As I reached 76, I gained new insight into me. I have come to realization that I have accomplished everything that I was meant to accomplish in my time on Earth. No, it doesn’t mean I have given-up. I am merely saying that I am at peace with myself, my world and my God. It’s a good place.
And now, the end is here And so I face the final curtain
My friend, I'll say it clear
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain
I've lived a life that's full Yes I have.
I traveled each and ev'ry highway For certain
And more, much more than this, I did it my way
I asked myself, what would I change, if I could? I can honestly say I don’t think of anything.. Oh yes, I suppose there is a few things, but everything in the end turned out all right.
Regrets, I've had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way
Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew
But through it all, when there was doubt
I ate it up and spit it out
I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way
I've loved, I've laughed and cried
I've had my fill, my share of losing
And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing
To think I did all that
And may I say, not in a shy way,
"Oh, no, oh, no, not me, I did it my way"
For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels and not the words of one who kne
The record shows I took the blows and did it my way!
Yes, it was my way
Thanks Frank.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Base a ball Bin Berry, Berry Good To Me!
It’s that time year again when optimism borders on fantasy. Baseball is back. I don’t think there is any sport that its preseason optimism overtakes reality in the mind of a baseball fan. We all know someone will lose over a 100 games of a 162 game season. But let’s face it, it is all part of the ritual in a game full of rituals. Each season brings back our childhood memories of our American summer pastime.
What baseball fan doesn't remember their first big league game? My first favorite team was the Chicago Cubs. Not much has changed with the Cubs in my life time, and that’s a pretty long time. Our initial fandom was awakened by listening the game of the nearest team on the radio. Announcers became household names. The games might be broadcast live, but if the team was on the road, it would be done by ticker tape. The ticker would tell the announcer in the most minimal way, “Fly out left.” at that point the announcer would fill in a make believe scenario, complete with sound affects and crowd noise. Radio in the late 40’s was a medium of make believe and imagination. Many announcers be became synonymous with the team itself. Those velvet tones were around most of my life time and some broadcast of them broadcast more than fifty years. As I moved around the country, each big league town thought their announcer was the best. It was the voice of their team, even though you thought yours was better. You grew up from boyhood to adulthood with these voices playing in your head. They were part of your every season. The only one left of the classics is Vin Scully. He’s been doing the Dodgers games since their Brooklyn days. That’s 60 years, and he is 85 years old. But that velvet voice paints the picture of many colors like no other.
My dad was always a Yankee fan. What’s that all about? We lived in Indiana. The Cubs game was always on the radio at our small South Marion grocery store.
I guess it was time for our father to take my brother and me to see our first major league game, Cubs vs Reds at Crosley Field in Cincinnati. Although it was the home of the Reds from 1884 -1970, it became Crosley Field in 1934, when Phillip Crosley bought the team. It was abandoned in 1970 for Riverfront Stadium. An interesting side note is that none other than Pete Rose launched the wrecking ball to begin the destruction of this classic American baseball shrine.
Cincinnati was an 135 mile drive over two lane roads. We were so excited. We arrived at the ballpark early. This is a habit I continue to this day. We walked down a little alley between the left field wall and the laundry with the Budweiser sign on the roof to where the box-office was located. (I once witnessed Hank Aaron, hit a home run over that sign.) Dad paid for the tickets. Box seats were $8.00, team hats were $1.00. The walls outside were gray. We entered the stadium and for the first time gazed at a real Big League ballpark.
What I remembered most was how brilliantly green the grass was. You must remember every television set and newsreel in the theater were black and white, The grass was gray. The next thing I noticed was the sights, sounds and smells in a big league ballpark. The crack of the bat echoing around the stadium during batting practice, the smell of the newly perfectly mowed grass and perfectly raked infield. The occasional shout that reverberated around the park. Boiled ballpark hot dogs, the watered down icy lemonade, the stale popcorn was just as much a part of the experience as the game itself. Crosley had one unique feature. The front of the outfield walls was banked as a warning track. It could also claim that it once was flooded by the great Ohio River. It was deep enough for a boat.
However, my favorite sound was the sound of metal spikes clicking along on the cement outside the clubhouse. The Red’s clubhouse was behind a metal gate The players would have to come out of the area to the fan’s concourse under the stadium. It was great because most every player would sign an autograph. When I had my own spikes, and we played ball in the old Back Lot, I loved walking along the little sidewalk to the sound of spikes and cement.It made me feel like a big league ball player in my baseball mind of make believe.
We also happen to run into Bert Wilson, the radio voice of the Cubs.who was my hero, Bert was on his way to the broadcast booth. My dad yelled “Hey Bert” He stopped and I ran up and got his autograph. I valued that as much as any player’s autograph. In the history of the great Cubs announcers, including Harry Carey and Jack Brickhouse, he is not long remembered, but in my mind he was one of the best. He broadcast the Cubs from 1944-1955. However, his catch phrases are still part of being a Cubs Fan. “ I don’t care who wins as long as it’s the Cubs. Its a beautiful day at Wrigley Field. Bingo to Bango to Bilko.” This was the Cubs great double play combination, Ernie Banks to Gene Baker to Steve Bilko.
I don’t even remember who won the game thatday, but I sure do remember the day.
It was the best day of my life.
Padres-Dodgers. Its a beautiful day at Petco.
Have a great day.
Sammy Carl
What baseball fan doesn't remember their first big league game? My first favorite team was the Chicago Cubs. Not much has changed with the Cubs in my life time, and that’s a pretty long time. Our initial fandom was awakened by listening the game of the nearest team on the radio. Announcers became household names. The games might be broadcast live, but if the team was on the road, it would be done by ticker tape. The ticker would tell the announcer in the most minimal way, “Fly out left.” at that point the announcer would fill in a make believe scenario, complete with sound affects and crowd noise. Radio in the late 40’s was a medium of make believe and imagination. Many announcers be became synonymous with the team itself. Those velvet tones were around most of my life time and some broadcast of them broadcast more than fifty years. As I moved around the country, each big league town thought their announcer was the best. It was the voice of their team, even though you thought yours was better. You grew up from boyhood to adulthood with these voices playing in your head. They were part of your every season. The only one left of the classics is Vin Scully. He’s been doing the Dodgers games since their Brooklyn days. That’s 60 years, and he is 85 years old. But that velvet voice paints the picture of many colors like no other.
My dad was always a Yankee fan. What’s that all about? We lived in Indiana. The Cubs game was always on the radio at our small South Marion grocery store.
I guess it was time for our father to take my brother and me to see our first major league game, Cubs vs Reds at Crosley Field in Cincinnati. Although it was the home of the Reds from 1884 -1970, it became Crosley Field in 1934, when Phillip Crosley bought the team. It was abandoned in 1970 for Riverfront Stadium. An interesting side note is that none other than Pete Rose launched the wrecking ball to begin the destruction of this classic American baseball shrine.
Cincinnati was an 135 mile drive over two lane roads. We were so excited. We arrived at the ballpark early. This is a habit I continue to this day. We walked down a little alley between the left field wall and the laundry with the Budweiser sign on the roof to where the box-office was located. (I once witnessed Hank Aaron, hit a home run over that sign.) Dad paid for the tickets. Box seats were $8.00, team hats were $1.00. The walls outside were gray. We entered the stadium and for the first time gazed at a real Big League ballpark.
What I remembered most was how brilliantly green the grass was. You must remember every television set and newsreel in the theater were black and white, The grass was gray. The next thing I noticed was the sights, sounds and smells in a big league ballpark. The crack of the bat echoing around the stadium during batting practice, the smell of the newly perfectly mowed grass and perfectly raked infield. The occasional shout that reverberated around the park. Boiled ballpark hot dogs, the watered down icy lemonade, the stale popcorn was just as much a part of the experience as the game itself. Crosley had one unique feature. The front of the outfield walls was banked as a warning track. It could also claim that it once was flooded by the great Ohio River. It was deep enough for a boat.
However, my favorite sound was the sound of metal spikes clicking along on the cement outside the clubhouse. The Red’s clubhouse was behind a metal gate The players would have to come out of the area to the fan’s concourse under the stadium. It was great because most every player would sign an autograph. When I had my own spikes, and we played ball in the old Back Lot, I loved walking along the little sidewalk to the sound of spikes and cement.It made me feel like a big league ball player in my baseball mind of make believe.
We also happen to run into Bert Wilson, the radio voice of the Cubs.who was my hero, Bert was on his way to the broadcast booth. My dad yelled “Hey Bert” He stopped and I ran up and got his autograph. I valued that as much as any player’s autograph. In the history of the great Cubs announcers, including Harry Carey and Jack Brickhouse, he is not long remembered, but in my mind he was one of the best. He broadcast the Cubs from 1944-1955. However, his catch phrases are still part of being a Cubs Fan. “ I don’t care who wins as long as it’s the Cubs. Its a beautiful day at Wrigley Field. Bingo to Bango to Bilko.” This was the Cubs great double play combination, Ernie Banks to Gene Baker to Steve Bilko.
I don’t even remember who won the game thatday, but I sure do remember the day.
It was the best day of my life.
Padres-Dodgers. Its a beautiful day at Petco.
Have a great day.
Sammy Carl
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Time Heals!
Its been a couple of weeks since the anniversary of Mark’s death. In my last post I talked about the difference between mourning and grief. Mourning is time related. In most cultures a year. Grief continues on forever, but with the passage of time it sinks from the surface. Never very far, but coping with those moments of grief brings less tears and heartache. I am here to report that this premise holds true, even more than I believed it would. The tears are fewer and farther between. The weight of grief has diminished. It’s still there, but easier.
In 1994 my parents were nearing the end. My brother and I had made the trip to Indiana once again. This was the hardest one because, we had to return Mom to the care of a nursing home. My brother and I agree it was the hardest thing we had experienced in our lives up to that time.
I was at the nursing home before I left for the trip back to Minnesota. I stood at the door and watched this final scene.
“Mom had the left-leaning list left behind by her stroke, as she shuffled down the hall on Dad’s arm. Dad had a slightly bent-over walk with his trousers, held up by his suspenders, situated too far above his waist and the tops of his white socks showing -- high water pants is what she would have called them. They had finally taken on the feeble look of the very old. Against the bright light, reflecting off the polished beige tiled floor, they moved slowly away from where I stood, supporting each other, moving gently into the light.
The next day, I started back to Minnesota. As I drove along, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind, and suddenly tears began to flow like the torrents of a summer thunderstorm beating against the windshield. I pulled to the side of the road, where I sat crying -- unashamedly. Eventually, the storm of tears subsided and the clouds of mourning cleared away. I felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. In retrospect, that moment on the highway was my period of mourning for the loss of my parents because from that moment on, I cried very little. I realized the time had come to take my seat in the front row of life, as the older generation, and someday, I too would walk gently into the light. “
These experiences are consistent, although the facts of the circumstances are a little different. Mourning passes and grieve subsides to a little below the surface of your emotions. Time heals, even though it doesn’t heal completely.
As I wrote about my grandfather' s funeral on what it felt like when it was all over.
'"As we walked back to our car in silence, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to catch a final glimpse of where my grandfather would be buried forever. Dad started the engine, and we eased our way out of the cemetery and on to the road back to Grandma’s house. The silence was broken when my father reached over and turned on the radio. As the music began to play, I can clearly remember feeling the great burden of grief being lifted from my body. Suddenly, I felt better. The program on the radio was normal. The traffic was normal. The sunshine was normal. The green of the trees and grass was normal. Everything was normal, and the world was indeed going on as usual. I guess it was my first realization that death’s rituals pass and the world, as it had done while I was away, goes on about its daily business.
'
There is a new day!
Sam
In 1994 my parents were nearing the end. My brother and I had made the trip to Indiana once again. This was the hardest one because, we had to return Mom to the care of a nursing home. My brother and I agree it was the hardest thing we had experienced in our lives up to that time.
I was at the nursing home before I left for the trip back to Minnesota. I stood at the door and watched this final scene.
“Mom had the left-leaning list left behind by her stroke, as she shuffled down the hall on Dad’s arm. Dad had a slightly bent-over walk with his trousers, held up by his suspenders, situated too far above his waist and the tops of his white socks showing -- high water pants is what she would have called them. They had finally taken on the feeble look of the very old. Against the bright light, reflecting off the polished beige tiled floor, they moved slowly away from where I stood, supporting each other, moving gently into the light.
The next day, I started back to Minnesota. As I drove along, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind, and suddenly tears began to flow like the torrents of a summer thunderstorm beating against the windshield. I pulled to the side of the road, where I sat crying -- unashamedly. Eventually, the storm of tears subsided and the clouds of mourning cleared away. I felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. In retrospect, that moment on the highway was my period of mourning for the loss of my parents because from that moment on, I cried very little. I realized the time had come to take my seat in the front row of life, as the older generation, and someday, I too would walk gently into the light. “
These experiences are consistent, although the facts of the circumstances are a little different. Mourning passes and grieve subsides to a little below the surface of your emotions. Time heals, even though it doesn’t heal completely.
As I wrote about my grandfather' s funeral on what it felt like when it was all over.
'"As we walked back to our car in silence, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to catch a final glimpse of where my grandfather would be buried forever. Dad started the engine, and we eased our way out of the cemetery and on to the road back to Grandma’s house. The silence was broken when my father reached over and turned on the radio. As the music began to play, I can clearly remember feeling the great burden of grief being lifted from my body. Suddenly, I felt better. The program on the radio was normal. The traffic was normal. The sunshine was normal. The green of the trees and grass was normal. Everything was normal, and the world was indeed going on as usual. I guess it was my first realization that death’s rituals pass and the world, as it had done while I was away, goes on about its daily business.
'
There is a new day!
Sam
Monday, March 17, 2014
On a Lighter Note!
There are always gaffs in politics. I like the funny ones. These are two of my favorites.
Joe Biden:
Joe was at a rally. Someone told him a state representative was in the audience who was running for reelection. Ever the politician Joe shouted out, "I understand Representative John Jones is in the audience. Stand up John and let us see you." Unfortunately, John was in a wheel chair. Joe rallied and recovered, but it was like an SNL moment.
Sarah Palin:
After Palin was introduced by McCain, she got into her speech and commented on Hillary. She complimented her on her campaign and on the dissatisfaction of Hillary's woman supporters, who were left behind. "Hillary left behind 18 million cracks in the ceiling." I still get a chuckle out of that.
Have a nice dy!
Are we there yet?
Sam
Joe Biden:
Joe was at a rally. Someone told him a state representative was in the audience who was running for reelection. Ever the politician Joe shouted out, "I understand Representative John Jones is in the audience. Stand up John and let us see you." Unfortunately, John was in a wheel chair. Joe rallied and recovered, but it was like an SNL moment.
Sarah Palin:
After Palin was introduced by McCain, she got into her speech and commented on Hillary. She complimented her on her campaign and on the dissatisfaction of Hillary's woman supporters, who were left behind. "Hillary left behind 18 million cracks in the ceiling." I still get a chuckle out of that.
Have a nice dy!
Are we there yet?
Sam
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Mourning After!
A last week approached, I was not looking forward to it. It would the first anniversary of Mark’s death. No one can really understand the tragedy brought about by the death of a child, and I hope nobody ever has to understand. We are not the first nor the last people to lose a child. Everyone handles it in their own way, but It leaves a huge hole in your heart, mind and soul.
However, as the week went on, approaching that fateful day, I found it to be not as paralyzing as I thought it would be. Last Sunday, I ask my brother how it was when the first anniversary of Jeff’s death came around. He told me it wasn't as bad as he anticipated. If someone were to ask me the same question today, I would give them the same answer. I actually had a very good week. Oh, there were tears, but the overall week was a combination of praying, nostalgia, tears, laughs, reliving his life, reading the Facebook comments about Mark over the past year (there were many from this week from his friends and co-workers, his photography, his videos and my own reflections. My passage was soothed by writing from the my heart. He was unique. a loving friendly, funny, and a loyal friend to anyone he ever met. He is loved and remembered.
So with all the sadness I experienced this week, how could have been a good week? I have come to this conclusion. Mourning and grieving are too different things. Mourning is a time period. It has a beginning and an end. In most societies it seems to last a year. This week I ended the mourning period. When you put mourning on the back shelf, there is a sense of a new beginning. The first my of the rest of my life. Mourning is behind me.
When mourning is put away, it leaves only the grief. But a strange thing happens, the grief subsides and sinks below the surface a little bit. It will never go away, but it lowers itself in to a more quiet place. The grief will always be there, but with damp eyes rather than tears. I suppose this is the part in the stages of grief called, acceptance.
I want to thank all of my friends who read my blog for bearing with me this week. It has been cathartic.
With all my heart, I love you all. And so I move on making my memories.
Sam
However, as the week went on, approaching that fateful day, I found it to be not as paralyzing as I thought it would be. Last Sunday, I ask my brother how it was when the first anniversary of Jeff’s death came around. He told me it wasn't as bad as he anticipated. If someone were to ask me the same question today, I would give them the same answer. I actually had a very good week. Oh, there were tears, but the overall week was a combination of praying, nostalgia, tears, laughs, reliving his life, reading the Facebook comments about Mark over the past year (there were many from this week from his friends and co-workers, his photography, his videos and my own reflections. My passage was soothed by writing from the my heart. He was unique. a loving friendly, funny, and a loyal friend to anyone he ever met. He is loved and remembered.
So with all the sadness I experienced this week, how could have been a good week? I have come to this conclusion. Mourning and grieving are too different things. Mourning is a time period. It has a beginning and an end. In most societies it seems to last a year. This week I ended the mourning period. When you put mourning on the back shelf, there is a sense of a new beginning. The first my of the rest of my life. Mourning is behind me.
When mourning is put away, it leaves only the grief. But a strange thing happens, the grief subsides and sinks below the surface a little bit. It will never go away, but it lowers itself in to a more quiet place. The grief will always be there, but with damp eyes rather than tears. I suppose this is the part in the stages of grief called, acceptance.
I want to thank all of my friends who read my blog for bearing with me this week. It has been cathartic.
With all my heart, I love you all. And so I move on making my memories.
Sam
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