I will be your father figure

My father was a simple hard-working guy of limited intellect and even less patience. He wanted dinner at 6. He wanted to watch television until he fell asleep in his chair. And he didn't want to be bothered. He was unflinchingly loyal to his job — who ever his employer was at the time — and treated his work as though he had the most important job ever.

He smoked from the time he was 18, sometimes elevating his cigarette intake to four packs per day. Upon his honorable discharge from naval service after World War II, he became an apprentice butcher, eventually working himself through the ranks until he reached an executive position in the main office of a chain of supermarkets. Despite a pretty decent salary, my father — the world's worst handler of money — always seemed to be behind the eight ball. He never saved a dime. He left bills unopened and ignored. I remember my mother meeting a workman from the gas company on our front lawn, as she scribbled out a satisfying check, thus stopping him and his giant wrench from shutting off our heat. 

My father took us on our last family vacation in 1968. After that, save for the occasional one-day jaunts to Atlantic City, my brother and I were on our own. It wasn't until we were in our teens that we went on what could be considered a proper vacation... at our expense, of course. At 18, we also paid our own way to further our education, wandering unprepared into a bank and arranging for our own student loans.

The once-successful supermarket chain that was my father's employer eventually went bankrupt and he found himself, once again, with a cleaver in his gnarled fist, back in a refrigerated workroom, surrounded by sides of beef. His life and career had gone full circle. After experiencing "stomach pains" that his incredibly high threshold for pain could no longer tolerate, he checked himself into a hospital. He fully intended to "take care of it" and get back to work in a few days. He was well aware that his illness was more severe than what a couple of swigs of Pepto Bismol could allay. However, he just ignored it, like he did all of those bills. And soon enough, just like the utility companies, death came to bite him on the ass. He passed away in 1993. He was in debt and his house was in a dreadful state of disrepair.

And, boy, what he has missed.

My son was six years old when my father died. My nephew was just seven months. They were small children with their entire lives ahead of them. Lives that — and I believe I speak for my brother as well  — would be better than ours. Isn't that every parents' dream?

I spoke to my nephew at length last Friday and then my son came over for a visit on Sunday morning. I began to reflect upon the conversation that I had with these two remarkable young men. I thought back to when they were born. They both had great childhoods, each filled with toys and birthday parties and travel and family. They excelled in their school careers, each emerging with enviable intellect and sharp wit. With voracious passion for their chosen profession, they each headed out into the world determined and destined to make their mark, no matter how large or small. My nephew entered the realm of politics in a position that has him hobnobbing in and around Capitol Hill with the likes of senators, congressmen and the occasional Vice President. My son is a disc jockey on a local Philadelphia radio station or, as he modestly states, "a minor local celebrity." In addition to on-air duties, he produces broadcast segments, mixes sound for performances and seeks out that elusive song just bubbling under the surface, waiting to break out. For fun, he pals around with members of local and nationally-recognized bands.

My father didn't quite grasp what my brother (at the time, editor-in-chief of a newspaper) and I (graphic designer) did for a living. And he would have been totally baffled by the career paths of his grandchildren. But I do believe he would have been proud. 

It makes me sad that he's not here to offer confirmation.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

woman with the strength of ten thousand men

For thirty years, my wife's parents owned and operated a general merchandise business in a weekend-only farmers market that, itself, opened in the early years of the 20th century. The market, founded by William Zern, in 1922, has served as a one-stop shop for curios and collectibles, as well as fresh produce and the odd cut of meat, with a decidedly rural appeal (One stand boastfully advertised "pig stomachs — cleaned and ready to stuff." Mmm-mmm!) The sprawling maze of a building is located a one-hour's drive outside of Philadelphia, in the tiny country hamlet of Gilbertsville. Despite its proximity to the fifth largest city in the country, when the folks of Gilbertsville refer to "the city, " they mean Reading, Pennsylvania, the county seat of Berks County, with a population of 88,000. No one would dare venture to Philadelphia, because of the regularly-reported murders and the blacks and homosexuals that live there. The other intriguing aspect of the area I collectively — and dismissively — call "Gilbertsville," was Confederate flags were a constant best-seller in the store. My father-in-law could barely keep up with the demand and the inventory would routinely sell out.

The Walt Disney of Zern's

When I got married, I joined my wife and new in-laws in the family business on Saturdays. My young family needed the extra income and I found the quirky and quaint customer base somewhat amusing. When my son E. was born, he occupied a small playpen behind the cash register counter and, as he got older, he was put to work as well. Begrudgingly, but he worked just the same.

Over the course of thirty years, many different businesses came and went in the contracted stalls surrounding my family's concession. Some stayed for a few weeks before throwing in the retail towel, others were steadfast and remained for decades, sometimes being passed to the next generation. In the waning years of our tenure, a custom framing store opened just across the main aisle from my in-law's business. In addition to picture framing services, they offered a variety of pre-framed prints and posters, ranging from scenic depictions of lakes and mountains to reproductions of famous works of art to novelty pieces suitable for a dorm or kid's bedroom. It was here that we met Adeline. She worked as a salesgirl for at the framing place and she became instant friends with my son. They bonded on the commonality of music, movies and their closeness of age (Addie was one year older than E).

One Saturday, as Addie's high school graduation approached, she came to Mrs. P and me with a look of dead seriousness. 

"Can I ask you guys a question?," she began. We smiled and assured her she could ask anything.

"Do you think three-hundred dollars is enough to move to California?," Addie asked in all earnest.

My wife and I looked at each other, first wondering why we were being asked and not her parents. Then, simultaneously, we felt flattered.

I answered first. "Sure," I said, "if you only plan on staying for an hour and a half," adding that last part in typical smart-ass fashion. Mrs. P offered more motherly advice.

"Why do you want to know?," Mrs P asked.

Addie proudly replied, "I think I'm gonna move to California after graduation. Y'know, to see what it's like." She didn't have a trace of fear or apprehension in her voice.

Sure enough, within the next week or so, Addie gave her employer the customary two weeks notice. She told us she found an apartment online in the affluent La Jolla section of San Diego. She would be sharing space with several students at the city branch of the University of California. Although we were a bit wary, we expressed our congratulations. We told her that we were planning a late summer vacation to Disneyland, a mere 90 minutes from San Diego. We exchanged cellphone numbers and promised her we'd take her to a San Diego Padres game if we could meet up. Addie said her goodbyes and headed off to California. We were convinced that someone was sure to murder her within the first week.

Later that summer, when we arrived in Anaheim, my wife called Addie. We expected her to answer the phone in tears, spinning a tale of how she is confused and destitute and how she should have never made this trip. Instead, a chipper Addie was excited to hear from us, explaining that she cleared her work schedule — as a sales clerk at Nordstrom's — and was looking forward to the ball game. She gave us directions to her apartment.

Addie & E. keeping mum at Petco Park

The next day, we headed down Interstate 5 in our rental car. We carefully followed the directions, knowing that some ramshackle shit-hole would be waiting for us at the end. As we pulled into the neighborhood and got closer to the address, we were pleased, impressed and a little dumbfounded. The area was gorgeous! Soaring palm trees surrounded beautiful, modern architecture and meticulously landscaped grounds. We located the gated complex and, after identifying ourselves at the front entrance intercom, Addie buzzed us in. Addie met us outside of her unit, looking healthy, happy and — with a pair of rubber dish-washing gloves encasing her hands — domestic. She grabbed her purse, said goodbye to a roommate and we left for Petco Park. We had a great time reminiscing, talking about Zern's and asking about her summer and future plans. After the game we took Addie back to her place. Mrs. P and I, feeling like surrogate parents, bid her "goodbye." However, we lost touch with Addie for a while.

A few years later, I left work for the day and was walking through the train station, when I heard someone call out: "Hey! Josh!" I whipped my head around and there, climbing a set of steps, was Addie. She clutched a stack of books in her arms. She told me she had spotted me a few days earlier, but couldn't get my attention. I asked her what she was doing and she informed me that she moved back to the area and was taking classes at Temple University. I told her that E. attended Temple. I gave her his phone number. I told her how nice it was to see her and we parted in opposite directions. When I got home, E. quizzed me.

"Guess who I'm having lunch with tomorrow!," my son asked, and — not waiting for a response — answered the query himself, "Addie!"

"Cool!," I said. I told him I ran into her in the train station. She sure wasted no time getting back in touch. E. met Addie several times for lunch and bumped into her often in-between classes. Then, we lost touch with Addie for a while. Again.

Every summer, my family attends a three-day outdoor music festival sponsored by the radio station that now employs my son. My wife and I spread out a big blanket on the grass near the top rim of the natural amphitheater where the show is held. Our "spot"  becomes sort-of a congregating place for E.'s friends and other people that we have met at past year's shows. Two years ago, to our surprise, Addie just showed up on our blanket. After greetings (and a maternal hug from Mrs. P), Addie told us that she hears E. on the radio all the time, proudly telling everyone that she actually knows him. We all chatted more, getting up-to-date on each other's general activities, until I finally asked her, in my most parental way, what sort of plans she had for the future. Addie, absentmindedly twirling a piece of grass between her fingers, answered that she'd like to work with people and also be able to work outdoors. Instantly, I suggested that she look into becoming a park ranger for the National Park Service. Addie lit up as I told her that a friend of mine worked as a park ranger and loved it. Addie sat with us for most of the day until she had to leave early. She was working the night shift at an O-ring factory near her childhood home (Gilbertsville!, as far as I was concerned). We explained that we'd be in the same place tomorrow and she said she would see us then. The next day, she called E. to say that she was going to a party with some members of a band that had performed the previous day. Oh, Addie! What a character!

"Look, Ma! No fear!"

When last year's festival rolled around, I emailed Addie to asked if we'd see her at the show. She replied saying she would be unable to attend. But she had an awesome excuse. She was in Colorado training to become a park ranger. Through the miracle of the Internet, Facebook and Instagram, we followed Addie's progress as she chronicled her journey and diligently worked her way to fulfilling a dream. 

Addie missed this year's music festival, but, again, she had a legitimate excuse. She was busy spending time outside — communing with nature and meeting new people in her new job. Addie is a park ranger. And Addie is pretty proud of herself, as she should be.

Mrs. P and I couldn't be more proud if she was our own daughter.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com