Our household runs on catchphrases.
At the mention of a specific word -- or set of words -- one of us is bound to respond in a manner that is 100% predictable, based on some inside joke that a visitor would find utterly confusing.
Or downright weird.
For example:
- During a meal in our home, if you accidentally bite your lip and produce a droplet of blood and then comment on it, you'll get in response: "My mouth's bleeding Bert! My mouth's bleeding!" The quote is from the climax to It's a Wonderful Life, my favorite film of all time.
- From the same movie, a greeting in our home of "Merry Christmas" might well prompt a full-bore Jimmy Stewart-accented cheer: "Merry Christmas, emporium! Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan!" Again, as George Bailey, Stewart bellows these phrases while trotting down the snowy streets of Bedford Falls, reveling in his resurrection.
- Ask "Are we having soup?" You'll get a question back: "Soupy soup?" This exchange isn't exactly traceable, but we suspect it took hold when the girls were younger. When in the grips of a cold, Eileen or I would prescribe soup for either lunch or dinner later in the day. But of course, parental patience ebbs when kids are sick, so when the toddler question was tossed back -- "What kind of soup?" -- out of frustration, one of us (probably me) came back with "Soupy soup." The delivery of this catchphrase is now always a question, with an upward rising pitch. Probably mimicking the response we got when naming that particular flavor: "Soupy soup????"
- Let the word "people" fall from your lips. You may very well get a squeaky quote from Singin' in the Rain. In the film, when prissy platinum blonde Lena Lamont is chastised, "People just don't do that," she responds: "People?!?! I ain't people! I am a 'shimmering, glowing star in the cinema firmament!"
- Same film. Express disdain for someone and one of us will chime in: "...and I kan't stan'em." Response: "Cahn't." Second response: "kan't." Third response: "Caaaaahn't." Forth response: "kaaaaaaan't."
- If a story told around the dinner table involves someone's exclusion from something, my voice will rise to its upper wobbly register and make the Misfit Toy observation: "Nobody wants to play with a Charlie-in-the-Box!"
- Also Christmas related: "Calendar book with the name of my insurance man." That's here. Love Allan Sherman.
- A casual mention of snow elicits the response, in a stilted accent: "I do not believe in snow!" This is from The King and I, where the children of Siam, having never heard of this frozen precipitation, express doubt that it even exists. Not sure how this has caught on in our home -- my doing for sure -- but it's a guaranteed response.
- "Ouch, Charlie!" Internet meme. This will probably fizzle out in our house soon, but for now, it's getting plenty of air-time. Charlie Bit Me!
- Elf: "Bye, Mr. Narwhal." "Bye, Buddy. Good luck finding your dad!" In a deep Narwhally voice. Weird. But we say it.
Some of our notable quotables are short-lived and die off after over-use. I was in a rut of quoting Despicable Me's lead character Gru, using Steve Carrell's unidentified western-European accent: "Dat's how I roll!"
We also got a good run out of the Minions from the same movies: The incredulous "WHAAA?" from DM1 and the alarmist "Bee-do, Bee-do, Bee-do" from DM2. From the same franchise, we were also known to observe, in a southern twang: "Somebody's got a frowny face!" and with kid-like glee "It's so fluffy, I'm going to die!" And high-pitched excitement: "Oooh! Stuffed crust!"
But none of these have reached classic status.
They've played out.
Leaving none of us saying: "Play it again, Sam."
I've written before about crying in the movies.
Rarer, I think is crying while reading a book.
There's something about the enveloping scope of film that, at least for me, encompasses my emotions to the extent that I can give myself over to tears.
It's imagery, yes, but also music and tone and performances and color and movement.
Words on a page are captivating, make no mistake. And I've certainly been taken to another place and time while in the pages of a book.
But there's something about reading that makes me less likely to cry while doing it.
Now laughter, that seems to come easier. I remember receiving a copy of David Sedaris book Holiday on Ice at a work-related Pollyanna one Christmas. I opened it down in the bowels of the SEPTA train station on my way home that evening and dove into The Santaland Diaries. And before I had turned even a half-dozen pages, I was stifling a smile.
And then a short chuckle.
And before long, I was stuffing my fist in my mouth, trying not to appear like a lunatic in public.
It was a tough battle, I can tell you.
But when it comes to shedding tears, I can honestly think of exactly two books that have sent me over.
The first one might seem strange considering the author is horror-meister Stephen King.
But that one was The Green Mile.
For those of you who don't recall its literary beginnings, The Green Mile was a serial novel, in the style of Charles Dickens, who wrote and released chapters in tandem, over time. The Green Mile came out in a chain of short books, as King doled out his story piecemeal.
The conclusion came out while we were on a family beach vacation, and I can remember dashing to a bookstore on the boardwalk to snag a copy and find out the fate of hulking inmate John Coffey and sympathetic warden Paul Edgecomb.
And when I placed my hand once again in King's and read where he took me... my eyes just overflowed.
In a setting that could not have been less conducive to crying: At a crowded New Jersey beach with hundreds of sunbathers, swimmers, families, ice cream hawkers, walkers, talkers and gawkers.
The other book to push me to tears was, not surprisingly, Marley and Me. John Grogan's account of his goofy and loveable Lab was a must-read for someone with his own goofy and loveable Lab. But the ending was gut-wrenching.
That's it. Over a lifetime of reading, exactly two books have caused me to cry with emotion.
Now if we want to talk books that bored me to tears, that's another conversation...
The day began with an alarm at 4:15 a.m.
I was due in Broomall at 6:30, and although the commute in the early morning murk would have taken no more than 40 minutes or so, there was a dog to walk first.
So I popped out of bed as quietly as possible, dressed for the pre-dawn chill, grabbed the leash and collar, and set forth with Parker.
I didn't want to cheat him, even though I knew that an expenditure of physical capital in the morning might come back to haunt me later in the day. But what the heck, I thought. It's a good warmup.
So we walked one of our usual two-mile treks.
Back home, I filled his kibble bowl and his water bowl, changed, and hopped into the car.
It was ride day.
For the second year in a row, I was attempting the MS City-to-Shore Ride to benefit MS. This fundraiser is a 70+ mile ride (not a race, thankfully) between Cherry Hill and Ocean City, NJ. Last year, as a rookie rider, I successfully completed the course with my team, the Spoke Busters, blogging about the incredible experience here.
But this year was different.
During the prep for City-to-Shore 2012, I was unfortunately unemployed. One of the only upsides to that disaster was the opportunity to train more rigorously. I could basically get out on two wheels every day of the week, which I did, for the most part, weather permitting. After my morning chores and scrub of online job hunting sites, I'd mount my metal steed and roll through a dozen miles or so.
This year, being gainfully employed (thank God), I had a tougher time prepping.
My rides would be limited to weekend, and even they were tough to get out, taken up with projects like this one.
By early September, however, my weekend calendar started to clear and I found myself with more time to prep.
There was also one big upside to this year's ride.
I'd be sharing the road with one of my oldest, closest friends. JT had, almost by accident, been at the finish line last year and made a commitment to himself that he'd join the Spoke Busters for 2013.
We trained together, riding both in NJ and PA to acclimate to longer mileage. And had a lot of silliness along the way. Added benefit.
The other challenge that emerged this year came in the form of a notice from NJDOT, which determined that a pothole along the way would require a detour.
So what was a 78-mile ride.
Became an almost-80 one.
Bring it!
And so as the sun crept above the horizon on that early morning of the ride, JT and I -- along with our team -- set out.
It turned into a brilliantly beautiful day, making the roadwork an enjoyable time in the late-summer temps.
John and I paced ourselves together, catching and passing other SB members; allowing them to pass as they chose. As happened last year, we all connected at the five rest stops along the way.
We talked as we rode, JT and me. Laughed ourselves silly. Spurred each other on. At a stoplight, as the cyclists clustered behind a police officer and waited for the go-ahead, we noticed a biker with a sign above her rider number: Today Is My Birthday.
It didn't take much of a mischievous look between us before we launched into a top-of-the-lungs rendition of "Happy Birthday."
The fact that we didn't know her name didn't stop us at all: "Happy Birthday, Dear Ridergirl, Happy Birthday to Youuuuuu!"
We also giggled at the cyclist who seemed intent on nothing more than selling his riding partner financial products en-route. Mile after mile, he prattled on about household income and college planning and cashflow interruptions.
The cycling salesman.
The up-hill huckster.
I reminded JT of the scene in the Woody Allen movie Take the Money and Run, where Virgil Starkwell is put into solitary confinement, where his punishment is made all the worse when he's locked up with an insurance salesman.
Much of the same goodwill that carried me along last year was also an inspiration this year: Signs along the way. The occasional neighbor at the end of the driveway, clapping and cheering.
When John and I ran out of conversation (shocking, I know), we merely dug in and churned through the miles.
The finale, as was the case last year, consisted of the double-hump bridges to the north of Ocean City. By then, a stiff wind had kicked up, requiring a real dig-dig-dig of effort to get over, especially the first.
The second, however, turns toward the island itself, which thankfully put the wind squarely at our backs. We ascended and waited for our teammates at the pre-arranged stop.
Snapped photos.
Congratulated each other.
When the Spoke Busters were again united, we whooshed down the far side of the incline and into Ocean City proper.
A few twisty blocks later, we had made it.
Last year, this ride was a matter of: Can I make it?
This year, this ride was a matter of: Can I make it again?
But as before, considering where the dollars go and who they benefit, this much remains unchanged.
Crossing that finish line may have been fun.
But it really wasn't the point at all.
I'm asked a lot if my musical talent spills over into other instruments.
And with a dose of regret, I've got to say, No.
It's not for a lack of trying, though.
My grandfather played violin in a String Band as part of the New Year's Day Mummer's Parade, a Philadelphia tradition. Or at least that's what I've been told.
Sadly, I never heard him play.
On the occasional birthday party celebration at my grandparents' house, "the fiddle" would occasionally make an appearance.
But he had 103 different reasons why he could never scratch out a tune: No rosin. No A string. Bow was bent. Horsehairs had dried out. Etc. Etc. Etc.
When he passed away in the mid-1980s, my grandmother decided "the fiddle" should come to me (despite having a cousin who played viola, as I recall).
But hey, it wasn't my decision to whom this musical treasure would go.
And I tried valiantly to learn how to play it. Had it restored. Found a teacher. Took lessons.
Was terrible.
I managed to get through "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and that was about it.
So, yes, I've played Mozart on a violin.
My teacher knew the story of how I came to own a violin. And after reaching a point where it was pretty fruitless for me to continue, she had a heart-to-heart about my hands.
My big, beefy hands.
The ones I discussed here.
She told me how unsuited they were to the tiny spaces on a violin. Suggested a better fit for me would be either the cello or the string bass.
Given the size of my hands, maybe one of those washtubs with a broomstick handle tied to it would have been best.
So my violin career was snuffed a'borning.
For years, I also struggled with the piano. Having honed skills on the organ, I found them totally nontransferrable to piano, for some reason.
I couldn't master the touch; I had trouble maintaining consistent intervals when running up or down the keys; and I needed something to do with my feet that involved more than just three pedals.
Over the years, I got passable at piano. Faked and fluffed my way through as needed.
I carry around exactly one tune on piano that I can riff through at a party or whatever, when asked: "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in E-flat.
Don't ask for it in another key.
I have always wanted to play something like "The Maple Leaf Rag" on piano.
But haven't climbed that particular Everest yet.
Recently, however, I've been challenging myself to get better at the piano. Our church had a baby grand donated (!), and in an effort to keep it from merely gathering dust, I'm forcing myself to play the thing.
I'm still baffled by a lot of the technique, but I'm at least able to capably lead some singing sitting behind the 88s.
And if all else fails, our congregation may find itself singing a rousing chorus of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
In E-flat.
I cry at the movies.
There, I said it.
I've cried in the movies for a long time, too.
I remember seeing Dumbo in its 1972 big screen re-release (I would have been nine then) and, of course, crying over the"Baby Mine" sequence, where the li'l pachyderm, unjustly separated from his mommy, finds solace the only way he can, nestled in the trunk that she's stretching from behind her jail cell.
And Bambi (1975 re-issue), searching for his mother.
And Old Yeller, on one of its revivals, too, because I wasn't born when it premiered in 1957.
And Brian's Song (1971), which, for some bizarre reason, our Catholic elementary school -- Sacred Heart Manoa -- decided to show us as a class (!), bringing us into the gym, where we sat on rickety metal chairs and tried to use the clatter of an ancient 16mm projector to hide our sniffles and snuffles.
Especially the guys.
I remember being so swept away in the story of The Elephant Man (1980) that, blubbering tearfully at the scene where he is tormented by cruel Londoners who don't see the beautiful soul beneath the deformities, I actually stood up in the theater and yelled at the screen, "You leave him alone!"
Not my proudest moment in a theater house.
Even Gone with the Wind (1939), which I've had the good fortune to see on the big screen a handful of times, gets me. If Clark Gable, the rough and tumble man's-man of the movies, gets washed out as Rhett Butler at the death of his daughter, how can I do less?
Let's see. Terms of Endearment (1983) reduced me to jelly. Titanic (1997), despite being overblown, knocked me over emotionally at the sight of the elderly couple holding each other as the water washes underneath the bed in their cabin. And the Irish mother trying to soothe her children in their bunk.
And I stupidly took our middle-kid, Claire, to see My Dog Skip (2000), unaware that it was a heart-breaker. So she and I reduced a pile of napkins, obtained for blotting popcorn grease, to a sodden mess.
Marley and Me (2008) was another toughie. Yes, being a dog lover makes me particularly susceptible to being affected by canine calamity pictures.
Which also came to light in recently watching Quill (2004), a Japanese docu-drama about a seeing-eye dog.
Not that I don't recommend these movies; I can honestly say I've enjoyed each and every one of them.
They're just likely to send me reaching for a Kleenex.
It's not even like I can get over it by watching them repeatedly. No matter how many times I watch Travis Coates man-up and face the awful fate that has befallen his "ugly yeller dog," I am moved.
If I could shuck this emotionalism off by repeated viewings, surely I would have stopped reacting decades ago to It's a Wonderful Life (1946), a movie I have seen probably hundreds of times.
Matters not. When brother Harry toasts brother George as "the richest man in town"...
...well
...suffice to say I may have to discreetly wipe away a mote of dust that has unfortunately landed in my eye around that point in the film.
As a church musician for the past 30+ years, I've developed heightened dexterity.
My mother, an RN who would know these things, would often look at my beefy hands and comment that they reminded her of "surgeon's hands," given the extreme muscularity that developed over years of practicing scales, hymns, choral accompaniments and Bach toccatas.
Not to mention typing. Writing for a living has also made me fleet of finger.
Why, then, am I such a doofus when it comes to tools?
I have exactly 0 ability with a pliers, wrench, socket set, hand saw, drill or screwdriver.
This deficiency is a major obstacle as the only male in a house of women. Well, there's Parker, but he doesn't even have the opposable thumbs needed to pour his own kibble (which may be a good thing!).
I am, therefore, the go-to guy when things go awry in the house.
Which was exactly the case when our front-load washer went on the fritz last night. Of course, this happens at 10 p.m., with a load of sopping clothes inside and an energy and patience reservoir on low, considering my workday and the late hour.
I never quite grew up with the fix-it mentality. Dad was incredibly adept at this kind of thing; the engineer in him loved puzzling out a problem and working through a solution: a washer here, a shim there, a spritz of 3-in-1 oil for good measure. And voila!
Unlike a lot of sons who hover at their dad's side offering to help -- or a least watch -- I was #3 in a line of three brothers. Any view of what was going on was routinely blocked by two other heads and four other hands (more capable from being older) ready to assist.
I've picked up a lot of things on my own, though. I've managed some low-level plumbing repairs around our house, deconstructing and replacing the float-lever on the toilet, for example. Electrical projects scare me just a bit, but I've replaced outlets and switches without frying my hair.
Car fixes? Not so much. I can change a flat, re-fill the windshield washer reservoir and work jumper cables. That's about it. Early on, I remember changing the oil myself, but I now leave that task to the professionals -- it's messy and inconvenient and disposing of the used oil is a pain.
Tech? Eek. I've kept our computers running thus far but currently am having network issues associated with a new router.
Fortunately, I have resources.
One of our longest of long-term friends is a help-desk guy for a major, local financial institution. He's terrific for diagnosing over the phone and walking me through to-dos.
And I've gotten a lot of help along the way from YouTube, which, if you can weed through the useless but funny cat videos, does have good home-repair info, all demonstrated for we who are truly hapless handymen. I fixed a door that wouldn't 100% catch by watching some Bob Vila-type go at the misaligned trim with a drill held sideways, widening the receiving notch until it successfully grabbed the latch.
But this front-load washer train-wreck is proving to be a major hurdle.
YouTube had a few suggestions, like cleaning out the drain pump, a task I successfully managed last night, despite my reduced mental state and a continual challenge of sloppy, smelly water. Plus the fun of working wet with a plugged-in appliance.
And I thought I had it.
Until it became clear that I didn't.
Luckily, I can continue to use my manual dexterity.
Dialing a repair-dude does take a bit of finesse with the fingers.
I'm looking forward to the beginning of football season.
It wasn't always the case.
I used to hate football on television.
Part of that is because I grew up in a football-addicted household. Both my parents were fervent and hopeful fans of the Philadelphia Eagles, which meant they spent many Sunday afternoons watching horrible players do inexcusable things.
Not one to hold back, they often yelled at the screen, coaching plays from home. My strongest memories of this are from high school and college, when I'd be heads-down into a textbook in my room -- directly aside the master bedroom where the TV was -- while they reacted to what was going on:
"run-run-Run-Run-RUN-RUN-RUUUUUNN!!"
"go-go-GO-GO-GOOOOOOOOO!"
"get-em, get-em, Get-Em, Get-Em, GET HIM!"
Always this escalation of cheering that seemed to cause the plaster on the walls to crack and flake.
These were the years of Leonard Tose ownership, Dick Vermiel leadership, Ron Jaworski stardom and Bill Bergey muscle. But Mom and Dad stayed devoted fans, through the years of Norman Braman, Buddy Ryan, Rich Kotite, Randall Cunningham, and Donovan McNabb.
He never went to the The Vet, the stadium where these battles unfolded. We would talk yearly of season tickets as a gift to him, but it never worked out. After a trip to an Eagles game at Franklin Field with the Boy Scouts, where his good coat was ruined by a hotdog tossed by someone who had drunk too much "antifreeze" as a guard against the chill, Dad was content to watch from the comfort of his own home.
He dreamed of their reception of a set of Super Bowl rings. And at the close of each disappointing season, he'd sigh: "Well, there's always next year..."
Dad was never one to authorize meals in front of the television; he wanted them at the table and away from the distraction of the tube. But on afternoons of Sunday Eagles football, he was okay with lunch in front of the game. So midway through the anguish, Mom & Dad would pass by my door, check in to see how things were going, and return after a trip to the kitchen, carrying bowls of soup or stacks of peanut butter crackers.
I hated it. Not sure if I hated the noise or just the thoughts of football on TV itself, but I was never quite a fan.
And I stayed distant from TV football for years and years. Graduated college and didn't watch. Dated Eileen and didn't watch. Married and didn't watch. Had kids and didn't watch.
Until...
Sometime in the early 2000s, I flicked on a game. And I got caught.
There was something about the battle -- the long struggle of one side against another for turf and time -- that appealed to me. Other teams bored me, as I didn't know (or didn't care) who the stars were. But the Iggles had their claws in me and I became anchored in front of the set each Sunday afternoon.
I was happy to share my new-found interest with Dad, who was eager to explain shotgun formations and onside kicks to his football novice son. We cheered together at their appearance at the 2004 Super Bowl, taking the occasion to involve even Amanda, Claire, Kristin, and Wesley.
But sadly, it was too little too late.
Dad passed away in 2006, just as my Eagles fandom was taking deeper and deeper root.
I fumbled. I fumbled on those years when we may have shared just one more thing.
I think of him often on Sunday afternoons.
And raise a spoon of lunch-soup as a toast, as I'm sitting in front of the set.
"Get-em!"
