and my life.

Each year brings new challenges. Some things get easier as you age and some things just get downright hard. I dare say impossible because i refuse to give up. Follow me for more about this topic through my blogapalooza. When you’re young you think – Holy Mother of God – when will things get easier? When will I have more money? When will the kids finally clean their rooms without me screaming like a purple faced lunatic? When will I get some time to pursue goals I’ve been putting off? When will I level up?

Every year you blow out the candles on your birthday cake and make a wish. I always wish that I can continue to enjoy what I have and to see what is really important. Each birthday though is a true gift but also a reminder that each year is a different level of complexity. This past year has been filled with caring for my Dad and his Alzheimer’s and remnants of multiple strokes. It has been a challenging year of watching the color tiles cascade and trying to fit them together to clear the next level.

My mind was back on Tetris. Each level got harder in that the tiles fall faster and the music gets louder. This distracts the player from rotating the tiles to form bricks and clear a wall or line. My heart rate spikes as I try to keep the tiles in play and not let them stack up too high. Such is the case in our lives too, right? Try to stay on top of your finances so that you can save for a more comfortable life. Pay the bills evenly and on time so that they don’t stack up and then you’re in trouble. Try to balance your work and personal life so that the two worlds don’t crash and distract you from what is really important. Try to stay on top of your health so that your next level in life isn’t full of illnesses that could have been avoided had you flipped the tiles in your favor.

Today I woke up to Level 57 in my life. I’m filled with gratitude that I’ve made it this far in the gaming system called life. I don’t know how many quarters and plays I have left but I know this – I’ll play my heart out and keep pushing so that when it is truly “game over” I can say that I used the best strategies to make it to the next level.

Times of Your Life

“Good morning yesterday, you wake up and time has slipped away.. and suddenly it’s hard to find the memories you left behind. Remember, do you remember?”

I looked in my rearview mirror and looked at my mom singing along to a Paul Anka song as we drove to his concert last night in Friday evening traffic. Last week Mom had streamed a new Paul Anka concert for Dad to watch. They both watched the concert while clapping and singing along. By Monday morning, my sister Kathy and I had an email explaining Paul Anka was playing at Westbury Music Fair. Mom would treat but could we go? There was no hesitation in our responses. Kathy secured the tickets. We were all set for a girls night with Mr. Anka.

By todays standards Mom would be considered a Paul Superfan. She had first been introduced to him via American Bandstand when she was 16 years old. I guess Paul Anka was to Mom as Donny Osmond was to me.

We arrived at the theatre early. We sat in the Jeep singing Anka songs and watching other fans pre-game in their cars. Kathy and I rolled our eyes as we saw walkers and jazzy scooter parking areas for other concert goers. We looked at Mom and she was beaming as we bopped towards the now opened theatre doors. After ordering a few cocktails we headed out to a beautiful deck and started to chat. The conversation drifted to Dad and his current condition. He has been back home now for a little over six months and while he’s stable, the realization that he will never return to his original peppy self has finally settled in. Watching mom talk about the current situation from such a relaxed perspective brought me such peace. Kathy and I both commented about how proud we are of her and how she is handling the entire situation. We wrapped up our conversation and headed inside for another cocktail and a trip to our concert seats.

The crowd was mixed but it was filled with similar groups of mothers and their daughters together. There were lots of couples and a den of cougars dressed to the nines who were ready to pounce on Mr. Anka should he enter their space in his infamous walks up and down the theater isles. If you are a fan of People Watching 101 – this was your night.

At 8:18, the lights dimmed, the band started up, and suddenly we heard “Diana” coming from an aisle across the stage. It was being sung by none other than Paul Anka who was looking quite swanky and sharp in his white tuxedo jacket and black T-shirt. He was shorter than I remember but hey, that was my mother’s crush – not mine. The night continued with hit after hit that included co-written hits from and for Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and Buddy Holly. Paul was belting them all out and really hitting every note. Mom was dancing. She was giggling. At one point she thanked us for bringing her.

Midway through the concert Kathy looked at me and said “Are we on the Belt Parkway right now?“ I knew exactly what Kathy meant and where we were based on that very question. My grandparents lived in Bay Ridge Brooklyn and when we moved out to Long Island when I was three, we took turns with my grandparents spending the weekends in Brooklyn and then Long Island. The drive home on the Belt Parkway on Sunday nights were always the same. The street lights on top of the very tall poles on the side of the road were shining bright and had a certain way of flooding the car with the lights as we passed and then would make their exit through the backseat. I always found it to be very rhythmic and soothing as my dad drove. The radio was tuned to WCBS FM which invariably had doo-wop music playing. One of my parents favorite songs would come on… sometimes it actually was Paul Anka… My dad would take my mom‘s left hand and squeeze it gently while singing to her. Watching her face instantly calm as he sang is something that will stay with me. Even at age 10 I knew that I wanted that type of love in my life. The love they have for each other could be felt in those little moments. I came back to present in the concert and Paul started to sing one of the most iconic songs he had written for Frank Sinatra. “My Way“ has always been one of my dad‘s favorite songs. Instinctively, Kathy, Mom, and myself all hugged each other and sang along with the song as we swayed. We were all quite choked up. Time really stood still and for some crazy reason I think my dad was with us at that moment even though he was tucked into bed at home.

This morning we received a text from Mommy thanking us for the perfect evening. The truth was, I was looking forward to the concert but I never imagined I’d enjoy every single second like I did. Watching Mom so elated and animated is something I’ll never forget. Kathy and I dancing like nuts in our seats and giggling (me snorting) will make me smile for years. So yes, this was a chance to remember the laughter and the tears thanks to Mr. Anka. These are the times of our life.