I Need to quit Worrying

I am at a point in my life where I just worry about things. Usually, the things I fret over are out of my control but that doesn't hinder me. I wish I could just relax and take it easy, but I let myself get stressed out and I act accordingly.

For one thing, I have a habit of watching the stock market. Now, if it wasn't for the money I had invested into mutual funds over the last half of my working career, I probably wouldn't care. Even though I am now retired and not yet relying on income from my portfolio to live on, I worry about how my wife will fare when I am not around.

These days, the stock market is so vulnerable to world events that no matter how well our own economy seems to be doing, it is not enough to determine the direction it might take. I recognize that the world has gotten a lot smaller, and world events have an impact on our economy. Still, I would like to believe that what we do in America drives the world rather than the other way around.

Another thing that worries me is my own family. I don't want to be the Mafia Don even though I don't actually believe they see me as that. I am proud of each of them for what they have accomplished. Success is measured in so many ways that I simply want to know that they are happy. If they are happy, then I feel as though my work is done. I worry about their happiness every day.

The next thing are my own accomplishments.I often dream about the things I have been involved with over my life and wonder if I am satisfied with my actions. There are many things that I wish I had accomplished, but didn't. At the same time there are things I did that I wish I had done differently. I suppose everyone has those thoughts.

The last thing is religion. Let me start off by saying that I do believe in a Creator. I could not imagine how this complex world we live in got here by chance. And yet, why is this Creator so mysterious? I tend to believe that the Christian faith is most likely the truth, but I can't convince myself that any particular religion can offer the ONLY truth. When I see the conflicts between the various sects and various religions, I wonder how ONE GOD can allow such confusion. So I have come to the conclusion that HE or SHE doesn't take sides.

Since there are only GOOD or EVIL choices, each individual has the capacity to sense what is right to do and make a decision whether to do it or not. As for any afterlife, I can't think about that because I can't handle the stress. I will leave it to our Creator.

Joe Paterno

As a college football fan, I am greatly saddened over the death of Joe Paterno (JoePa). Even though Penn State is not the team I root for, I have always had the greatest respect for JoePa. During his 62 years as the Penn State coach, he was noted for his principles where it involved his players. He always knew that the athlete's education took priority over football, and he expected all of his players to adhere to that philosophy.

That whole nasty situation involving Jerry Sandusky must have been a nightmare to JoePa. During much of their association, JoePa felt that Sandusky might be the heir apparent when it came time for JoePa to retire. I won't even go into all of that now. I know that the University did what they felt they had to do in letting JoePa go, but in my opinion, it was a travesty. True, JoePa might have gone to the authorities immediately instead of going to school officials when told of Sandusky's mis-deeds. JoePa thought that the school officials would handle it.

In 1986, my team, the Miami Hurricanes, went undefeated and ended the season at number one in the nation. The head coach, Jimmy Johnson had a banner year, and his quarterback, Vinnie Testaverde would go on to win the Heisman Trophy. But there were discipline issues with the team, and Coach Johnson just let his players be themselves. But JoePa and his Penn State Nittany Lions had also gone undefeated that year and were ranked number 2.

On January 2, 1987, the Hurricanes and the Nittany Lions met in the Fiesta Bowl in Tempe, Arizona to decide the national championship in what was billed as 'good vs. evil'. The 'Canes came out to Tempe dressed in military style fatigues ready for battle while the Nittany Lions were dressed in shirts and ties. This was vintage JoePa. Since this is not a sports story per se, I will skip over the details of the game itself only to admit defeat to the 'good' team that night. Now, even though I was heartbroken over the loss to Penn State, I had to admit that JoePa had one helluva good team, and in no small part owing to JoePa's discipline.

Unlike my feelings towards other teams and coaches the 'Canes lost to over the years, and there were a few, I always had respect for Penn State and JoePa. There may never be another coach like JoePa and I think college football will be diminished without him.

What did we do before cell phones?

Everywhere you go these days, you see people talking or texting on a cell phone. It's bad enough when they are in a store or walking down the street, but combining cell phone use with driving can be a death wish.

It wasn't so long ago that if you wanted to talk to someone on the phone, you stayed stationary until the conversation was over. Believe it or not, we muddled through our days without having a phone glued to our ears. Maybe people just have more to say these days but I don't get it.

I have had to get a cell phone only because there are no more phone booths around! What the heck would Clark Kent do now? The phone I have is a pay-as-you-go which we have strictly for emergency calls. I resent having to pay for the cards every couple of months, but it's now a necessity.

Is is just me, or does it seem people are so preoccupied with their gadgets that they don't see the real world around them? My kids are no exception, they all follow that same path. Anytime we see them, the head is bowed reading whatever is on their gadgets rather than paying attention to actual other people around them. All I can say about this behavior, is RUDE.

I read a novel by Stephen King not long ago entitled "Cell". And of course everything King writes is apocalyptic, but his tale is about this alien force that took over the brains of everyone using a cell phone and turned them into veritable zombies. A chilling take on what is otherwise accepted behavior these days. At the end of the novel, and I won't be a spoiler for those who may want to read it, but King does reveal that he does not own a cell phone and never will.

Maybe Stephen King's tale is not too far from the truth, maybe there is a whole generation of zombies living among us now.

Who are these clowns?

The way I see it, the Republican hopefuls this year remind me of a bunch of clowns squeezing into a Volkswagen. They appear to have no agenda other than to defeat President Obama at any cost. Woe unto all of us if one of them happens to do that.

The "great recession" certainly can't be blamed on Obama, nor can the fiascos in Iraq and Afghanistan. When Obama came into office, those problems were George W. Bush's legacy to the nation. Where were the WMD in Iraq that pushed us into war? As for Afghanistan, I think we had to go there to hunt down Osama Bin Laden. Well guess who took care of Bin Laden? Ok, so now it's "Mission Accomplished".

As for the recession, yes, it has been the worst financial nightmare since the depression. At the time in 2009 when the financial institutions were dying, Obama did what was necessary to keep things afloat. Bailouts were not desirable, but necessary evils in order to prevent a total collapse. As bad as the job losses were, they could have been much worse. Anyone remember bread lines?

President Obama is an intelligent, smart and forward thinking individual. He has tried very hard to make peace with the Republicans and those who challenge his very right to be president. But the President has at least made strides towards solving some of the most difficult challenges of our time. Trying to work with the Republican congress has been like pulling teeth. The reality is, that no one person can do it all, it takes cooperation and the Republican congress does not know the meaning of the word compromise.

The bottom line is this: Why change the ships captain just because he is doing what he was charged to do?  Stick with Obama through the whole cruise rather than switch to some clown.

A Reason to Volunteer

I think it is natural for someone who has worked all of their adult life to want to take it easy in retirement. Believe me, I was one of those that felt that I deserved my free time! Just knowing that you don't HAVE to be somewhere at any particular time is very refreshing. But I really don't like just sitting around all day either, so I do volunteer for activities that interest me.

I enjoy being of some service to the community, but at the same time, I don't want to be made to feel obligated to any one cause. If there seems to be pressure to do more, or if I feel that the recipient of my volunteer efforts is not appreciative of what I am able to offer, then it might be time to move on.

So what I suggest to those organizations that rely on volunteer help is this: Be grateful. We who do volunteer do so at our own pace, and at our own time. We have earned this right.

It Had Fins

The first car I ever owned was not the best one, but it was mine, after Dad sold it to me for a dollar. It was a 1959 Plymouth Savoy.  It was your basic white, no carpets, no air, no radio not even a padded dash. Powered by a slant six cylinder engine and a standard transmission with a three-speed stick on the column. It didn't have much, but it had those awesome fins! I hand painted the grille and rims blood red to go with the zebra rear dash accessories Mom made for me. How proud I was of that car. She was something all right! I could go from zero to sixty in – well, lets just say it got me there.  She is long since gone to car heaven, but I was reminded of her again when I saw the movie “Jaws”, because the creature had that awesome fin!

 

The Swamp "Thang"

The crowd stared in amazement as it crawled out of the murky lake onto the shore. Belching smoke and making growling sounds, it rumbled towards the woods ahead. Appearing even more agile on the muddy ground then it was in the water; it trampled everything in its path. With its peculiar exoskeleton, it had no difficulty plowing through the dense vegetation. It was not alone. Dozens of the beasts were already on shore, and others soon followed. Strangely, the crowd watching this invasion showed not the slightest fear. They were actually cheering and applauding the beasts. What madness was this? Were those unearthly invaders using mind control on their hapless victims?

There was no need to call in the National Guard, for this was no invasion. The beasts were actually man-made machines called “Mini-Bajas”. A small version of a dune buggy, each Mini-Baja is built by college engineering students for their senior class project. The Society of Automotive Engineers, commonly known as SAE, sponsors the annual competition. In existence since 1976, the competition has provided not only a great way to test newly learned engineering skills, it also teaches a valuable lesson in teamwork.

In 1992, my oldest son, John, was a participant in the Mini-Baja competition that took place on May 14 through 16 in Cookeville, Tennessee. That same year, he would graduate from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte with a degree in mechanical engineering. He and four other seniors - Jack, Dave, Jose and Chris - would have to design and build a Mini-Baja to exacting specifications, and then see how it would perform in competition with others. From the beginning of the project, which began in the fall of 1991, there were plenty of reasons for the team to give up. They knew they could not be deterred however, because designing and building machines from the ground up was their career path of choice.

The team chose the project from a list of potential themes. Though they knew it would be a lot of work, John told me, “it sounded like the most fun.” Before they could actually begin work, they had to raise funds. Thanks to the generosity of the Faulk Brothers Hardware store in Charlotte, and BASF Corporation, they received all the necessary materials. With the help of a powerful CAD-CAM computer that utilizes 3-D imagery, they would design, build and test the machine in a virtual environment. When they were ready to begin work on the real thing, every team member participated in the development of the project.

To build a machine that must operate on both land and water takes a great deal of ingenuity and planning. Knowing that they would be competing against other engineering students, the team had to be precise and practical at once. They needed to find an edge that would help them gain the victory. Many of the schools in the contest had their entire class working on their project. In addition, many of them had as long as a year to complete it.

 “We built a car from scratch with all new ideas…with a five man team,” said John. They only had two semesters to get it done. The edge, they hoped, would be the design of the body. BASF had provided the team with uni-directional fiberglass sheets that would be formed into a “composite sandwich” encasing a foam core. That design, John told me, was unique among their peers. The general idea was to make it as light as possible, while maintaining strength. The foam core would provide the necessary floatation on water.

The team decided on an 8 horsepower lawnmower engine for propulsion. Based on their calculations, 8 hp should have been plenty for such a lightweight machine. They originally used the pull cord as the means of starting. As they would later discover, there would be times when the engine cut off and the driver would have to get out and pull the cord to start it again. The transmission came from a snowmobile, so it was ideal for a dune buggy. As for brakes, the front set came from a four wheel ATV, and the rear set from a motorcycle. They felt they had made good progress on the vehicle, and things seemed to be going well, but time was of the essence.

Spring break had arrived and time was running out. Everything but the body was complete, and they had not fully tested the vehicle. The guys knew that they would have to sacrifice their last spring break to get the job done. As they finally finished the body shaping, they figured that the aerodynamic design would increase speed. What they hadn’t counted on, was the overall vehicle weight of 135 pounds, heavier than they anticipated. Nevertheless, the vehicle was now ready for testing, and with few students on campus they had an unobstructed use of the grounds.

There is a long hill that drops off into a cloudy pond on the campus of UNCC. This would be a perfect test ground, so test they did. To make sure that the vehicle could handle whatever came its way, “We would put the car through as much as we could and then see if anything would break”, John said.  One of the ways they tested it was to run it full throttle down the hill, and into the lake. Naturally, this was when the engine chose to stall. Standing in two feet of thick muck trying to start the engine was no fun.  That was when they realized some type of internal ignition system was needed Once that was accomplished, and they were satisfied with the testing, they could relax, but not for long.

The day of the competition was upon them. On the road to Tennessee with their creation in tow, they came up with a name. With an obvious reference to the dialect in the hills of Tennessee, their creation would henceforth be called, “The Swamp Thang.”

The Swamp Thang passed all the initial inspections for such things as design, ergonomics and safety. But it was the four hour endurance run that would tell the story of the Swamp Thang. Each of the guys took turns driving as they went through the grueling course, but that extra weight is what kept them back.  With all the safety shielding in place, enclosing the engine, the Swamp Thang finally overheated. This in turn caused the transmission to lock up. After only five laps around the course, the race was over.

Though they lost the race, coming in next to last actually, the Swamp Thang did receive some glory.  They won first place in the braking category!  An old TV commercial used to tell us, “It’s not how fast you go that counts; it’s how fast you can stop.” Perhaps this was the only contribution the Swamp Thang made, but John and his teammates knew the satisfaction of accomplishment, and perhaps they did more than they realized. To this day, the Mini-Baja competition is still an annual event. Further, UNCC now has one of the few, if not only, motor-sports engineering curricula. The engineering school at UNCC works closely with some NASCAR teams to build race cars.

The Swamp Thang was not a monster; it was a beloved teacher and a member of the family. We learn many things in life, and sometimes the best teachers are those we least expect. John and his teammates put so much of themselves into the Swamp Thang that they can’t let it go. Like a human skeleton, the shell of the Swamp Thang still resides at John’s house in Florida. It will forever be a part of his character.

“ Since I don’t drive...”

Every time she said those words, and it was often, Mom reaffirmed her independence. The five of us (two brothers, two sisters and me) heard them so often, that it became our family joke. She would say them anytime a part broke on the sprinkler system, or if she had a rude cab driver. The times that her doctor recommended a specialist on the other side of town we heard them. Even when explaining why there was no soda in the refrigerator, same thing. One might think that she was dropping hints that she was looking for a ride. On the contrary, those words showed that she would rather do without something then to bother anyone. This was her way, and we had to respect her for that. If one of us offered to take her somewhere, she would accept it gratefully, but she would never ask. Nor would she ask for help around the house when there were things that needed attention. In fact, I had to plead with her to make a list of things that needed repair, so that when I came to visit, I could do my share without making her feel uncomfortable.

If only she would learn to drive, we thought, she could go where she wanted at any time. Rather, she would walk to her bus stop; wait for her bus in all kinds of weather; then make all the necessary transfers so she could get to her favorite places. She became a bus line expert. As inconvenient as it was, she told me, “I want to do this as long as I am physically able, and I don’t mind the long bus rides.” There were some places within walking distance for her. Winn-Dixie food store, Sears’ outlet, Eckerd’s drug store, and the dollar store all were within her range. That is, until the last two or three years.

Only a few months before her death on November 1, 2002, she boasted about the time she walked all the way home from Kmart, at least three miles from home, because she missed her bus. She was proud of herself, and rightfully so. I don’t know if I would call it blatant stubbornness or just simply, pride. I think it was a little of both, but it was her style. It saddens me now, because when she told me that story, I knew what a struggle it was just to fetch the daily newspaper. Her style as it were, was evident to me from my earliest recollections.

As an example, Dad once tried to teach Mom how to drive. I know that turned out as utter failure. See, Dad taught me how to drive when I was a teen, and believe me, it was no picnic. That’s another story for another time. Though I don’t know all the details, I do know that after her adventure behind the wheel with him, she vowed she would never drive. She never drove again. She would make him take her wherever she needed to go. She had her way of expressing herself in an era when women normally kept their opinions closeted. Nevertheless, she had great love and respect for Dad our family provider and head. She took tremendous pride in us, her children, as she embraced her role as mother and housewife. She knew it was her mission to ensure that each of us grew up to be honest and responsible adults. It was in that capacity that she excelled the most. When I was growing up, I learned many important things from her.     

I vaguely recall walking to school on my first day of kindergarten, but she remembered it as if it were yesterday. In the early 1950’s, a child could walk down the street without fear of lurking evil. With my four younger sibling’s still at home, she walked with me to the corner and held my hand while giving me instructions. At some point, she let me go and watched as I disappeared out of sight. She knew that life would never again be the same. No doubt, I was scared and I know she was worried about me. At the same time, she was very proud of that moment, for both of us. It was the same for each of the others as their turn came up.

Mom and Dad bought the house in Hialeah around 1953, about the time I was to begin the first grade. The elementary school was about a mile or so from the house, but of course to me it seemed like thousands of miles. Mom thought it was good for me to walk to school because it gave me character. After all, she said, “I had to walk several miles through waist deep snow to get to school.” Oddly, it seemed that the distance got longer and the snow deeper every time she talked about her youth. 

Mom grew up in rural western New York during the depression years. With seven sisters and two brothers, life was seldom easy but it was a loving environment. Her father farmed the land and supported the Jarrett family as best he could. When she was twelve, her mother died of cancer leaving the large family in her father’s care. Although the children could not feel close to him emotionally, still he was a generous and hardworking man.  The rail line ran close to the family home. Hoboes who rode the trains knew that the Jarrett home always offered a hot meal when they were hungry. Mom told us, “they were not bad people; just men down on their luck, and it was the right thing to do since we had plenty of food to share.” Such was the sort of upbringing that helped to mold her character. 

Her two eldest sisters became the authority figures for the other children. The family was not rich by any means, but they managed to get by during the most difficult of times. Mom always reminded me that her father demanded one thing. It was that all the children should get their education.  In the small town of Scottsville, the only school was a one-room brick building where all grades up to high school were together with one teacher. That little building is still standing today. It always amazed my siblings and me how that type of system could work. How could any of those kids learn anything? Things were quite a bit different for us.

In South Florida, the weather is rarely an excuse to miss school. There was the occasional hurricane however. It seems that my first experience with a big storm was during the summer of 1960. I remember how exciting it seemed when we heard that a hurricane was approaching. In our naiveté, we couldn’t wait to see what all the hoopla was about. Would the awnings really stop flying objects from coming into the house? What will it be like to hunker down in the cozy environs of our modest home, with only candles for light? Mom and Dad, of course, were greatly concerned. They knew what the risks were, and they took every precaution to ensure that we might stay safe. This particular storm passed dead over us, the eye providing an eerie break for from the howling winds. Mom did not want us to go outside, but Dad let us go. In a macabre kind of way, it was fun looking at the destruction. Our coconut trees had been stripped bare, and one had already fallen crushing the fence. The house itself was in good shape, so far. We gathered up the coconuts that fell knowing that Mom made the best coconut candy around, and we would have a lot of it. After the eye passed, the winds picked up again more intense then before, but it finally ended and the sun shone brightly.

We came through that storm unscathed, although most of our coconut trees were now gone. The house itself, though well built, was not that big. There was only one bathroom for our family of seven to share. We had no air conditioning, and we wonder now how we survived South Florida heat without it. Nevertheless, Mom always kept the home clean and tidy. Visitors could be expected at any time, and usually unannounced. Many of the neighborhood kids considered our home as their second residence. Rare was the time when you would have peace and quiet around the Steding home. While she worked around the house, she loved to sing loudly. Either the radio or the hi-fi was playing, and the music was usually country. She really did have a beautiful voice, and it always made us feel good to hear it. She always had a happy disposition, and even when she had a reason to be angry, it was short-lived. There was always a sense of security and protection with her there.

That is why the Richard Thompson incident was even more shocking to me. I was actually a skinny, cowardly boy. Still, I admit I had an attitude, and I occasionally insulted some of the kids in the neighborhood. Most of them I got along with well enough. However, one kid simply had it in for me. He would go out of his way to harass me.  I was truly afraid of him, and when he came after me, I ran all the way home crying to mommy. It happened more times then I want to admit, but this last time Mom decided that it was time to learn a lesson. A cold chill went down my spine when she forced me to go outside and face my enemy, Richard Thompson.

I was afraid, crying and had no confidence in myself. Mom would not let me come back in the house. Often, when a person feels trapped as I felt I was the adrenaline kicks in. Mom

knew this might happen, and that is why she made me fight him. Through my fear, I lashed out at him in our front yard. Feeling betrayed I had no recourse but to sink or swim. All my frustrations came out as I pinned him to the ground. I trounced him that day, and felt something I had never felt before, satisfaction. Mom took a chance on me in order that I might learn to believe in myself. It was a good lesson for me. She had learned that lesson herself when she moved out on her own after graduating from high school.

She came to live in Miami right after the end of World War II. Her new boyfriend was a man she met on her job with Eastern Airlines. The man would become my father. The baby boom generation was in full swing, and our parents contributed their fair share. It had been her dream all along to have a family of her own.  Mom was generous and thoughtful to all, even helping to care for Dad’s mother for many years. That was a challenge, since our grandmother spent a large part of her life confined to a wheelchair. Grandma was very hard of hearing and had a mean temperament. Mom always kept her cool however. As the years passed, many events changed our lives. I suppose to her the decades seemed to fly by in a flash. Each of us left the nest as we sought our own destinies. Mom and Dad moved to Orlando in the late 70’s. It was great to see them so happy, or so we thought.  Things began to change for her at a fast pace. Dad began an affair that would eventually lead to the failure of their marriage. In what should have been their golden years, Mom was now discovering the empty promises of her life with Dad. In spite of the decline of her marriage, she knew she could always count on the loyalty of her children, and that kept her afloat. Though for so many years she was the submissive housewife, when it became necessary, she acted to ensure her future.

When it became obvious that she might be alone permanently, she filed for divorce. Additionally, she insisted on having the house in her name only. It was truly sad to see all that unfold, but Mom did the only thing she could do to protect herself. All of us agreed that was the only way. Though she was angry, dismayed and saddened by Dad’s betrayal, still she had deep feelings for him. When he died in 1993, it was apparent that she still loved him in spite of all he did to her. She had been managing her home alone for a number of years before, and now the finality of it set in. The remainder of her life, she would keep her independence. However, there was greater sadness yet to come.

In 1998, our dear sweet sister Kathy discovered that she had cancer. She was always the one with the cheery optimism. Kathy had such a wonderful personality in spite of many adversities in her own life. The courage she demonstrated while battling that disease is another story in itself. It was absolutely the hardest thing Mom ever faced when the realization hit that Kathy would not survive. Mom had always said that losing a child is the worst thing that can happen. Mom certainly hoped that none of us would die before she did, but it was not to be. On April 10, 1999, our loving sister died. She was not alone because Mom was there to hold her as she took her last breath.  I remember Mom’s phone call that day, it was the most sorrowful thing she ever said.  Things seemed to go downhill quickly for her after that.

Mom began having aches and pains much more often. Things that used to give her pleasure, such as gardening, became too difficult for her. No longer could she walk to the stores, and even getting to the bus stop was now like climbing Mt. Everest.  In spite of her pain, she managed to attend all of her grandchildren’s graduations and weddings. She made the long trip up to North Carolina for our son’s wedding on July 4.  I saw then how difficult it was for her to get around, yet she endured it. That trip was the last time I saw Mom alive.

I had visited with Mom in Orlando the previous April. While talking with her then, for some reason I reminded her of how she used to sing around the house. I also asked if she ever plays music any more. She told me it had been a long time since she did that. “No reason,” she said, “ I just leave the TV on most of time for company.” As sad as that seemed to me, it made sense. It was a long time since her home was filled with the sound of children. I sensed that she felt now that her mission in life was nearly over.

I got into a routine of sending her E-mail every day. In every one, I always asked how she was feeling, because if I didn’t ask, she would not mention it. It always made me feel good to tell her about things in my life, and she would always be encouraging. I know that was true for all of us. The last time I heard from her was the morning of October 31. She complained that her newspaper was not there yet, and how she hated having breakfast without it. I loved that banter. When we did not hear from her on November 1, a chill went down my spine. Later, when my brother called to say Mom was gone, he said that the newspaper was on the counter.

I thought about that day. I thought about her life, and realized this was how it should be for her. In a way, I felt as though her last few years was like when she walked me to school that first day. I walked her to the corner, and let her go. Somehow, I knew my life would never be the same.

The Pirate's Clock

The clock is now in my possession. Or maybe it possesses me. In hind sight, I regret that I didn’t notice the bizarre coincidences before taking “ownership” of the clock. For a while at least, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that this unusual clock was anything but a lovely old family heirloom. Now that I have it in my home, I am a little afraid, no, to be more accurate, I am apprehensive about it. After all, I am the one that keeps the thing wound and the pendulum moving.

My mother always held to the belief that everyone on this earth has a fixed lifeline. I’ve seen shredded metal along the highway that used to be someone’s car, and I thought, in no way could anyone have survived that accident. Yet, I find out later that the driver of that car had just walked away. Strange to me, but mother would have said, “It was just not their time to go.” Still, it was inconceivable to me that people were pre-programmed robots.

I believed that each person made decisions every second of every day which had a direct bearing on life or death. Death is always lurking. It could come through an act of “nature” or by the hand of man. If my life-span is already defined for me, why should I bother to take safety precautions at all? Is there any reason to wear seat belts? Couldn’t I save a lot of money on prescriptions? If I choose to walk out in front of a moving Mack truck, do you think I might get killed? I think so. So then, why am I now feeling so much anxiety?

Lately I sense that my whole belief structure is collapsing in on me. I am stressed, a little paranoid and yes, afraid.  I know it’s all because of this damn clock taunting me in my living room. I suppose I need to talk more about the clock.

How the clock came into the family originally may seem like folklore. From my earliest recollection, it ticked reliably in the hallway of my grandmother’s house. When grandma died, my parents inherited the clock, and it remained in their home for some thirty years.  Father was next to go, then about two years ago, my mother departed. Mother always insisted that I should be the one to inherit the clock, since I am the eldest son.

My father once told me the story of the clock, and oddly, I remember his exact words. “In the mid 1800’s, there was this old sailor by the name of William Smythe who would stay with my grandma at her home in Charleston, South Carolina for a week each summer. One hot August day while in port getting supplies, Smythe entered a pub to quench his thirst. Grandma worked there as a barmaid, and Smythe was smitten with her. Now, the old salt never confessed to grandma that he was a pirate, but she suspected as much. He never paid rent in cash, but always gave grandma gifts of jewels, silk, exotic perfumes and other such things. On what turned out to be his last visit, Smythe presented the clock to grandma. He told her that the clock had once belonged to one Edward Teach, more commonly known as the infamous Blackbeard. The clock did come with one small caveat. ‘Dare not let the pendulum stop, lest the dark angel shall be dropt,’ were his words to her. So enamored by the beautiful clock, grandma paid little heed to the warning. Once Smythe left for sea, she never heard from the old pirate again.”

I was a teenager when father told me this tale, so naturally I was skeptical. Father liked to joke a lot, but this time he was very serious. Now that I have the clock, a sense of urgency has come over me. I wanted to find as much as possible about the clock. I hired one of the last few remaining clock restorers in my area to take a look at it. The man must have been at least ninety, but when he saw my clock, his eyes widened and he beamed like a young boy.

After several hours of inspection, the old man gave me the following assessment. “A most unique specimen as I have ever seen!  The condition is exquisite. Its case is of a superior walnut and all accoutrements appear to be fine silver and bronze. Though there is some wear on the finish, this clock has a very young heart. However, I believe it is at least four hundred years old. Funny though, the only markings I could find were on the inside bottom right corner. See here, with this magnifying glass the letters ET are carved in.” This was not what I wanted to hear.

On the day my grandmother died, father went to her house to check on her as usual. The first thing he noticed was that the clock had stopped. When he tried to wind it up, there seemed to be very little play, so he just nudged the pendulum and the clock started ticking. “That was sure funny,” father said later. The coroner said she died peacefully in her sleep.

I was with my father at his moment of death. It was a relief actually, since cancer had taken over his body.  Later, at mother’s house, she and I were commiserating about father. At one point, I noticed the silence, too silent. The clock was stopped. I checked it, and it appeared to be wound up, so I started the pendulum moving again.

Ten years passed, and there were deaths in the family as to be expected. I still hadn’t recalled the story father told me years ago. Mother lived in a different state from me but I would visit her as often as possible. My brother, who lives not far from her, went to check on her one morning.  She would not answer phone calls or the knock on the door. It was November 1, 2002, her wedding anniversary, and the deputy found mother’s body lying on her kitchen floor. Most likely, a stroke had taken her.

Days later when I arrived at mother’s house, for some reason I happened to notice the clock. Once again, the coils of the clock had been wound yet the pendulum was not moving. At that moment, my father’s story found its way to the fore of my brain, but at that time, I didn’t associate it with mother’s death. There were a number of things at the house that I wanted to bring home so I rented a truck and loaded it with memories, including the clock. After a days driving, I finally had the clock in my home according to mother’s wishes.

In the two years since bringing the clock home, I have faithfully kept its coils wound and the pendulum swinging. Over time, my fears have grown and festered. I dare not go away longer than is necessary to keep up my responsibility. It’s as if something compels me to keep it running “lest the dark angel dropt”.

Before I had the clock, I wonder how many of my relatives were at its mercy. Suppose some family member stopped the pendulum intentionally. Would that be a perfect murder? This is ridiculous; certainly there can be nothing other-worldly about the clock except my imagination. I am ruining my life and those around me. They have all left me because of my insane behavior. Even now, as I write this story there is a dead silence in the house. Wait, it is too silent. In fact, I can’t hear the ticking of the cl…

The Man

He only stood five feet seven, but there was an aura of leadership about him. In his youth, his hair was black and wavy, but as he aged it gradually turned a wizened shade of gray. His brown eyes were kindly, and he had a pronounced jaw, pockmarked by teenage acne.  Shrapnel wounds he received during World War II had wrecked his right knee. When he spoke, ears would perk up. The things he knew about, he could speak of well. All who knew him respected his opinions. A mixture of trust, love and a little fear caused his children to refer to him as “the Man.”

 It seems as though the Man always had a bit of a beer belly, and often a cigar sticking out of his teeth. His favorite brand was Hav-a-Tampa.   For unexplained reasons, when I saw him with the cigar, I would know things were right with the world.  He worked hard for forty years at the now defunct Eastern Airlines, where he was required to wear a uniform.  This was good for him because he really had no sense of style in clothing.  Plaids and stripes always went together for him, along with a floppy hat.  This was perfect attire for fishing trips.

Fishing was probably his favorite pastime. In the early years, he loved to take his sons fishing out on a boat in Biscayne Bay or off the bank of a local canal. During those times, he would teach them about generosity and the importance of treating all people with respect. In the 1950’s and early 1960’s, Miami was a segregated city and in some ways it still is. On most of the canal trips, I recall seeing many black people, entire families sometimes, fishing with cane poles and worms. On one trip when I alone went with him, I questioned the Man about why those people dressed so shabby, and why entire families were there. He explained that those people were poor and they depended on the fish they caught for food. He talked about how society was unjust to black people, and how things came to be that way. I had no idea how bad it was for them. “If you treat others as you want them to treat you, you will never disrespect another human being. The color of a man’s skin tells you nothing about the man,” he said. I have never forgotten those words, and apply them in my own life.

He encouraged the children to do the best they could in school. “Never be late, and never miss a day of school unless you are too sick to get up,” he would tell them. In forty years on the job, I cannot recall him ever missing a day of work due to sickness. Though he did not graduate from high school because of the war, he understood the importance of an education. The Man was stern and ruled over the house. He expected the children to obey him without question. All the children had their share of chores around the house. If one forgot or neglected a task, that person would have to answer to the Man. Nothing was more fearful then the warning from Mother, “wait until your Father gets home!”

He was tough on the boys, and when necessary, applied the thick leather Marine Corps belt to their backsides. With the girls, he used a different approach. “Go to your room”, he would say, “and no record playing!” That always worked. One of his least favorite expressions was “yeah, but.” Because, you see, “yeah, but” sounded like an excuse to him. He did not want to hear excuses, only results. Unless things were running smoothly, you could expect him to be on the prowl and feisty.

I think that the Man’s affinity for smelly foods may have partly contributed to his demeanor.  He used to love to sit on the porch while eating canned sardines and Limburger cheese.  The smell of the Limburger would keep most sane people away. I, while holding my nose, attempted to approach him because I did like the sardines. Occasionally, he would let me have a sip of his beer along with a sardine or two. I enjoyed his company then. It was during those times I was able to talk to him, though generally I found it difficult to communicate with him.

 I remember when I was ready to learn how to drive. The 1959 Plymouth would become mine one day, so it was that car I must drive. Now the Plymouth had a manual transmission, making it extra difficult to learn driving skills. On the parking lot of the Hialeah Racetrack, which was only a few miles from the house, I took my lessons. After numerous tries coordinating the gas and the clutch, I felt ready to give it the gas. I pressed the pedal and the car lurched forward, reaching a speed of twenty miles per hour. When suddenly, “bang”, a hand slapped the metal dashboard. “Slow this vehicle down!” a voice barked.  It so scared me, I nearly ran into a tree. In due time, however, I did learn how to drive and the Man was satisfied. He felt responsible to teach the things he knew. Responsibility could have been his middle name.

For most of his adult life, he accepted the responsibility for his mother. In the early 1950’s, she was in an accident that left her paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. Though there were older siblings, he alone shouldered the obligation to care for her. Whenever necessary, he would go help her at the apartment where she lived. Over the holidays, he would bring her to the family home to visit and have dinner. This was no small feat, as she was very heavy and difficult to maneuver into and out of a car. Additionally, his mother was ornery and she loved to gripe. Yet, he put up with her antics for many years. He never complained about his situation, and when she died, he was heartbroken.

After he retired from Eastern Airlines, the Man no longer felt useful. He was comfortable sitting in his garage, drinking a few beers, smoking a cigar and visiting with his five grown children. He had mellowed by that time, and it actually became pleasant to talk with him. Those times were fleeting, and circumstances changed dramatically in a short time. There was wanderlust in his heart, and all of the children knew it. The Mother knew it also. He was no longer the happy man he once was. He tried to blame his problems on alcohol, going so far as to check into a rehab center. Most of us knew that was merely a contributing factor, not the real problem.

His marriage eventually fell apart, and he moved out of his home to live with another woman. He had to find work in order to pay for the extra expenses, so he took a part time job at a grocery store. Around the same time, he began volunteer work at a local elementary school teaching children how to use computers. He loved every minute of the time there, telling me later that should have been his calling in life. On the surface, at least, he seemed happy. I sensed that he had deep doubts about his life. Perhaps in some way he knew what was about to happen to him.

In the spring of 1993, cancer took over his body, yet he took the news graciously. He called me one night to tell me about the diagnosis, asking me what I thought about it as though he had made a bad investment. Yet, he seemed at peace about his sad condition. During the summer and fall, I went to visit him several times. Each time, he wanted to talk about his life and things he loved. So talk we did, and to my surprise, he regretted many things.  Foremost on his mind was how poorly he had treated his wife. One other thing bothered him a lot. At the age of eleven, a car accident killed his older brother. The family could never afford a proper headstone, and now, after some sixty years, he wanted to buy one. The responsible person that he was, he had a headstone made, and had it placed on his brother’s grave in Miami.

 He did not regret how he raised his children. He was very proud of the way they all turned out as adults. Towards the end, all his children would come, together and individually, to see him knowing that his days were numbered.  When the Man, my father, took his last breath of life, I was there to hold his hand and say goodbye.