My Dad

Hey everyone. I just wanted to write and say thank you. Thank you for writing. For calling. For flowers. For praying. For being there even if you weren't able to be there. It meant more than I will ever be able to express. I know a lot of you never met my Dad and I wish I had the time to give you a worthy account of his life because there are a million stories I could tell of him. But, I'll just tell you this one:

My Dad had a severe heart attack sixteen years ago that left him in a coma for months with doctors saying he wouldn't make it. And in that time, we got to see what the world thought of my Father. And it thought the world of him. Family flew in instantly. People swooped in from the woodworks-strangers to us and friends of my Father's. We had more food than we could eat and more flowers than we knew what to do with. We were surrounded by this huge circle of warmth that my Father was the center of.

And when my Dad finally recovered he told his sister that he had seen that light and that he saw their mother and she said to him, "Forrest, what are you doing? Go back. Your kids need you." And he did. He worked through darkness and woke again. He relearned everything. How to walk. How to drive. Before the heart attack, he had racked almost twenty years in the navy-the last four in the field of nuclear biology. But, the lack of oxygen to his brain, had given him short term memory loss. He wasn't able to grab thoughts as quickly. He moved slower and had to constantly write things down to remember them. But still, he was there for everything. He saw birthdays. He saw graduations. He saw a marriage. He saw two grandchildren. He saw us grow up. And really, what more can you ask of a Father? He came back for us. He came back and gave us sixteen incredible years.

So yeah, it's not an easy thing to understand. I know this is going to take time. But, I'm getting through with my family. And I'm all right. The thing is I have been to funerals and wakes-known people who have passed on before. But, this is the first time that I can, in all honesty, say that I feel someone's presence and, in the midst of all this weirdness, that feeling is so warm. So, I know he's with me and my family. And for those of you who've never met my father, know that you have. If you've ever seen me smile. If you've ever seen me laugh. He's there. He's always been part of that.

Thank you again for everything. Please feel free to write or call me. Ruth and I are both back in Chicago now. I'd love to hear any or all of your voices. My phone number is 773-574-0911 and my email is in the 'from' section of this email. I'll try to get back to you as quick as possible. I promise.

All My Love And Gratitude,
Shane

Reading

Recently, I have found myself reading regularly (and using alliteration in descriptions of myself). I tend to go in and out where reading is concerned. I'll not read anything for months, too busy or too not wanting to, and then I'll find a book and by the time I've finished I find myself inspired to read something else. The chain lasts indefinitely-sometimes ending a day later, sometimes lasting years. I suppose this trend started back at Catoctin Elementary School in Leesburg, VA. Like every elementary school, we were constantly being pushed to read. Contests were held between classes for fabulous prizes.
These prizes were won with the process of flashy, construction paper-based gimmicks. For instance, for every book read you got a white paper snowball. When a book was finished, we wrote the title, author, and brief 1-2 sentence summary on a snowball. These snowballs were taped to the wall in an effort to be the first class in the school to build a construction
paper snowman.

I'd feverishly plow through three Berenstein Bears books a day. By the end of the week, I'd realize that Brother and Sister Bear always resolved their problems and learned a valuable lesson related to the title. So, I'd start plowing through eight or nine books a day by reading the title and then just writing in the summary section of the snowball: "Brother and Sister Bear learned not to cheat." "Brother and Sister Bear learned to not tell a lie." "Brother and Sister Bear learned to not be lazy all day."
Basically, I learned how to cheat, lie, and be lazy, by reading books about preventing those traits. I learned the same for Dr. Seuss, whose summaries went something like this: "Green Eggs and Ham was funny. I liked the rhyming." "The Cat in the Hat was funny. I liked the rhyming and the cat." "Horton Hears a Hoo was funny. I liked the rhyming and how Horton heard the Hoo."

Inevitably, all this hard work and discovery would end in the predictable pizza party for the winners. The pizza was always the same cheese pizza that we ate every other day in the cafeteria, but somehow, this never fazed us from feverish and competitive reading. Month after month-new construction paper gimmicks, same fabulous prize. It's easy to trick kids into anything I suppose. I guess that's why federal law requires you to be older than 12 before running for government office. And somehow, even after all these cheap elementary hi-jinks to avoid reading, I still enjoy a good book today. Go figure.

Mad World

Today, as I stood behind the counter at the gym I work at, a very surreal moment began. For no real explainable reason, the music in the club transitioned from loud, pulsating, house beats to the slow, melodic, unplugged Gary Jules singing Mad World. If you are unfamiliar with this song, it's chorus goes something like this:

And I find it kind of funny.
I find it kind of sad.
The dreams in which I'm dying,
Are the best I've ever had.
I find it hard to tell you.
I find it hard to take.
When people run in circles,
It's a very, very,
Mad World.

The song floated around the gym and I attempted to follow it. My eyes glanced around and, from my view, I could see the entire bank of running equipment. People using treadmills and elliptical machines. Their pace never changed. Their gait never waivered. This insanely depressing song had flooded the gym, poured into eardrums, and begged to be heard. The
entire mood had changed and no one even noticed the difference. An army of people doing cardio just like every other day.

Scared of the dark

Darkness is always a scary thing and it's even scarier when you're not old enough to know the possibilities of what lurks behind the black. Early on, I found myself sprinting to my bed when night fell. I had always harbored the notion that if I was in my bed all the fear and tormentors could be shielded by my blankets. Safety was as simple as pulling sheets over my head. That went for creatures both imaginary and real. Ghosts and robbers alike would be fooled. If I just got into that bed and covered myself. Sheets over the head, but also over the feet. The feet were more important than you'd think. Not while awake, but while asleep. If my feet were exposed I knew I'd have a visitor. And he was what lurked behind the darkness.

I'd first like to get this straight. My visitor did not scare me. The only scary part about him was that he somehow made it into my room unbeknownst to me. But, other than that, he was just annoying. He was a little man, a dwarf in fact-complete with dirty white beard, scrunched aged face, and squat dwarf body. As I said before, he came only when I mistakenly left my feet open to the air. He took delight in this as his only goal in life was to catch me unawares and one by one pull each of my toes with his chubby dwarf fingers. It didn't hurt and he wasn't trying to take my toes, either. Just pull on them. It was just annoying to know that night after night he'd be there to torment me and my toes.

I only woke up once as a result of it and he was gone before I could catch a glimpse of him. So, it was impossible to catch him in the act. How, you may ask, did I even know he was a dwarf, then? Call it instinct, call it what you will. But, it's in all of us to know when a weird old dwarf pulls on your toes. Human nature.

It was hard because he struck only after I was asleep. I could stay awake all I want with my feet left out naked to the darkness and he would never come. He knew I was waiting with a pillowcase to catch him and prove to my parents that I wasn't lying. So, no matter how long I waited it wouldn't matter. It was once the darkness had cloaked my eyes and I was unconscious that he'd strike with his awful, annoying toe pull. So, I'd wrap myself cocoon-like, my feet tightly covered and attempt to sleep. And the worst part is that I like the cold when I sleep. I'd rather freeze than sweat and the easiest way to stay cool while sleeping is to leave the foot of the bed open so that air blows in. I couldn't-not with that damn dwarf on the loose. So, I lay there all uncomfortable knowing full-well that soon I'd sleepily roll over and the taut cocoon would loosen with the movement and out would pop my feet. Dwarf.

This went on for I don't know how long and then, eventually, like all creatures of the dark, the dwarf just stopped pulling my toes. I can't even tell you when I think it stopped. I know he didn't follow me to college. But, I'm pretty sure it had all ended even before that. Whatever the final day was, today I sleep freely. No longer tormented by a toe-pulling annoying dwarf. And maybe, in some messed up psychological sense, I sleep better now that I had to go through all that torturous madness. I don't know really. I've got nothing. I'm only glad the dwarf's gone and can only hope that he's found a respectable place in society and is not tormenting some other kid. If he is and you happen to be that kid. Cover your toes for now, but know that it'll pass.

Kurt

I have been trying to deal with this for a while now. I have always been someone who could work things out by writing and letting it all out in print. But, I've tried and I can't work through this. Kurt Schamberg and I went to the same high school. He was a year older than I was, but his sister, Terah, was in my class, and was and still is one of my closest and dearest of friends. I didn't know Kurt very well until my junior year when we played football and had art class together-although I felt as if I'd known him longer. It was easy to forget that we didn't know each other well. Terah and others who had known him all their lives had enough stories and love for and about him that by that time I'd met Kurt, it seemed as though we'd already met a while ago. And there was something else. We shared the love of art and we both shared the need to pull laughs out of people in whatever way we could. He could sacrifice his own pride for the sake of a laugh and all was fair game. All were equal in the eyes of Kurt Schamberg and all were worthy of a laugh. I've been racking my brain in search of a story and I can't find one. Try as I might, my memory is failing me. I only know that there wasn't a time when he was around where someone wasn't laughing. There wasn't a time when anyone felt unwelcome. It's a special person that has the ability to do that and Kurt Schamberg was a special person. After his graduation, I'd run into him at parties or through hanging out with Terah, but I never had the chance to get really close to him or to thank him. And as the time moved on, my run-ins with Kurt grew farther apart. But, with Kurt, this minor technicality of time didn't matter and I always felt like there was no catching up to do. And even in that small amount of time, he left countless gifts for me.

On Thursday, May 19th of this year, Sgt. Kurt Schamberg was killed in action in Iraq. I found out and couldn't bring myself to talk. I didn't know how to tell my girlfriend, how to tell my friends here in Chicago. Suddenly, time mattered again. I wished there was a way to go back and remember all those stories, get all the time back. I wanted to go back and make more memories. There suddenly weren't enough because he was no longer there to erase that time in between. When you know someone killed in battle wrong and right, good guys and bad guys stop mattering. There's a hole that can't be filled-a life cut short. I know he died honorably and I know that he'd have preferred that outcome as opposed to losing any of his fellow soldiers, but it's hard to accept that he's gone.

The funeral was deeply moving in both beauty and sadness. An entire town poured into his memorial service to pay their respects. Flags lined the streets and people had lined the streets, too, when the hearst carrying Kurt, brought Kurt back home. The line was long, but no one complained. Kurt and his family meant that much to everyone. You could feel that heavy weight of loss. All you needed was to look around and see how far Kurt's love and laughter had spread. While in Iraq, he had written to an elementary school class-once even writing seventeen letters in a day. This was a man who cared. A man whom others cared about. A man whom, I later found out, was carried by a color guard from his own regiment that had requested to be there in person to pay their respects to their beloved friend and comrade in arms. In his twenty-six years, Kurt spread love and laughter worldwide and left a lasting impact on all those he came in contact with.

You will be missed, my friend-both by those who knew and loved you and those who will hear of you for the first time in days, weeks, months, and years to come. But, your story will live on. I'll always remember that spirit of laughter and acceptance. I always will. It's the gift you gave me. You were a great artist and you lived your life with the precision and love that any great artist applies to their work of art. I miss and love you dearly and I didn't even get the chance to really really know you. But, I'll be listening for that laughter from up high. How lucky all those angels are.

Please pray for my friend Terah and her family and Kurt's friends.

Ted

Those who know me, know that I like coffee and crave the atmosphere of a nice quaint coffee shop to mellow out in and catch my thoughts. So, it was lucky for me and all of us in The Animal Club that our apartment happened to be located a mere block away from Viva Java and even luckier for us was that Ted was the loving owner. Every morning, on our way to the train for work, there was Ted standing behind the counter. Instantly, he'd see us and a warm smile of recognition spread across his face and a hand would come up and wave at us like we were old friends. It was enough to wake you up once and for all from that dragging sleepiness which comes with knowing you have to go to work and be excited that smiles like those could be waiting for you throughout the day. And, even if you didn't get a single other smile the whole day, you knew that, coming off that train, there awaited the promise of another warm smile and a wave from Ted and a cup of coffee if you liked. He conversed with us all and really wanted to know how we were and what we were up to. It was real conversation, just as his smile and his laugh were real. You could tell he loved his little shop and the rotating cast of characters that passed in and out. He treated us all with that same familiarity and interest and even if you didn't like coffee, if you went to Viva Java once, you'd want to come back again just to say hi to Ted. He meant a lot to all of us. To the point that if we were low on cash and had to go to the other local coffee shop which accepted credit cards, we all felt a little saddened and covered our cups as we walked past Ted, for fear he'd be disappointed in us. This was a ridiculous act, of course. Because, even after weeks of absence from his coffee shop, the day we came back, we were treated like it had only been a day. That was the magic of Ted.

Two weeks ago, the lights went dark and for days on end, Viva Java didn't open its doors. We had known that Ted had been sick at one time, but from that warmth he emitted, we thought whatever was ailing him was past. So, when the sign appeared one morning letting us know that Ted had passed away, we were taken aback. We didn't know what to do. It just felt wrong and weird. We only knew him from those visits to the shop. We had only exchanged glimpses of our lives. We didn't even know his last name and here he was gone. There was so much more that we wanted to know and see of him. Life is funny like that, I suppose. There are people you just get to meet in passing. You never know them that well, but they leave lasting marks.

Now, I walk to work in the morning and Viva Java is dark. I get off the train after work and it's still dark. I find myself searching for that smile and that wave to wake me up and excite me to the possibilities of the day. And I suppose Ted reminded to keep an eye out for more warm smiles and waves in this world. But, to know that his smile and his wave are gone is too much to think about. So, I'll think of his warmth, the light he emitted and, with that, Viva Java will always be illuminated.

Rest In Peace My Friend.

Read It In The News

I looked at the morning newspaper today while riding the El on the way to work and dreamt how wonderful it would be to open the paper and find nothing evil happened in the world the day before. And, in fact, maybe nothing out-of-the-oridnary happened either. No accidents, no celebrity rumors, no big sporting news, no scandals, no murders, no crime of any kind. The day would have passed without a single incident. One whole day of just being people and an entire newspaper of weather and classifieds.

Super Boy

There was a time when I tied a bath towel around my neck and attempted to save the world. I sat patiently on the porch, waiting for a breeze. When that wind finally came, I threw caution to it and took off as fast as my little legs would allow. I ran full tilt in a straight line down the runway that was our front lawn until the wind lifted my cape and I simulated flying. Pulling down the pair of protective goggles that I'd lifted from my father's tool box, I seemed to soar, my eyes sheilded behind clear plastic and looking for people in need of assistance.

The first super sense to kick in was my acute hearing as a cry from the distance raced through the wind alongisde me. I followed the sound to the backyard to discover that a cinder block had just come crashing down on my big brother's foot. I later learned that he had dropped it in an attempt to exhibit his own strength by lifting it over his own head for as long as possible. But, the reason never mattered to superhero. All that was necessary to be saved was for a person to be in danger. So, I gathered all the muscle I could muster. I gripped the sides and pulled...with an astonishing amount of failure. Once more, I pulled, but to no avail. My brother looked at me, tears in his eyes, in utter confusion. At the time, it seemed like he was questioning my super strength. But looking back now from a distance of almost twenty years, I can see clearly that he hadn't the faintest idea why I was there or why I was wearing a towel and goggles. He had been fully capable of picking up a cinder block by himself even at that age. His big kid hands gripped the sides and I placed my littler super-hero ones across his and he lifted the cinder block practically all be himself. My little hands had served merely as guides in the operation, making sure the cinder block lifted up into a straight line and not veering even an inch. The block was set down and there was an awkward pause, nether of us really knowing what to say or do. After several long minutes of silence, I offered him my cape to dry his eyes, knowing even from the moment I offered that he would just use his sleeve. We paused for some more awkward confusioin. And, then, I motioned to the sky and said simply, "I'm off!!"

Back simulated soaring across the front lawn, I honed my super senses in on any possible emergencies. Soon, my legs grew tired. With seemingly no rescues on the horizon, I returned to my official homebase, the porch. My cape dragged across the ground as I paced back and forth. Boredom, that evil henchman, would surely set in if I didn't do something fast. So, I did what any self-respecting superhero would so. I ran to the freezer, grabbed an ice tray and, one by one, melted every single ice cube with my mind. When I finished with every tray in the freezer, I set my mind to melting bigger things. Our mailbox, the family station wagon, and the neighbor's doberman pinscher (who, through growls and vicious nips at my cape, had become my arch nemesis). But, it was no use. My mind melting powers stopped at ice cubes. I began to reconsider the strength of my powers.

To distract myself from self-doubt I mounted my super Huffy (which served as super bicycle, motorcycle, car, boat, jet, and jet ski) and set out to prove myself once and for all. I listened for crys, but the air was silent. My feet pedaled faster thinking only that the harder they worked the more we'd be awarded in the end. But, the day was peaceful. My pace increased. My cape flapped wildly up and down. My head swivelled side to side in rythmn with the pedaling. No cry. No sound at all, but the tires gliding on pavement. More speed. No sound. More speed. No sound. More speed. More speed. More speed. And all at once I heard something...what I'll never really know. The braking was too fast, too hard, and I was launched headlong over the handle bars. I landed hard-luckily into soft grass-and rolled. When the momentum of the roll stopped, I slowly picked myself up, dusted myself off and softly cried, as much from disappointment as from any pain. I looked to where my bike lay some fifteen feet away and thanked God that after being thrown all that distance, I only had scrapes and bruises. Thrown? Thrown? No. I hadn't been thrown.

I gave up my superhero career not long after, but that day has always stuck with me-the day I flew.