Here I Go Again

Rob exited the locker room and walked past the open free weight area, on his way out of the YMCA. The early morning weightlifters always played classic rock in the morning, and today was no exception. Classic rock could be any recognizable rock song up to, but probably not including, Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy,” because who wants to hear a downer song like “Jeremy” when you’re trying to lift weights”? The operative word was recognizable. Deep tracks and b-sides need not apply for a spot on the early morning weightlifters’ playlist.

On this particular morning, Rob caught the sound of a wistful synthesizer leading to a man vulnerably singing “An’ I’ve made up my mind, I ain’t wastin’ no more time” before a band explodes into action behind him.

Ah yes, of course! “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake. A British band, led by singer David Coverdale, Whitesnake struck late 1980s hair metal gold with a self-titled album that so thoroughly copped the sound of Led Zeppelin that Zeppelin vocalist Robert Plant called Coverdale, “David CoverVersion” in an interview. Coverdale was probably too busy cashing royalty checks to notice the insult.

As songs often did, the early morning blast of “Here I Go Again” unleashed a wealth of scrambled memories for Rob. It took him back to his record store days, just before and after he graduated college. The Whitesnake album was a chart-topping monster then, even spawning a VHS tape called Trilogy that contained the three music videos that had cemented Whitesnake’s current reign at MTV. “Hey, look,” Rob remembered one teenager yelling at another as she pointed out the VHS tape in the store one day. “Whitesnake Try-ol-ogy!”

Oh, those videos compiled on Try-ol-ogy.  That is, Trilogy. Coverdale sings “Here I go again on my own”, but in the “Here I Go Again” video he is decidedly unalone. He is, in fact with model/actress/future Coverdale wife Tawny Kitean, as Coverdale drives a sports car down the “lonely street of dreams.” Thinking back, it seemed to Rob that Coverdale was probably too busy making out with Kitean at every red light, or watching Kitean climb out the passenger side window to writhe seductively on the hood of the car to be all that lonely on the street of dreams, but who knows?

Eventually, Rob’s thoughts drifted ahead in time, closer to the present day. He couldn’t remember how “Here I Go Again” had emerged in the conversation, but about a year ago, a quick poll had determined that 5 of the 6 people in Rob’s department at work enjoyed “Here I Go Again.” The departure of Maryann and the arrival of New Guy Dave didn’t change that result, as New Guy Dave admitted to enjoying the song as much as Maryann had. Only Chris, who had made a vow in his younger days to resist all things hair metal, had stood strong in the wake of the huge pop hook embodied within all hair spray, Coverdale banshee wails and scorching guitar solos of “Here I Go Again.” 

Rob figured that what was true of his department was true of the world, and that 5 out of 6 people probably do enjoy “Here I Go Again”, even today.

Finally, though, Rob’s well of “Here I Go Again” memories had run dry and he was left with the philosophical ramifications of hearing “Here I Go Again” in the present tense. Which, to Rob, sounded ridiculous but then he decided that if other people didn’t understand that hair metal – or at least “Here I Go Again” – had philosophical ramifications, well that was the problem of those people, not him. And anyway, as Coverdale himself sings you have to eventually stop “hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday”, even if those songs are as cool as “Here I Go Again.”

Rob found that, here in the present day, it was still those most important lines of the song – “Here I go again on my own/Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known” – that got to him. It just felt true: Rob felt like he’d spent the last few years going down he same road over and over again. More specifically, Rob felt like he’d spent years in a giant loop: 

• Constantly working mostly just to get through the day, or maybe the week, but never really taking the time to see what could be happening beyond those short time frames. 
• Worried about the implications of even attempting to break out of the loop.
• Ruminating on friendships that once seemed secure, but now seemed lost.
• Wondering endlessly about different things were going to be one year from now. Five years from now. Ten years from now.
• Obsessing, at the expense of his own mental health, over the rapidly declining mental health of his country.   

In short, goin’ down the same road again and again and again, and wondering why nothing is changing.

Briefly, Rob wondered if maybe today was the day to ditch the only road he’d ever known, and to seek out the road not taken. Or maybe be like Huck Finn and “light out for the territory ahead of the rest” just to see what he might have been missing during the years in which he’d been stuck in this giant loop. 

In the end though, Rob realized that this wasn’t the time or place to go looking for roads not taken or lighting out ahead of everybody else. He was going to have to work within the loop of his life for now, but maybe to figure out ways to subtly change the loop, for the better, from within. In short, like David CoverVersion, Rob was once more headed down that only road he’d ever known.

But, at least for now, rather than being bummed out or angry, he was going to embrace that road and greet the day by proclaiming loudly and lustily, “Here I go again on my own”—though, like Coverdale with Tawny Kitean, Rob wasn’t on his own, of course – “Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known.” Today, though, maybe Rob wouldn’t dwell on the same old things he saw every day on that road. Maybe today, Rob would seek out some new scenery on that road, and see where the fresh perspective of that scenery might lead him.

“If I Leave Here Tomorrow…”

This is the story of my first kiss, so naturally, Washington D.C., my old friend Roman, two weather-obsessed guys from Georgia, national and international politics, a famed new wave boutique, a girl named Gayle, Chuck E. Cheese and a pinch—just a pinch!–of dinner theater were all involved.

And, I’d be remiss if I left Lynyrd Skynyrd off that list.

On a Friday evening in January 1983, I was dancing with Gayle in a hotel banquet room near the Pentagon. We were dancing to the live version of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s damn-near existential breakup anthem “Free Bird,” which clocks in at nearly 15 minutes long. If my memory is serving me correctly, the disc jockey at our closing dinner dance had set aside the last quarter hour of the event so that we could all hear the entire song.

According to my journal, I had danced with Gayle to every slow song that night but “Free Bird” is the only one I remember 26 years later. It was clearly an appropriate “last dance,” especially with its opening lyrical couplet, “If I leave here tomorrow/will you still remember me?”

During the early slow section of “Free Bird,” I probably had a chance to review the week, especially since the adult chaperones who hovered around might have frowned upon any first kissing action happening right on the dance floor. My mental playback might have gone something like this:

I had gone down to D.C. with a group from my high school for Close Up, a weeklong government studies program that involved schools from both Pennsylvania and Georgia. My pal Roman and I were rooming with two guys from the Atlanta area named John and Ty. At least one of them had some kind of weather obsession and frequently listened to a small, boxy radio that transmitted nothing but weather reports. Despite this, I felt like our Atlanta roomies were much cooler, better-looking and sophisticated than Roman and me.

Over the course of the week, we had visited historic sites and museums, toured the Pentagon and heard presentations from legislators and other various and sundry mid-to-low level government officials of the Reagan Administration. We dropped in on the Supreme Court, checked out the important documents at the National Archives and had, in fact, sat down for a night of rubber chicken and Kern/Hammerstein Jr.’s Showboat (I believe this is the only time I’ve ever attended dinner theater. Do people still do dinner theater?). 

We even did Chuck E. Cheese one night, which seemed pretty juvenile to me at the time but, hey, I guess you just can’t afford classy dinner theater every night, right?  

At some point during the week, Gayle and I noticed each other, but the exact moment has been lost to history. 

Friday afternoon was free time so Roman and I took a Metro ride to Georgetown, which we had visited earlier in the week. We wanted to do some more shopping at Commander Salamander, a semi-legendary punk rock/new wave emporium, where all manner of t-shirts and pins proclaiming one’s allegiance to the various bands of the day could be purchased. 

At Commander Salamander, Roman bought a t-shirt that plainly stated, “If It Ain’t Stiff It Ain’t Worth a F&$k.” I picked up a standard issue shirt bearing the store’s name and logo, along with a great big handful of small metal pins honoring bands like Stray Cats, the Clash, A Flock of Seagulls, the Fixx, the Go Go’s, Elvis Costello and more. History had yet to decide at that juncture which of these artists would eventually be inducted into the then-nonexistent Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and which would be consigned to 1980s nostalgia hell. 

Hurrying back to the hotel, Roman and I immediately planned to put our purchases to use for the dinner dance that night. I wore a suit jacket festooned with new wave pins on each lapel and a necktie thrown over my Commander Salamander t-shirt. We were feeling pretty damn cool, Roman and me. Still though, even at this point our Atlantan roommates seemed cooler and, as we were all getting dressed for the dinner, Ty upped the coolness ante considerably by cautioning us to stay away from the room during the dance as a girl he had met from Pennsylvania had asked him to “show it” to her that evening. In the parlance of today’s youth, I believe this would have been called “hooking up.” But maybe she just wanted to see the weather radio. 

With all of this tumbling through my brain during the early stages of “Free Bird,” I barely had time to ponder how Gayle and I would dance once Skynyrd began to rock. I needn’t have worried about that though, as we continued to dance slow and close even when the triple guitar climax duel began in earnest. In fact, the more the guitars wailed, the slower and closer Gayle and I danced. But still, our lips did not meet.  

The last notes of “Free Bird” and the roar of the Skynyrd audience signaled the end of our dinner dance. We gathered ourselves up and tumbled into elevators to head back up to our rooms for the night. 

As the elevator door opened for the boys’ floor, Gayle got out with me and, before I knew what was happening we were kissing good night. The kiss probably wasn’t as long or as passionate as I’d like to remember it, but it worked for me anyway. Gayle turned, without a word, and got back on the elevator. I walked down to my room; along the way, friends who had apparently witnessed what had just transpired gave me high fives.

Back in my room, John, Ty and Roman were noisily burning off whatever energy they had left, but I called Gayle in her room and we talked until it was time to go to sleep. I never did find out whether Ty had hooked up with the Pennsylvania girl or not.

The next morning, Gayle and I may have kissed one final, less memorable, time before climbing onto our buses to go home. We exchanged a few letters in the months that followed that and in an obligatory mopey prom post-mortem journal entry I lamented the fact that Gayle couldn’t have gone to the prom with me because she lived “three million miles away.” But by the end of the school year, Gayle and I had exchanged our last letters. 

All these years later, I’ve never much pondered that first kiss, but now I realize that what Gayle gave me that night was a tiny bit of insight into what another, even more important kiss would be like for me, eight years later, when I first kissed my future wife, Donna. I don’t know what, if anything, I gave Gayle that night, other than a (hopefully) fun memory. If nothing else, we’ll always have “Free Bird,” which is cool with Donna. She’s not a huge Skynyrd fan anyway.

56

Mom and me, circa 1968

Today is my 56th birthday. It will be my strangest birthday since, for the first time in 56 years, neither of the people who are responsible for my life are here anymore.

Dad died in August 2003. Mom died suddenly seven weeks ago, on April 16.

Even at 56 years old, it feels bewildering and disorienting to not have a living parent.

The seven weeks since April 16 seem to have elapsed before I have been able to fully process any of this. But that’s what time does. It just keeps moving along, carrying you with it whether you’re paying attention or not.

I was born on a Wednesday (the 1965 calendar is identical to the 2021 calendar), so according to the old poem, I am full of woe.

Woe is defined as “great sorrow or distress”. So, yeah, that checks out. I am full of woe, and have been since April 16.

It hasn’t all been woe though. There have been moments of happiness, love, anger, and more. All the typical human emotions have passed through me during the last seven weeks.

But, whoa, that woe is heavy, particularly during a time when the predominant message in the media has often been that “things are getting back to normal.” Whatever else my life has been since April 16, it has not been normal.

I am fortunate: I had my dad for 37 years and my mom for almost 56. So many people lose one or both parents at earlier ages, and I do appreciate the time I had with each of them. But, as I noted, disorientation and bewilderment, along with woe, have loomed large in my life this spring.

In the eulogy I gave at Mom’s funeral, I noted a recent Willie Nelson song, in which he sings that grief isn’t something you get over, but something you get through. I illustrated the ways Mom got through after Dad’s death. I promised that while we weren’t going to get over Mom’s passing, we would get through it.

I’m working on the getting through. One way I’m doing this is that I’ve been trying to keep a regular daily journal again. About three typewritten pages a day. Pen-to-paper is probably a more genuine way to keep a journal, but typing feels more efficient at the moment and, if you know my handwriting, just plain neater.

Most of this journal is just for my own benefit, but I am going to attempt to post a weekly entry here, distilled from my journal entries. I have no idea right now what these entries will be about, but they won’t all be filled with woe. Maybe some kind of themes will emerge, maybe they won’t.

One thing I will not do is offer advice on the grieving process. Grief is one of the universal emotions but we all navigate it differently.

In any event, you’re welcome to tag along for my journey through 56.

I will leave you now with the words that I spoke at Mom’s funeral. Thanks for reading, and, as always, thanks for your support.

Getting Through

Good morning everybody.  You may have heard that Mom kind of liked an up-and-coming singer named Willie Nelson. In one of his recent songs, Willie sings about losing a loved one, offering simple but profound wisdom: “It’s not something you get over/But it’s something you get through.” 

Thank you all for being here to help Lisa, me, Donna, Jimmy, Chris and Mom’s brother and sisters begin the process of getting through. As all of you who have lost a loved one know, getting through is a lifelong process — I’m still missing Dad – but we all deeply feel the love you’re showing Mom and us by being here today. 

Last Friday morning, Lisa and I had the heartbreaking task of calling Mom’s siblings to let them know that their beloved oldest sister was gone. Everyone was shocked and sad, but there is also this: everybody also immediately began to plan how they could help and how they could be here with and for us. People immediately dropped whatever plans they had and began packing suitcases and making travel arrangements. I can’t even begin to express how much that means to us.

As word spread, we heard so many beautiful memories that attested to Mom’s kindness, love, generosity, and friendliness. For example, my friend Pat recalled how, when Mom bought Jimmy an Eagles jacket, she bought one for Jimmy’s friend, Pat’s son Ryan, as well, simply because she loved to hear about Jimmy and Ryan’s antics. This is a testament to Mom’s generosity, of course, but also to her love of good bargains on Eagles jackets. 

From the early 1960s to 2003, Mom shared many happy times with her soul mate, my dad. Lisa and I have fantastic memories from those years. In 2003, Mom faced the crushing blow of Dad’s illness and passing at the age of 61. Mom was devastated, but she got through,  in so many wonderful ways:

• Mom got through by devoting herself to Phoenixville’s Relay for Life, which led to a whole new group of friendships. On her own, and in her own peculiar way, Mom raised thousands of dollars for Savage Walkers, our family’s Relay team.
• Mom got through by becoming a mom to Harley and Bocephus, two adorable Pomeranians.
• Mom got through by traveling with my sister. Lisa tells me their destinations included Memphis, Nashville, Myrtle Beach, Atlantic City, Cooperstown, Kansas City, Louisville, Greensboro, Atlanta, Richmond, and best of all, Rock City, high atop Lookout Mountain, and now on my bucket list. 
• Most surprisingly, Mom got through by getting a job in Guest Services at the Philadelphia Union’s soccer stadium in Chester. Mom getting a job at a soccer stadium wasn’t on my Mom bingo card, but she loved it. 
• Most of all, Mom got through by pouring all of her love onto Lisa, me, Donna, and especially her beloved grandsons, Jimmy and Chris, both of whom brought Mom immense joy from the moment of their births through just last week.

Each way that Mom got through led to her meeting more people who loved her and who came to refer to her simply as “Mom.”

While my memories of Mom stretch back to my very earliest years, I feel grateful that some of our best moments have been recent ones. One day a few years ago, I spent the day with Mom. We dropped in at my office, where we interrupted a staff meeting to introduce Mom to Nate, Maryann, Cicely, Dan and Chris. After that, we drove to Laurel Hill Cemetery, where I gave Mom the driving version of one of my tours, marred only by the moment when I almost backed over a hill which would have led to our car tumbling down onto Kelly Drive. I think she was more scared than she let on, but we were fine.

Since January, I have been working from Mom’s apartment about once a week. In addition to helping her out with Bocephus while Mom recovered from eye surgery, these visits gave us an opportunity to connect as adult mom-and-son. As I visited, I was able to see the rhythm of her daily routines, and she got a sense of my work life. She enjoyed hearing the voices of my co-workers during Zoom meetings as we talked about work and other things. One time, my work group suddenly wondered what a certain sound was. I realized that I wasn’t on mute and Mom was somewhat noisily making coffee. I typed a quick chat note to let the group know without making Mom feel self-conscious. 

Willie Nelson sings another song that I’ve listened to often this week. “Uncloudy Day” is a very old gospel tune in which the singer tells us of a home far beyond the skies where no storm clouds rise and where the tree of life is in eternal bloom. I am hopeful that Mom has reached the land of the uncloudy day, and that she has found her Mom and Dad, and our Dad, there as well. Wait ‘til Dad hears that Mom has been working at a soccer stadium…

We won’t get over, but we will get through. Much love and gratitude to you all.