the frozen strawberry conspiracy (reprinted from june, 2006)

it's fathers day and i'm sure everybody and their momma has a nice fathers day blog written, and i've already gotten spammed on messenger with a "happy fathers day" (i'm not a father...at least not that i know of). i don't mean to come off angry or bitter, but father's day just doesn't have any special meaning to me (read my mother's day blog). last nite someone even asked if i was planning on heading to the cemetary to place flowers, to which i replied no, and got a stunned silence. my belief is this: we dropped a body off at the cemetary that used to be my dad, that's all, and i have no reason to go back until it's time to drop another body off (hopefully not mine yet). when i want to remember or honor my dad, i think about him and do the things that he would want me to do, and call it a day. (don't get me wrong, if you want to go to the stone garden and "talk" to a bunch of rotting corpses, be my guest. but i don't have any family in the cemetary, they all moved on).

but i will give kudos to all those who are trying to be good parents, fathers and mothers, cuz i know it aint easy in these crazy times we live in. and i emphasized the word "trying" for a reason...no matter what it is that we do, we all fall short in some way, and need to remember and reflect on this in the hopes that we can do better. i can think of nothing more important to keep this in mind for than parenting, and i say "we" because those of us who aren't biological parents of children still have a moral obligation to help those who do (i often fall short on that, and i need to get my ass in gear)

meanwhile, last week i had an interesting experience that coincidentally brought thoughts of my dad to mind that i thought i'd share with you...perhaps you may enjoy it...(yes, it's another long blog...get over it)

just before taking off for maryland, i managed to crack my windshield pretty severely (i hate construction season in chicago), so this past tuesday i went to have it replaced. after calling around several places, the cheapest one turned out to be near downtown, and literally around the corner from where my father grew up (where i spent my summers and, ironically, a few blocks away from where my mother grew up too, although they didn't meet until they became adults). when i got there with my car and found out it would be about 45 minutes to an hour before it would be ready, i decided to go walking in "the old neighborhood."

man...progress isn't always a good thing...my parents grew up within a half-mile of each other on the near-westside of chicago. my mom lived on taylor street, in the heart of little italy (yeah, she went to skool with some real-life mafiosos), and pops grew up about 4 blocks away on 13th street. both of their childhood homes are now parking lots (literally), which isn't so sad in and of itself, but now the neighborhood has this yuppified look to it, with sushi bars and a starbucks and shit. as i'm walking thru the hood, i was thinking how my dad and grandmother would feel about all the "gentrification" going on, and figured they would hate it as much as i do...

but just when i was about to head back and get my car, i spotted something that brightened my day: the little italian ice shack, looking exactly as it did 30-odd years ago...

for those of you who don't know, italian ice (also called italian lemonade) is like a sno-cone, but much more tart, with bits of lemon peel, and it comes in all different flavors; my old man's favorite was watermelon. meanwhile, it was a hot day (90+ degrees), so i decided to have one, also partially in honor of my dad. he loved sweets and this was one of his favorites

as i dug into my ice, i laughed to myself at how much a sweet-eater my dad was, and how ironic it is that i rarely eat sweets at all. i also thought about our little ritual from when i was a small child, 2 or 3 years old perhaps...pops used to work long hours, often leaving the house before us kids had even awakened and not getting back home until well after our bedtimes. there were many occasions where the only time i saw him was on sunday when we all went to church (lots of times, he went back to work immediately after church, too). sometimes, however, i'd lie in bed waiting to hear the garage door open, then would meet him in my pajamas with the feet (yeah, i had some...wouldn't sleep in anything else, even in the summer. i'd wear them until i wore the feet out, then beg for a new one.), and he'd tell me to be quiet while i sat on his lap and watched tv with him in silence ("children are meant to be seen and not heard", he'd often tell me...maybe that's why i'm so annoyed by loud-mouthed kids today). mom would have a fit if she knew i was out of bed at that hour, so it was our little secret. and to ensure my complicity in the conspiracy, he pulled out his favorite snack: frozen strawberries in the can, and shared it with me (well...not really shared...it was more like, "one for you...three, four, five, six for me...but i didn't care). after the strawberries were gone, or the show we were watching went off (usually some old western or horror movie), he'd give me a kiss and put me back to bed.

those of you who know me a lil bit, know that i have sleep habits more like a vampire than anything, often staying up all nite and finally drifting off to sleep when the sun comes up. i wonder, am i still waiting to hear the sound of my dad pulling into the garage?