Falling into the Gap and Crewing with J

Probably the people who can best connect with this topic are Kendall, Chris, Whitman, and Spence.

Thirty years ago, I was still regularly finding things that I liked at the Gap.  Amazingly enough, back then, they still had a lot of clothes available in black, or at least darker colors.  I found a pair of houndstooth (German word - Hahnentritt, if you are interested) pants that I absolutely loved.  In fact, I wore them quite often over the next ten years, including to a job interview in the UK in the late 90s.  The pants just continued to wear really well.

I will concede that those pants still hang in my closet, but I really stopped wearing them when I arrrived in Germany, partly because of the style, and partly because they no longer quite had the look of pants that were appropriate to wear outside the house.

For me, it was all about quality back then, and most everything I bought at the Gap really lasted a long time.  In later years, perhaps the last fifteen years or so, I have not found this to be the case; the quality is no longer made to survive washings/dry cleanings for more than a year or two.  Now, about this time, I was not really shopping that much, and very rarely in the Gap.  The styles no longer interested me, and what shopping I was doing for clothes tended to be done in Europe.  The stuff I was finding in Europe (particularly at one or two shops in Spain) was much better suited for me, and tended also to impress with their longevity.

Thanks for skipping over the point about my fashion style, which, as most of us know, is pretty basic but arguably a classic style.  At least, classic Bryan.

As I entered into college, I started doing a little more mail order shopping through a place called J. Crew.  My grandmother has always been a big shopper, and she has always greatly enjoyed giving my sister and me clothes as gifts; birthdays, Christmas, etc.  She did this quite a bit more during our college years, and just about every time I visited her, she would bring out the J.Crew catalog and ask me to pick something out.  There was some really good stuff on offer back in those days, and I found that I quite liked some of their sweaters.  True, I also bought one or two suits from them, along with various jersey type shirts.  Again, the quality tended to be rather high.  In fairness, those clothes were not cheap, so I fully expected to get some real wear out of them.

Funnily enough, several friends of mine were also in similar situations where they had loving grandparents or just an overall fondness for J.Crew apparel.  I can remember sitting in the kitchen one night with a buddy from college, gathered around the table chatting with my mother, perusing the catalog.  The descriptions of the articles were so great.  One had the feeling that wearing the collarless rugby shirt with stitched cuffs was just going to be the best thing, and particularly since it came in a cool color called heather lakeview or darkest indigo.  Um, blue, right?

Another friend of mine and I would constantly use J.Crew adjectives in our conversations, which made for some interesting and humorous evenings sitting in a coffee shop making jack-asses of ourselves.   It was particularly great if we were able to use butter, burl, and waffle all in the same sentence.  OK, maybe "butter" sounds better than "pale yellow" when describing the color of a sweater, but then again, I am not one of those guys that is ever going to be wearing yellow in the first place, regardless of how you want to call the color.

In one of my last years of college, I did find an absolutely fantastic triple button black wool coat.  It was more or less a blazer, but was just that extra bit bigger to sort of serve as a really good top coat.  I loved it.  The quality was great, and I ended up wearing that blazer to my job interview in the UK, along with the cool Gap pants.  Clothes that basically were almost 10 years old looked more than suitable for a formal job interview.  It was incredible.

The jacket stayed with me over the next many years, and I wore it often.  Upon my arrival in Germany, it really became my top coat; it wore well over layers of sweaters, and the winters here are quite different than those in Dallas.

Eventually, the lining of my jacket kind of disintegrated, but I kept right on wearing the jacket.  I did start looking for a suitable replacement in Spain, Germany, and even in the US, but could not find anything worthy of being the TRUE replacement. One day, Nadja finally kind of said, "Hey, the coat is nice, but it is time to stop wearing it."

She was right.  Despite regular compliments I received about the coat, it was starting to look like it had been really really used.  By this, I will briefly reflect on all the concerts and places I have been where one might get a beer or two spilled on them, among other things.

It was tough, but I put the coat in my closet, and started using some of the other coats I had purchased over the years in my attempts to find a replacement.  I could not quite bring myself to throw it out, since it had been such a good friend to me nigh on 20 some odd years.

As a bit of an aside, I did come across a coat in an online catalog of a department store just before Christmas, and I made the mistake of telling my Grandmother about it.  She immediately wanted to give it to me for Christmas, and I had to tell her that I would certainly welcome the gift, but first I actually wanted to try the garment on.  When I got to the department store in Dallas last December, I found that the item was only available online, and since I could not actually try it, I elected to skip it.
Later, I actually looked again at the item online, and realized that I probably was not going to like the coat after all.  It was not because the color of the coat was olive (in fairness, it was a really BLACK olive), but because it was just not quite what I was after.  (one last note - I see now that it has been reduced in price by about 30% of what they were trying to sell it for a few months ago)

Anyway, over the years, as my tastes have varied from shades of black, I have still hung on to one wool sweater from J.Crew.  Again, I got this sweater in the late 80s, and, even though I may not have had reason to wear a sweater so frequently in Dallas, I did wear it often when I lived in Boston, and I certainly have put it to good use here in Germany.

Sadly, last Saturday morning as I was putting on some casual clothes as I got ready to go watch a match at the pub, I noticed that my black sweater had a little hole in the elbow; created over time and maybe a few washes in a not so gentle cycle.  I realized that I probably should retire the sweater, but I have elected to use it only for "at home" attire.  After all, I don't care about the hole in the sleeve.

That afternoon at the pub, I got to talking to a couple of friends, one of which is Norwegian.  He is rather fashionable and turned up wearing (literally) blue suede shoes, along with a smart pants and sweater outfit.  At another time in my life, I might have made a comment about guys who get so perked up on trendy fashion, but I have wisely (and proudly) reminded myself that it is OK to be punk and still wear nice clothes.  We actually got on the topic of fashion (how exactly, I don't know) during the second match of the afternoon, and we had all had several beers by this point.  I held up my sleeve to show them what had happened to one of my favorite sweaters, only slightly alarmed that the hole was growing with each movement I was making.

I then went on to praise the quality of such a great garment from the shop where I bought it oh so many years ago.  I think it was fitting that my sweater got to have one last little public hurrah.

In the past week, it has gotten really cold again, to the point where I am wearing a scarf.  Yes, it is black and wool.  And comes from the Gap, circa 1988.  Basic, and classic.

I actually had lost the scarf at some point over the past 30 years, but during a visit from my parents a few years back, I noticed my mom wearing a black scarf, which was a little strange, as she always tended to be on the more colorful side of things.  When I asked her about the scarf, she said she had found it in the hallway closet at home, down with all the other winter stocking caps, scarves, etc that get piled in there and used only once in awhile when the weather in Dallas required.  Which was seldom.

At any rate, I examined the scarf a little more closely, and realized it was my Gap scarf from many years back, and I acknowledged that I had misplaced it.  Certainly, I had since replaced it, but I was tugged by the nostalgia.  At the end of their visit, my mom hung the scarf on my hallway coat rack and said, "Now the scarf is back where it belongs."

For a few days afterwards, I felt a little bad.  In a way, Mom finding my scarf was a little bit of a "finders keepers" deal, and had she simply said, "I am going to keep wearing it," that would have been OK.  However, I was kind of glad that it now stays at my house.

These past days as I have been wearing the scarf, I think of that story.  Happy mom thoughts certainly help keep me warm.

Cheers to the Gap, and cheers to the Crew.

see you out there
bryan

Routine Thoughts and the Smiles

So, it has been just over a month since my mother died.  I was curious as to how I would get through the first month, and I am glad to say that I did better than simply to "get through" the month.  I talked about my mother with a lot of folks and I am glad that they took the time to listen.  I mentioned in the last post that I knew I had support from my friends in Germany, and it really has helped me.

I continue to celebrate Mom and as I walked around my neighborhood going about my normal life, I frequently thought about her and looked at things from her perspective.  She always noticed the little things, and I concentrated on those things myself:  how people behave in the grocery store when it is crowded, how excited the children get when they buy an ice cream on a sunny (but cold) day in January, I could go on and on...

Tears still come, and I welcome them.  But smiles come more often, and I welcome those just as much.  I am just finishing a quick business trip to Porto, and while I was walking through the shopping mall next door to my hotel, I saw a little boy walking with his mother. I was just a little bit behind them, and was just sort of ambling along myself, but I realized that the boy was trying to jump from the dark colored floor tiles, having to hop over the light colored tiles.  He was doing pretty good, but he was still holding his mother's hand so it was a wee bit awkward.  However, she was just as patient as could be.  Then, they passed by a little store that had a life sized stuffed bear at each entrance.  The shop was on a corner inside the mall, and when the boy saw the first bear, he ran over and gave it a hug.   A second later, as we rounded the corner, he repeated a hug on the second bear.

I love seeing things like that, and I know my mom always did, too.

As I continued walking back to my hotel with a smile on my face, I thought back to last week when I was walking down my own neighborhood street.  Outside of the ice cream cafe close to my flat, there is a rather large plastic statue of an ice cream cone.  It is about the same height as an average four year old, and right as I passed by, I saw a child giving a big hug to the ice cream cone and as well, a pretend lick.  His parents were right there with him and I got the idea that this was just a normal thing that happened every time they walked past the shop, which was probably every day.

These kinds of things are when I most often think of my mother, and likewise my own childhood.  Yes, I have been known to hug stuffed bears (and ice cream cones, as it were) myself, and believe it to be just about the most natural thing in the world, simply because I was encouraged to explore, express, and enjoy things. 

Often over the past month, I have had a moment to myself, standing on my balcony, or outside the pub on a quiet night.  I use this time to talk to my mother, and tell her about the little things that I have seen just as I go through my day.  I like sharing the stories, and especially like telling her why I wanted to share with her.   Usually this is when the tears and the smiles happen simultaneously, but it always gives me a good feeling.

I have been in regular contact with my father, who gives me the impression that he is getting along pretty well.  We talk about mom a lot, but we also talk about the regular happenings in our lives: my nephew's basketball games, my dad's golf outings, trips to the gym, etc.

This has been comforting to be in more frequent contact with him, and likewise, I am always in close contact with my sister.  And of course, she is in close contact with my father.  We are all in this together.  Last weekend, when she and I caught up for a couple of hours, she told me about how my father talks to mom daily, telling her about his day, about upcoming plans, and who he is seeing.

This really did not come as any surprise to me to hear that he does this.  Furthermore, I am quite sure that he gets the same good feeling that I do when I speak to her.

I have not yet spoken to him about this yet, and am not quite sure if I will.  Perhaps I will wait to see if he tells me himself.  Maybe there is a reason he only shared that with my sister.  The important point for me is that we share a similar inclination.  Again, this is really no surprise, as we always tend to approach situations very similarly.   But, I like the feeling.  It makes me feel closer to my father. 

In our last skype call, my father told me he is already getting the ball rolling for his next visit to Germany, and I am so looking forward to his visit in the next few months. 

It is a good time to keep on being B. 

see you out there.
bryan

Celebrating the Dimensions and Elements of My Mother

A couple of months ago around the end of November, I suddenly found myself with a pretty bad cold.  To make matters worse, I had a little bout of gastroenteritis, and, if you will excuse the pun, things were pretty shitty.  I stayed in most nights for almost 2 1/2 weeks, mostly because I did not feel all that well. I took a bit of comfort by watching a lot of old Audrey Hepburn movies, which tends to improve my mood. 

During a skype coversation, my mom clued in on the fact that I was under the weather, and she subsequently sent regular text messages to me asking about my recovery.  "Are you better?  Hope so, hope so! Mama Hens don't like it when the baby chicks are not on top of their game."

I was due to fly to the states on the 14th of December, and I still was not feeling that much better in the week leading up to that date.  I was starting to get antsy.  The last thing I wanted was to be in ill health during a long plane ride, or have my cold prevent me from having a good visit to the states for Christmas. 

The Sunday before my departure, I suddenly felt a lot better, and ventured to the pub for the afternoon.  We had a big fluffy snowfall, and I shared some pics with the family Whatsapp group.  My mom responded positively, saying that she could imagine walking around the streets of my neighborhood enjoying the snow. 

An old friend came up to the pub for a bit that afternoon, and we had a great time catching up on various things: his growing child, his domestic life, our length of time as Auslanders in Germany, and all in all we just enjoyed life for it was.  We talked about our mothers and how they had to deal with us living far away (he is Australian), but even more importantly, we talked about how our lives were for the better despite the distance from loved ones.  It was good day. 

I felt better and better in the next few days as I finished my packing and wrapped up my work affairs before my coming holiday.  I was looking forward to spending Christmas with my family and putting a rather lousy November behind me.

The following few weeks were just surreal. 

As soon as I had finished unpacking and admired the Christmas tree and decorations in the house, my father expressed his concern about some behavioral changes he was noticing with my mother.  I started noticing these almost immediately, and the next few days were a little unusual.  My mom would show moments of clarity, then sort of do things that I considered to be rather strange. 

Looking back, I was a little irritated at first, then felt more concern for both my parents, as the situation was not very pleasant.  Clearly something was not quite right with mom, but what?

We managed to get a visit to the neurologist arranged, and my mother, father, sister, and I all went to the doctor's office together.  I hadn't even been stateside for a week.

The doctor advised that the best course of action would be for mom to go into hospital for further tests. So, the following day, she was admitted, and within 24 hours, we had test results.

It was the Friday before Christmas, and I had arranged to meet Chris for a couple of beers and to watch a bit of the Arsenal match.  No sooner had I taken a sip of beer, my sister phoned me with the news that we needed to urgently get to the hospital.


Brain tumor.

For the next few days, I felt like I had been kicked repeatedly in the gut.  The world was crumbling around us, and we were all in complete shock. 

Well, that Friday afternoon and evening we stayed at the hospital with Mom, waiting for the surgeon to come speak with us.  He finally got to us around 9pm that night, and indicated that he wanted to do a biopsy on Sunday, Christmas Eve. 

My father, sister, and I determined that we should proceed with the biopsy, and the doctor worked to make all the arrangements.

All things considered, the next day was kind of an OK day.  My mom was pretty peaceful in the hospital (whereas the previous few days she had been belligerent), and a lot of friends and family came by to visit.  Mom was able to chat with folks and we pretty much just hung out at the hospital.

Understandably, it was an emotional time.  Baby chicks don't like it when Mama Hen is not well.
That Saturday night, after having spent the entire day at the hospital, we prepared to go home for a little rest; we would return on Sunday morning.

I hugged my mother goodbye, and she hugged me back.  "You be a sweet girl," I said, making a similar statement that she always tends to say to me at the end of a conversation or a time together.

They did the biopsy Sunday morning, and by mid-afternoon mom was out of recovery and in ICU.
We went in to see her, but she never really responded to us.  As discouraging as that was, we thought that perhaps it was simply the post-op process of coming out of the anesthesia that was keeping mom from responding.  To keep up with our family tradition, we located a bible and the four of read the Christmas story together. 

We went on home Sunday evening, knowing that we had some decisions to make in the next couple of days.  No one was thinking much about Christmas, but back at home, Dad and I watched the evening service on the church website.  None of us felt like we could emotionally attend the service personally. 

In effort to have some semblance of Christmas Day, we visited Mom in the morning, then collected my Grandmother and brought her back home, where we had dinner and a bit of a gift exchange.  My father put all of Mom's gift in her chair in the den, then took a photo of them.  Later that afternoon, we returned to hospital to be with Mom, sharing some of the details of the day and showing her the pictures.  Sadly, no noticeable response. 

After speaking with the surgeon again on the 26th to discuss our options, we knew that the main priority was that Mom be comfortable.  She was moved into hospice, and over the next days we gathered daily to greet friends and family as they came by to see us. 

The support from family and friends was (and remains) incredible.  The days were emotional, but as we all comforted each other, I kept thinking to myself how good it was that I was able to be there during a significant time of need with my family.  I thought back to the conversation I had with Aussie Dave on that snowy Sunday afternoon, where we had talked about that exact thing.

This support came from all over.  My sister's family and friends from Spain, my friends in Germany, and the friends and family from the community.  I am so overwhelmed and grateful. 

Mom passed away peacefully on the morning of the 31st. 

My father, sister, and I went to the hospital to make the arrangements and have a last little moment with Mom. 

We knew she was now in a better place, and this provided not only comfort, but relief. 

That evening, my sister, brother-in-law, nephew, father and I all gathered at home and prepared a New Year's Eve meal. Sure, the evening was rather solemn, but I was glad to be with family. 

I had spent most of the past week in a bit of a daze.  Emotions were all over the place, and while I struggled to come to terms with everything, I again thought of the small positives.  I was there during the time of need, and things went pretty quickly.  Mom did not suffer. 

From the first of the year, we worked on the arrangements for the memorial service.  My aunts and uncles and most of the cousins arrived the following Friday night; the fellowship was comforting.

The first Saturday in January was a beautiful sunny day.  We gathered at church for the service, and what a service it was.  The music was perfect, the message was thoughtful and peaceful, and my father took a few minutes to speak.  Listening to his words, I realized just how proud I am to be his son. 

During that first week, I spent a lot of time with Dad just reminiscing, reflecting, and starting to heal.
Of course, my sister and her family were there also, but I was staying at my folk's house, so we had some one on one time.  Dad and I talked often about how we would be going forward, missing Mom, but going forward because of Mom. 

The week was comforting in that I could see my Dad was going to be able to cope in his sorrow.  We were both sleeping a little better, mainly because our thoughts were turned more to celebration instead of the previous emotional weeks where we feeling lost, worried, and confused. 

At one point, my father asked me, "Are you going to be OK when you get back home?"

I honestly did not have a concrete answer, but I felt like things would be OK.  I prepared to return to Germany a couple of days after Mom's service, and as we shared a family hug before my departure, I spoke with my sister and father.  "We will all be OK."

A lot of friends welcomed me back to Germany with wonderful support and thoughts.  Again, I am so thankful for their friendship. 

My first evening back in Germany, I was walking down my street and ran into an old neighbor. We greeted each other with the standard "Frohes Neues Jahr!"
He then asked me how my year was starting, and I had to explain the recent events.  This led to a quite positive conversation, where he shared that one thing that he missed was that he never had a chance to get to know his father, who had died when he was very young. 

I am fortunate to have been raised by parents whose love for me has never stopped.  Over my 47 years, my relationship with them has only gotten stronger.  Unlike my friend, I did have the chance to know my mother. 

In February 2006, I moved away from the states to begin my life abroad.  I made that move with the support and nurturing of my parents.  As a way of expressing my thanks, I shared the below words with my mother, as a bit of a special belated Christmas message. During Christmas of 2016, I shared the words with her again, as I wanted to remind her how much she means to me.  

Are you my mother...? Yes, you are!

Funny, it took me 35 years before I could express my appreciation for mothers, particularly my mother.  Even more funny was that I needed to see my sister become a mother before I better understood the whole bit of being a mother in the first place.

Now, it’s not as if I never appreciated my mother until I turned 35 – in my own Bryan way I’ve appreciated my mother always.  Like any other child, I took things for granted, but at the same time, despite actions that might have indicated otherwise, I was paying attention.

Furthermore, watching my sister become a mother wasn’t the sole catalyst for why, in 2006 I finally feel the ability to express.  That said, seeing a sister mother a child certainly helps to put things in perspective.

I made a new friend towards the end of 2005, and as she and I were getting to know one another, we played a game of 20 questions.  In one question, she actually asked about my father and his influence on me, but she preferaced it with the statement, “You only seem to talk about your mother.”

I think it was about that time that I realized how much my mother means to me.  Not to say my father doesn’t mean loads to me, but this is a story about my mom. 

Right after that game of 20 questions, I spent a few weeks in Spain, and as I watched my sister interact with my nephew, I kept noticing, “Wow, Mom did that with me.”  Over the rest of my trip, I reflected about that in relation to my life thus far.

Though I have a strong memory, I won’t try to document my first memory of my mother.  Sure, I have to mention a certain event at Lake Superior, simply because it has such significance in life’s rich pageant.  In all honesty, I was having a little lie down under the water.  Only my mother was having a moment of, “Holy shit, my child is about to drown!”  It wasn’t until years later that I actually was able to imagine what was going through my mother’s head during those frantic moments…

I had a job at Radio Shack right out of college, and a workmate put it best.  “Mom approval rating very high!” he would say when describing how she had had he foresight to prepare his favorite meal or something at home.  I’ve used that phrase countless times since…my mother always has a way of thinking about me when I least expect it. 

Another friend of mine, during a conversation we were having, mentioned rather casually that my mother’s face always lit up when I was around.  It was a flattering observation, one I haven’t ever really noticed.  Of course, I’m a bit naïve at the best of times, but this friend noticed this regularly each time she was around our family.

I’ve often thought about my friend’s observation.  It makes perfect sense that my mom appreciate me, but I guess I always thought she was quietly proud to see me being me.  After all, she’s repeatedly said, “You can do it!  Why?  Because you’re Bryan Barlow.”

Rule number 1 on being yourself came straight from my mother.  Again, I just assumed she had a front row seat in seeing Bryan be Bryan, so it never occurred to me to express my gratitude. 

One of the biggest differences between my sister and me is that my sister talks a lot.  Me, not so much, as I’m a bit more reserved.  Though I’ve had my moments of gabbiness, I consider myself one who always listens first, then speaks. 

Considering those two attributes – confidence and listening skills, hands down they have helped me advance my career, and they’re relatively simple things.  For much of my life, I assumed that everyone else’s mother told their kid about this, too.  In my experience, though, it seems to me that people lack confidence and tend to listen less than they should.  Are these people just choosing to ignore this important influence?

More recently, I began thinking that perhaps other mothers just didn’t encourage their children, or perhaps never even taught them the importance of confidence and listening.

Why not?  Didn’t these mothers love their children like my mother loves me?

I’ll touch on that correlation a bit later, but the specific point of a loved child merits discussion.  I had a colleague, who matter-of-factly pointed out that he could tell whether a child had been loved or not.  Children who are loved by the parents develop into thoughtful, consenting adults, clearly demonstrating traits from a previous generation. 

I paid particular attention to my co-worker’s comment because he said it about me.  Maybe I’d subconsciously shown those attributes, but I hadn’t yet linked them directly to my mother.  For a period of my life, I couldn’t comprehend why people just didn’t seem to listen.  (note – I’ll talk about confidence a bit later)

Listening.  A valuable attribute.  As I’ve already said, being a good listener has helped advance my career; I’ve grown from the experience.  Though I’m fortunate to have a strong memory, it’s the mere fact that I was listening in the first place that I find so important. 

I listened when I was taught right from wrong.  I listened when my mother said, “You’re Bryan Barlow.”  True, my mother has a tendency of offering reminders;  part of this is motherhood, part is my mother.  Sure, it was sometimes tedious to be reminded, but later, it was nice to realize how nice those reminders really were.  My mother hasn’t ever stopped thinking about me.  My mother has always said, “A mother likes to look after her baby chicks, even after they have grown up.”

This has left several sheepish memories with me – it’s firmly imbedded in my brain to NEVER try on a bathing suit sans underwear…

On the more serious front, my mom always seems to notice if I seem tired, or sad, or afraid, or happy, or psyched up…

It’s like listening, only without words.  It’s actually observation – a mother’s way of watching to see that her child is always OK.  Pretty cool, as far as I’m concerned. 

Confidence.  In fairness, I learned this on three fronts: my mother, my father, and myself.  I’ll leave Dad and Bryan for another discussion. 

My mother isn’t what I would describe as overly confident, but certainly she has confidence.  What I’ve noticed is that one can be confident through others; sometimes it’s easier to encourage others than it is to encourage yourself.  Ironic, though, that by simply encouraging others one motivates the self. 

My mother has always gently encouraged, sometimes with a bit of sternness, but only a little.  I’m fortunate that she “gently encouraged” me to play piano. as I would not be alive today without it. 

Encouraging me to follow my heart is also from my mother.  I live my life with my heart on my sleeve, and as a result, am a bit more sensitive.  I endure a lot of angst, but only because I was encouraged to express myself.  While this makes for a challenging life, it makes for an exceptionally rewarding one, too. 

Believing in myself is something that I credit myself with, but I wouldn’t be able to do that without a lifetime of encouragement from my mother.  “Be proud of who you are.  You can do it because you are you.”

Hardly a day passes without me pausing to think, “my mother helped me get here.”

Because I’m who I am, I think I actually “discovered” myself a bit earlier than my contemporaries.  While I struggled as an adolescent to find out what I was all about, I found that everyone else seemed to be trying hard to be what others wanted them to be.  Short term, that made for some rough years I lived through, but long term, I couldn’t be more content.  Sure, I’m still finding out about myself, and I’ll always be growing, but because I’ve had the encouragement from my mother in the first place.  Talk about one of the best gifts ever…

It’s funny to watch my sister practice this same process with my nephew.  I have only vague memories of being three, personally, but I do see how a mother’s love influences a child.  I can truly see what it will be like for my nephew in  5 , 10, 15, 30 years… Amazing.

It’s not necessarily big things, either.  It’s little things like: “doing a motorboat” in the swimming pool, or playing “I Spy” at lunch, or going to the library, or being woken up at 6am to practice piano, or learning how to wash clothes at age 10, or just singing to sing, or getting newspaper clippings about the hazards of smoking, or finding a little pack of Kleenex in your stocking at Christmas, or always receiving a smiley face on a post-it. 

As an adult, I get to observe my mother being a daughter, a daughter of an aging parent, and have learned several lessons from that.  I’m still too young to completely understand, but I’m watching.  After all, I had a pretty good teacher. 

As an adult, I’m able to be a friend to my mother, albeit it’s a slightly unusual friendship.  I’d no sooner call my mother to ask her to drive me home safely from a bar after I’ve had too much to drink than I would call a soccer mate to have them take me to the hospital because I had strep throat.  But, it’s still really cool.  Being able to express myself to my mother will always be special.  We can share with one another as adults, and can express our viewpoints even when we might not see eye to eye.  My mom can see the real me, which is a partial result of the real her. 

I’m not a parent, and may never become one.  That decision is my own, but again will come from the influence of my mother:  be yourself.  Should I ever decide to become a father, I’ll look forward to my mother grandmothering my child.  Until then, I’m forever grateful, appreciative, and simply her loving son. 

keep the faith

bryan

Spring 2006 – How fortunate I was to receive a visit from my mother two months after I changed my life.  We got to celebrate my birthday as a family, and whether its for 6 or 36, it’s still comforting.  

Over the past 12 years that I have been abroad, I continue to celebrate my mother and father.  These past 2 weeks that I have been at home in Germany, I have constantly reflected on how my life has changed.  Many of my friends here knew my mother, and their words have been so kind and complimentary.   They share my sorrow, but also join me in celebrating her.  

She was and remains just a wonderful woman, mother and friend.  

Thanks Mom.  I love you. 

 

Snippets From a Short Work Week

I always tend to lie low right before Sommerzeit (Daylight saving) comes to an end. So, last weekend I kept a very low profile, venturing out only to do a brief bit of shopping Saturday morning.  I had stayed in the previous evening, and somehow found myself watching the first three films of the Lethal Weapon series.  Normally, that should have prompted me to actually try and make up for time wasting by being extra active the following day.  Instead, I consciously worked on being as productive as possible at, well, being unproductive.  Sometimes a lazy Saturday is just what one needs.

This did include preparing myself a huge portion of nachos at home, which I ate while watching the Arsenal game via stream in my living room.  During the second half of the match, I woke up just in time to see the stream start to hang, right as Arsenal got their winning goal.  I went on to celebrate the victory by selecting another film to watch, one that was rather higher up the cinematic scale.  This is precisely why people need to have DVDs of Hitchcock films at their house.

I had already changed the time on the wall clock in my kitchen in the afternoon, way earlier than necessary.  And like usually happens after a lazy day, I found myself going to bed early because I was tired. 

Not surprisingly, I woke up Sunday morning rather early, but quite refreshed.  I enjoyed a few coffees during the morning while listening to German public radio.  In the past weeks, I have avidly listened to Deutschlandfunk. (note to the non-German reader: funk here refers to the German term for radio and does not have anything to do with the music of James Brown.)  I kind of wish that I started this habit years ago when I first arrived in Germany, as it certainly would have accelerated my ability in the German language.  Still, better late than never.   This particular Sunday morning, they broadcast an interview with the author Judith Kerr, a German woman whose family had to flee Germany during the early 1930s.  They landed in Britain, and she became an author of children's books.  So, my Sunday morning was most enjoyable as I listened to her tell her interesting story.

After a bit of piano time later in the afternoon, I did slip across to the pub for a few quiet beers.  As always, I was amazed as it suddenly got dark early in the evening.

Monday, I started the work week hoping that things would stay quiet.  To celebrate the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther's 95 Theses (Reformation Day), the whole of Germany took an official holiday on the 31st of October.  Since the 31st was on Tuesday, a fair amount of people had a "bridge" day on Monday. I, unfortunately, did not have said bridge day, but the 1st of November was also going to be a public holiday in many European countries, including some states of Germany. Again, November 1 is not a public holiday in my state, but most of my repair partners are in other countries, particularly those that DO celebrate the 1st.  Therefore, Wednesday was going to be a quiet work day, for sure.

Monday evening, I met up at the kiosk with a few friends as part of our standard routine.  A couple of guys were absent (due to bridge day), but a lot of people were out on the streets taking advantage of the coming Tuesday holiday.  Some bars and restaurants, those that like to celebrate Halloween, elected to have their parties on the Monday night so as to allow revelers sufficient time to recover from their hangovers. 

I am not a huge fan of Halloween, myself, so Tuesday I took it easy.  Wednesday, as expected, things were pretty calm on the work front, so I was able to get a few things accomplished without having to deal with the normal interruptions of various colleagues and partners.  That evening, we once again convened at the kiosk, this time with almost all of the usual suspects in attendance.  Those of us that appreciate the significance of Monday night kiosk Abend recognize that flexibility is always key.  After all, when it comes to gathering with friends to drink beer, one can respect that we can simply plan our schedules around public holidays without any fuss.

Wednesday evening at the kiosk was particularly enjoyable.  Everyone was in good humor, jokes were flying around; that is always a good thing.  Maybe it was because we only had a couple more days until the weekend, I don't know.  It wasn't just us, either.  As we were standing there having a good time, a young family exited their building right next to us.  The youngest, who is probably 7 or 8 months old and being carried by her mother, was just giggling away without any care in the world.  It's a bit of a production for a a family with small children to get going, what with strollers, baby bags, etc.  So, they were all right there by us for several minutes, and the child's laughter was simply contagious.  The little one just captured our hearts, and even those of a few people (who looked rather dour) that were passing by.

I am not saying that our evenings at the kiosk are totally like Monty Python sketches, but we do tend to continue themes throughout our evenings.  Sometimes it's about the inability of someone to parallel park, or the strange noise coming from someone's bicycle as they ride by, or a group of really loud tourists walking past after eating in the traditional German restaurant down the street. ("They're some of yours, Bryan," my friends usually say, referring to the fact that said tourists were obviously speaking my mother tongue and scoring a perfect 10 on the stereotype scale.  This is actually a backhanded compliment, as all of us in the kiosk gang not only respect each others cultures but also know full well that people can behave differently when they are not zu Hause.)

So, for the rest of the night, someone regularly emulated the child's giggle, and each time, we all had a good laugh.

I finished the work week with a quiet Friday evening, but jumped up yesterday morning with productive intentions.  I hoovered and mopped the entire flat, got the shopping done, and got a good workout in at the gym.  During the afternoon, I enjoyed several beers while sitting outside the pub, watching people go about their activities on a crisp fall Saturday.  There is nothing better than enjoying one's alone time without feeling lonely.  Yesterday was one of those good days where I was able to collect my thoughts, spend some time on my own, but also exchange pleasantries with a few friends and locals as they went about their own business.

The pleasant weekend continued later that evening with a little movie night with a friend, including a bit of take-out and ice cream.

This morning, it is cold and rainy, but I am literally watching leaves fall from the tree outside my door as I write this piece.  It is a nice way to appreciate autumn, especially from the warmth of my flat.

I will spend the afternoon at the pub, watching a little footy, and fully expect for there to be some giggling involved. 

see you out there
bryan

A Little Nostalgia to Start the Weekend

"Let's go to the San Francisco Rose.  The burgers are great, and they serve something called a Toolbox, which is a super drink."

The year was 1989 or 1990, and Chris and I were out looking for something to eat. 

Indeed, the burgers were quite tasty, but I was particularly thrilled to be drinking my first alcoholic beverage in a restaurant.  This was a huge deal for me, as I was still a couple of years away from actually being of legal age.  It was not so much that I was so interested in drinking, but rather the actual idea that I could drink a beer in public.  I guess it may have been a coming of age thing. 

Those early days are bit fuzzy.  I did return on a few occasions, and somewhat memorably (and just a tad foolishly) I returned there to celebrate my 21st birthday, when I was actually turning of legal age. I remember trying somewhat feebly to explain that that particular evening was actually my 22nd, no, 23rd birthday.  Of course the staff knew, and of course, back then it was not that big of a deal to be drinking under age in various establishments. 

Once I was 21, though, I made the Rose my local haunt.  I was still in college, but I regularly brought more and more school friends by for burgers and beers.  We had started driving into Dallas for the odd rock show, which almost always included a stop for dinner before hitting the club.  The "We" was usually Bill and I.  I had gotten to know Bill during a school trip to Ireland, during which time we developed a taste for a nice whiskey.  Once I introduced him to the Toolbox (complete with the story of my first ever trip to the Rose), he also became quite the fan.

The Rose's Toolbox was a mixed drink somewhat on the strong side:  equal portions Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's, and cream.  On ice.  Refreshing, tasty, and it was pretty much my choice drink at the place.

By the time I graduated from college, Tim had also become a fan of the Rose.  The summer of 1992 was all about playing pool at the Royal Rack most afternoons, and otherwise we spent hours and hours sitting on the patio at the Rose, contemplating our futures.  The patio was easily one of the best in the city, and Tim and I both agreed that it was time well spent.  We could relax and escape the scary thought of actually having to go look for a job and begin our careers.

By the end of that summer, my father finally lost his patience with me and gave me some very strong encouragement to go find a job, and be quick about it.

That actually turned out to be excellent advice, as my consumption of Toolboxes was impressively (and frighteningly) high.  It was time to enter the real world.

Tim left town for a few months, but returned within half a year.  Suddenly, we were both gainfully (if not embarrassingly...viva the Shack and viva the Hut!) employed, and Tim had an apartment not too far from, where else?

I had continued to be a frequent patron of the Rose during Tim's hiatus, and once he was back in town, we would be there multiple nights throughout the week.  Because it was a neighborhood bar, there were a lot of regulars, many of which we got to know.  One evening during a college basketball tournament, the place was hopping.  One of the games was being shown on one of the television screens, and one guy made a buzzer shot that was so incredible that about half the guests stood up and cheered.  The funny thing was, no one was really there to watch the game.  It was just one of the moments when everyone glanced at the TV at the exact moment the guy made the shot.  Great memory.

Some of the regulars were quite a few years older than we were.  At least, that's how it seemed to me at the time.  Then again, when you are 20-something, anyone older than you are is simply old.  One of them was never short of wisecracks; he was a really funny guy.  To get to the bathrooms, you had to sort of go down a dark hallway which was a bit cramped and had a sharp corner.  Right at that corner, there used to be a little newspaper dispenser (remember those?) holding the Dallas Observer. During the more quiet afternoons, you almost always heard someone bump into the thing, and it made a very recognizable sound.

"Watch that first step.  It's a doozy," the guy would call out.  I think I laughed out loud EVERY time he said that.  Of course, when it was my turn, despite my best efforts, I invariably bumped into it myself.  This wasn't of great surprise, especially after six toolboxes.  And for those that have heard me utter a similar statement out and about in Frankfurt or wherever, now you know where I got the line from.

Along with getting to know the other regulars, Tim and I really got to know the staff, and this is probably where my attraction to waitstaff really took off.  In fairness, we were just socializing and being friendly.  It certainly helped that most of the staff were the same age as we were, but we were (and still are) nice people.  I think neither Tim nor myself, however, expected to start dating any them.  Although I dated a couple of the girls, Tim actually got himself into a relationship, which continued for quite some time.  This created some interesting stories, which I will save for another time.  Overall, it was just a wacky time of life.

Meanwhile, I continued to take just about every girl I went out with to the Rose.  The patio was just brilliant, and umpteen toolboxes always hit the spot. And yes, for a time, it seemed my love life (as remarkably inactive as it was) revolved around a Rose and a toolbox.  Hmmm.

Alas, we reached a point where it was time to find a new watering hole, and about that time I started spending a lot more time at the Dubliner, which became my new local until I moved to Boston.

Upon my return to Dallas after two years, things had changed, probably for the better. Tim had moved to Austin and was happily settled, and I found myself back in a city that I had to get to know again.  This meant finding a new local, but those stories from the Monk will be shared at another time. 

By chance, I ran into an old friend of mine from church.  He had played in a few bands when we were in high school, and had continued his aspirations to perform his music throughout the 90s.  He mentioned that he was tending bar at none other than the San Francisco Rose, and I should drop by and see him. (Hey, I drank my first toolbox there!) 

I took him up on his offer and went by the Rose for old times' sake.  Like many places, they were experimenting with new attractions, and Dave told me that he was going to be playing a few sets of his own material.  Always one to support local talent, I made a point of going to the Rose every time he played, bringing along any friends who were up for the outing.  Dave was playing at a few other local venues as well, and I made sure to catch any show that I could.

Dave did not work that long at the bar, but for however brief that time was, it was nice to be back in the old Rose.

I did not make it back to the Rose again until around 2008, when I arranged to meet Tim, along with his wife and young son there during a stateside visit.  My own young nephew was also in town, along with his folks, and we spent a nice Saturday afternoon catching up and watching the boys play together.  The burgers were still great, and I took the opportunity to have another toolbox. 

Of course, living in another country limits my visits to a lot of places I like in Dallas, but when I have been back to visit, the Rose hasn't been on the list, mainly since it wasn't ever really the same going there without Tim all those years ago.

So, the last time I did see Tim in Dallas, which was about 3 years ago, we made the decision to head to the Rose.  Sadly, with the exception of two people sitting at the bar, obviously friends of the bartender, the place was completely empty.  Since it was summer, we sat outside, which was only slightly less dreary than inside.  The food was OK, and I did have one last toolbox, and of course, the company was fine.  I think I probably realized then that it would be unlikely I would return to the place.  The memories I have from there are great, but the place was no longer MY neighborhood bar.  At the time, it did not look like it was anyone's neighborhood bar any longer.  Despite that, I hoped that the little place would continue, though I had some doubts.

I celebrated the start of 2017 in Dallas; I had spent Christmas there, as I have in recent years. My parents, nephew and I went to brunch at a restaurant right next door to the San Francisco Rose.  As we walked outside after eating, I went over and stood outside the patio of my old haunt.  I explained to my nephew that I had spent many many wonderful hours hanging out there years before.  He listened politely, but I don't think he was particularly enthralled.  I couldn't blame him, as the place was almost as empty as it was when I was last there.

Sigh.

This morning, I woke up to find an email from Moe with a link to a brief article from a Dallas neighborhood rag:  the San Francisco Rose, after 40 years, will soon be closing.

So, another of my old haunts is shutting down, but that is just how it is.  Those times were great, and will always stay with me. 

Chris sent me a text early this week, commenting about an enjoyable quiet night he'd had at the Monk.  It was another reminder of other good times.  I think it is great that I seem to associate periods of my life with the places I frequent.  The Deep Ellum days, or the Dubliner times, or the Old Monk era...all of them have tremendous significance for me. 

As for the San Francisco Rose years, I will simply smile and say thanks.

see you out there
bryan

Domesitc Appliances and DHL Deliveries - Just Another Online Order

I don't know what baffles me more: the delivery habits of the guys who drive for logistics carriers or my own tendency to misunderstand basic kitchen appliances.

For years, I have worked in the repair logistics industry, and the frequency of delivery incidents has always amazed me.  All too often, it seems that the incidents could have been avoided simply by confirming the address.  I have resolved countless situations where a package could not be delivered because the customer was not at home.  Upon speaking with the client, I would find out that the customer had given their home address despite knowing that they would not actually be at home when the package was to be delivered.  "Oh, I work during that day, so was not at home," is something I have heard repeatedly.  "Can the package be routed to my office?"

"Of course," I would always respond.  "Any reason you didn't specify that address when arranging the service?"

This works in both directions, of course.  Just last week, I had a particularly difficult situation where a customer had sent their mobile device into the repair center for service, but somehow the wrong contact name was listed on the waybill.  As a result, despite the fact that the delivery location was an actual repair center, the small package was put on the desk of some guy who happened to be on holiday.  Two weeks later, he returned to find a package on his desk, and he immediately gave the unit to the repair area.  Unfortunately, the two week delay caused great dissatisfaction to the customer, and understandably so.

Last year, the company I work for took over the management of the mobile phone repair network for a billion dollar company.  During the first months of our involvement, I handled several cases where naive customers (and rather poorly trained customer care centers) sent their expensive mobile device simply to the address of the company headquarters, where the package would effectively go into a black hole and never reach the place it should have. 

In my own personal life, I always take care to make absolutely sure I am specifying the address that I want a package delivered to.  I make my share of online orders, and really appreciate the requirement that I confirm, then re-confirm the shipping address before my order is finalized.

So, last Thursday morning when the switch on my electric kettle finally broke, I jumped online and placed an order for a replacement Wasserkocher.  At the check out screen I confirmed my address, and looked forward to receiving it in the next day or two. Normally, the order confirmation gives a target date for when the package will be delivered, and when I received my per-alert that the order had been sent, I knew to expect delivery sometime on Saturday.

I really only had one task to do on Saturday, which was to do the shopping.  I figured I would putter around the flat during the morning, at least until the delivery guy showed up, then go to the store.
By early afternoon, I decided to take a chance and dash down the street to the store; I was tired of waiting and really wanted to avoid the late-afternoon shopping rush.  I would just have to risk missing the arrival of the delivery guy.

As I stepped out of my front door, I checked my mailbox, and found a "Sorry we missed you!" delivery notice. The notice went on to inform me that my package had been left at the house two doors down from me.  I was rather surprised and irritated.  I had been home the whole morning, as had several other neighbors who live not only in my building, but also the building right next door.
The bell never rang, and I suspect it is because the delivery driver never bothered to press the bell.

Many years ago, I did have the unfortunate issue where my doorbell was not functioning, but I never knew this.  At the time (much the way it is now), I was not receiving a lot of visitors, so it took me longer to realize that there had been a problem.  However, that was a long time back, so there really was no excuse this time.  After all, I know perfectly well that my doorbell is in working order.

The thing was, I had ordered two items on Thursday, and this meant that there would actually be two deliveries.  Therefore, I still needed to be quick at the store, so that I could return home and plant myself at the window overlooking the street  to make sure that the next driver didn't try and pull the same stunt and simply put a notice in my mailbox instead of attempting to deliver the package. I took my notice with me, and after making my quick shopping trip, I intended to stop off at the house two doors down so as to collect my first package. 

My shopping trips are always pretty short, and I was fortunate to have been in the shortest check-out line, so 15 minutes later I was about half a block from my house when I saw a guy carrying two packages.  He looked a lot like guy intent on making a delivery, and sure enough, I could see that he was approaching my house.  I was a bit too far away to call out to him, but I could see that he seemed mildly irritated as no-one was answering the door after he had pressed the bell. 

His irritation turned to mild surprise as he looked in my direction, to see me hustling towards him with a couple of shopping bags.  "Hey, I think you are looking for me," I said, only slightly out of breath. "Kann sein," he responded. 

Sure enough, it was my second package! 

I quickly signed for it, then shoved it inside the door, then went back to the house two doors down, rang the doorbell, and was delighted when a woman holding a package addressed to me opened the door.  I wished her a pleasant weekend, then returned home with all my stuff.

In fairness, at least one of the drivers who delivers in my neighborhood makes an effort to actually deliver packages.  On the positive side, everything worked out as it should have, and by Saturday afternoon I was opening my new kettle. 

I tend to glance through the accompanying user's manuals for even the most simple of items, including my new kettle.  As our world has grown smaller (and sadly, a lot more ridiculous, though I will refrain from discussing politics, disgusting movie producers, social media, and Arsenal football in this post) I have noticed that the manuals that come with items are usually translated into lots of different languages, which I find very cool.  However, it might be a stretch to actually call these user guides, because more often than not, there is simply a set of pictures illustrating the step by step process. 

OK, so there really is not too much involved in heating up water, but what I had failed to realize when selecting my new kettle was that there was no indicator light.  Again, this is not a huge deal, but two days before when I was telling a friend that I had just ordered a kettle, he asked me what color the indicator light was, and went on to explain that he had recently had a kettle that had a blue light, which didn't seem logical, as one does not usually think of blue when thinking of boiling water, but rather red, or as in the case with my old kettle, orange.  I plugged my new appliance into the socket, and looked forward to seeing what color the light would be, and was slightly let down.

That being said, the water heats up nicely, and makes a sound that I find quite comforting.

Last evening, as I was cleaning up after dinner, I spent a few extra minutes on my salad spinner.  This particular gem I ordered (and received without any delivery incident) several months ago, and I absolutely love it.  Not only have I increased my greens consumption by about 1000%,  I just like the idea of thinking that my lettuce really enjoys playing on the "sit n spin."

The item itself is very simple and fun to use.  Sometimes I get a little frustrated with the colander, since I have to kind of work harder to get all the small bits washed out, but that is a small price to pay. One thing that I had been wondering about, though, was the top portion, where the spinning happens.  Over the past months, I never have felt like I could clean that as well as I would have liked, and I thought, "Hey, it would be really cool if this piece can come apart."

Pop. 

Just by playing with the lid a little bit, I realized that indeed, the top did separate into a couple of parts that immediately made cleaning almost fun.  I dug out the user's guide again, just to see what I had overlooked months ago, but never found a picture illustrating how one took the top apart.  Alas, it seems some technical writers believe certain things to be intuitive. 

And of course, this is exactly why I never looked for an indicator to light up telling me when the lettuce is clean. 

See you out there.
bryan



 

Deliberate Dairy Dreaming? Don't Think So

For the past week or so, I have cut back on visits to the pub.  It is not just that I wanted to reduce my intake of beer, but I think I was also feeling just a wee bit antisocial.  Spending a few quiet nights at home is never really a bad thing, in my opinion.  Besides, it is not as if I want to become a hermit.  It is simply an act of taking time for myself and being a little quiet.

One or two evenings, I watched a couple of football matches via a streaming website, and other nights I just played a DVD of an old film.  After all, I don't think one can ever watch "Rear Window" too many times.  Meanwhile, my couch beverage of choice turned out to be milk.

Now, I have always been a huge fan of milk; I am probably in the category of "chugger." (note - I just now did a google search and was mildly surprised to find a wikipedia article about milk chugging.  I, however, am referring more to the fact that I simply like milk).  At any rate, I found myself drinking a liter or so almost each evening I stayed a home.  This meant that I needed to head to the grocery store more frequently, but no matter.

What I did not expect was the impact the increase in lactose (and the reduction in grains) would have on my sleep.  Multiple times I went to bed, fell asleep, then woke up after what felt like 7 or 8  hours, only to find that I had been asleep for only 2 or 3.  The most recent instance happened just last night.  I went to bed at a reasonable 10h30 and was awakened by my neighbors, who were arguing in the next flat.

My neighbors are a young couple who moved in at the beginning of summer.  They are nice enough people, but after the first couple of weeks, I really did not see them so much as heard them, and rather often, at that.  I quickly realized that they both are argumentative, and neither seems to be particularly aware of how loud they tend to be.  Last night was particularly entertaining as the argument (like all of them:  petty) was a lively discussion about their shoes and where to put them.  The guy was making a point about sweaty feet and how that would not be very pleasant to have all the shoes in the bedroom, while the girl was explaining that by keeping the window open, there would be enough fresh air to help eliminate odor, if any.

At the time, I thought that they both were arguing as part of their morning routine, as I think one of them has just started a new job, meaning that they leave the house around 6 or 6h30 in the morning.  I was about to start my own routine to rouse myself for the start of the day and was surprised when I reached over to check the clock on my phone and found it was only 1h30 in the morning.  I had only been asleep for 3 hours!

I actually got up and went into the kitchen.  I almost took a slug of milk, but thankfully stopped myself, and opted instead for a ciggy on the balcony.  That turned out to be a poor decision, as my neighbors window was open, and I could clearly hear them continuing their flippant remarks.  In fact, I am surprised that everyone who lives in the vicinity wasn't up, it was so loud.  Many folks know that my back balcony looks onto a scene not dissimilar from that of  "Rear Window," and as it is normally pretty quiet, any kind of disturbance really stands out.  I thought about this for a few minutes as I finished smoking, remembering a recent early morning when I sat on my balcony, cup of coffee in hand, thinking how absolutely still it was.

So, I returned to bed, read for a few minutes, and finally fell back to sleep.  As I enjoyed my Zzzzs, I found myself dreaming about getting myself stuck in the little cellar opening that every bar in my neighborhood has.  This opening is where the beer delivery guy drops the kegs into the cellar, and I have always found the process pretty fascinating (albeit practical).  OK, it does not take much to fascinate me, but in this particular situation I was finding myself at the center of things.  Somehow, I had managed to get myself lodged into the space where I could no longer move.  I could not back out of the hole, and I could not climb out onto the street.  Things did not get better when one of the kegs suddenly opened and I was being flooded by the local pilsner.

With that, I found myself awake, and was glad to find that it was just coming 7am, my normal wake up hour.  Like with most of my dreams, no matter how vivid certain parts are, the beginnings and endings always seem to elude me.

Take last week for example.  There I was sleeping soundly, dreaming away, when I found myself accidentally breaking the flat screen television at a house while attending a party hosted by the German midfielder of Arsenal.  Why I was invited to the party (or how I got there), I have no idea, but I remember thinking, "Gosh, I had not planned for this particular cash outlay" after I returned home and placed an order for a replacement via Amazon.  I was, however, quite touched at the nice thank-you note that the guy sent me...

As if that incident weren't enough, one more dream from last week stuck with me.  Somehow, I was standing on a wobbly balcony on the 5th floor an apartment building.  I am almost certain it was Chris who was standing next to me, or at least he was until he jumped off and then made a gymnastic landing worthy of an Olympic medal on the ground below.  The crowd of people who witnessed this all burst into applause, and continued to cheer as he signed a few autographs, then effortlessly threw his ink pen up to me, still standing there five stories above.  Of course I caught the pen with both hands behind my back (and my eyes closed), and that's when I woke up.

So, here's to a nice bizarre start to October.

see you out there
bryan

B Continuing To Be

Almost immediately after my last post, it started raining, and has pretty much continued to rain each day since then.  Along with the rain came a significant drop in temperature.  Normally, I would say that this kind of weather suits me just fine, and for the first few days I was pretty delighted. 

However, when I woke up one Saturday morning feeling that my back wasn't quite right, I got a little discouraged.  I have had some issues with my back throughout most of this year, and had been enjoying a good period of "back to normal," if you can excuse the pun.  During that weekend, I elected to skip any visits to the gym, and likewise didn't do any of the little exercises that I tend to do each day on the mat on my living room floor.  My PT had constantly reminded me that I needed to listen to my body, and I have really been heeding his advice. 

After a couple of days, I actually thought things were getting worse, which kind of spooked me.  During the summer as I finished my physical therapy,  I willed myself to find ways to avoid future back problems altogether.  Perhaps this was slightly over ambitious, as my PT had warned me that it was possible that I would experience some issues, but at any rate I was feeling a bit down last week.  True, the discomfort I was feeling in my back was NOTHING compared to what I went through four or five months ago, but I was still really irritated by the setback. 

I decided that a certain part of my back discomfort was coming from the sudden colder weather.  However, I am aware of various scientific studies that suggest that there is no correlation between increased back pain and dramatic temperature change.  Bearing this in mind, I also realized that there could be some displaced anger that was giving me the aches in my back.  Taking advantage of working from home, I spent quite a few minutes over the next several days just lying on my floor and just trying to be present. 

During the past couple of years, I have become more and more interested in this concept.  I still have a lot more to learn and experience on the subject, but last week seemed to be another milestone reached.  By the latter half of the week, after multiple sessions on my floor, I did feel calmer, and I noticed that my back pain was decreasing.   Today, almost one week later, there is still a bit of discomfort but things are certainly better than a week and half ago. 

I did not intend to spend so much time discussing my back issues in this piece, but rather focus more on the "being present" aspect.  Lying on the floor in my living room and trying to clear my mind, to be present, it is rather an interesting experience.  Last week, for example, while on the floor, I found myself thinking about some toys that I played with as a child.  Fisher-Price Adventure People first came on the market when I was around six years old, and I can still remember getting my first set of action figures.  I continued to think about all the great times I had playing with these toys.  They kept me occupied for hours and hours. 

Why did I think of Adventure People last week?  I suppose it had to do with the exercise of clearing my mind, which allowed me to recall some vivid memories from my childhood.  This wasn't so much about finding a happy place as simply being present.  True, it was more pleasant to think about those toys than to think about how poorly Arsenal have been playing in recent weeks, or why I get so agitated by one of my repair partners who never can seem to follow the documented process. 

I usually play my best piano when my mind is completely clear, and while I often use piano playing to help clear my mind, I am starting to better understand this concept of being present.  Too often, when I feel uptight, it impacts my playing.  I mentioned this a couple of weeks ago when Nadja had to sit on the balcony while I sat at the piano a few rooms away.   Although I have no tremendous desire to perform publicly, I would like to feel totally relaxed, comfortable, free, and present while playing a piece or two for someone, who could actually sit in the same room.  

Like I said, I am still working on this concept, but it is making for yet another enlightening experience, and I continue to learn about myself.  That is a good thing.

I have to accept who I am, and while I have always thought that I am pretty well versed in this understanding, I recognize that I need to continue on trying to be the best B I can be. 

It's better for me to be B.  No question.

see you out there
bryan

Taking Time to Celebrate and Remember Key People in My LIfe

I quite like being outside during a rainstorm, and over the past few weeks I have had six chances to be outside.  Five of those times were really pleasant, and more than make up for the one time that sucked.  And truthfully, the one time that sucked was not all that bad, just a bit inconvenient. I had been across town for a meeting, and as I was getting ready to walk to the U-Bahn stop, it started pouring.  I tried to wait it out for a few minutes, but then sucked it up and walked through the streets to the station, getting pretty soggy along the way. 

The other five times were great.  Two of those times, I was standing outside the pub, safely under the large umbrella covering the tables.  From my dry vantage point, I could sip my beer and watch all the people who had forgotten their rain gear dashing home through the puddles. 

The three best times, in my opinion, were when I was at home sitting on my balcony, cup of coffee in hand, enjoying the closeness to nature.  My balcony is already one of my favorite spots in my flat, and even more so when it's really coming down.  (German lesson for the day:  Es regnet junge Hunde...pretty much similar to the English expression)

I find it very peaceful and relaxing when it rains, and I tend to need all the help I can get when finding ways to relax and find peace.  On one of the mornings I sat outside, I allowed my mind to settle down and I simply tried to be present.  I had some Einaudi playing in the background, and listening and reflecting helped me have an epiphany: I knew what I could give my grandmother for her upcoming birthday. 

Sure, I am very fortunate to have some very good friends and close family.  My grandmother has always stood out to me as an exceptionally wonderful human being.  There are few people who are so loving and supportive as she is.  If I am having a bad day, I simply need think of her and I find  immediate comfort.  If I am having a good day, I think of her, and the day just gets better.  How cool is that?

A few weeks back, I played a few pieces for Nadja on the piano, and her feedback also helped me decide that I should make a little playlist for my Grandmother and send her some mp3s of stuff I have been working on.  Even though I would not be there to celebrate personally, I could at least share some happy Grandmother thoughts (and tunes) via email. 

Over the next days, I spent a lot of time practicing and getting my playlist sorted.   I selected seven pieces and hammered away to get them to a level that I deemed acceptable for public hearing.  The irony is that I do not do so well playing in public (hence the reason Nadja sat on the balcony when I played for her from my living room: somehow after all these years I still struggle to perform in front of a live audience).  This actually extends even to when I am recording the piece onto a digital track.  As soon as I hit the "record" button, I almost immediately play a wrong note or chord.  Thus, I need a few takes to get a piece just right. 

It's funny, playing piano is very relaxing to me, but it takes me a bit before I can feel fully relaxed and totally engrossed in the music, forgetting anything and everything (and everyone) around me and simply being present.  To a great extent, I thank my piano teacher for helping me with this.  Mrs. Lipsett not only was instrumental in teaching me music theory, but she helped me learn how to feel the music.  I think she recognized my aptitude early on, but she also knew how to nurture and encourage.  She would select pieces for me to learn, ones that would challenge me but also give me great reward.  Without her, I never would have gotten into guys like Czerny or Debussy. Likewise, I would not have developed such an appreciation for playing by ear.  I cannot express my gratitude enough for her influence on me. 

As I recorded my pieces, I reminded myself on how she would teach me to play a certain passage, or how to develop my technique.  It is always important to understand the notation, as it helps express the style.  I can still recall how she would help me visualize how to play staccato notes, legato notes; chord progressions; I think of this almost every time I play.  Those thoughts serve as homage to having such a wonderful teacher, a teacher that is still with me 30 years after I stopped taking lessons with her. 

 Early last Friday morning, I sent my recordings to my Grandmother; my way of wishing her a happy 101st birthday.  Later in the day, I called her on the telephone and congratulated  her personally. What a nice way to start the weekend, and I celebrated with her in spirit throughout the weekend, hoping she is enjoying listening to my gift. 

Alas, yesterday morning, I woke up to find an email from my mother, giving me the news that my piano teacher, Mrs. Lipsett, had died over the weekend.  She was a wonderful woman, an excellent teacher, and certainly helped me become who I am.  Thankfully, I can smile through my tears as I think of all the fond memories. 

So, I will finish this up and go play Ludovico Einaudi's "Experience." 

To know both my Grandmother and Mrs. Lipsett, it's an experience worth celebrating.

bryan