Living with It

"Hey! I'm gonna talk my walk now."

I can hear my dad in the other room, talking to my mother as she sits at her computer. I can hear them, even as I brush my teeth in my bathroom. This is an important distinction to make: I can hear them. They can't hear me. Mom has two hearing aids, but they're not the best. Dad is deaf in one ear, and has a hearing aid in the other. He has no directional hearing, meaning he can't tell where the speaker is unless he is looking at them. It's a frustrating phenomenon, causing the (non) hearer to crank their head around in a frantic dance, trying to discover where the sound is coming from.

Today, Dad is being good, and using his walker on his walks around the block. More importantly, he is using it properly. Often, we catch sight of him, with one hand on a handle, and the walker off to the side. He doesn't really need it, he says, despite the shuffling footsteps, the peripheral neuropathy that keeps him from sensing small changes like rocks beneath his feet, and the near constant vertigo from the Miniere's disease in his somewhat-working ear.

He doesn't need it, even though the physical therapist says he is to use the walker 100% of the time, even walking around the house, because he is getting stronger every day, thankyouverymuch. And the body heals itself. He just needs to figure out what will unlock that mysterious healing potential, and reverse the effects of 82 years of the opposite of self-care.

82 years of borrowing a friend's motorcycle and crashing it, but only after a series of daredevil jumps and crazed steering all over a construction site. Of wrestling all over the house and the yard with his sons and now his grandsons. Of repeated concussions sustained on basketball--yes, basketball--courts by players responding in kind. 82 years of injuries and illnesses up to and including two types of cancer, and eating whatever, whenever. Chocolate, dark chocolate, hot chocolate, chocolate glazed donuts, chocolate cake. Of 12 hour work days in the sun, on industrial projects and nuclear power plants, of working hard and playing hard.

He has no cartilage left in his knees. But the body heals itself, he says. Oh, I believe him. The body can, and often does, heal itself when everything is in alignment. But I've never heard of spontaneous cartilage regeneration in older adults.

And there's no cure for Alzheimer's yet.

"Okay," says Mom. "Once around the block. No stopping to talk to the neighbor's for an hour again, please. They have things to do, you know....What are you wearing?"

At this, I poke my head around the corner, toothbrush still in action. He could be wearing anything at all: suit and tie, one of her old sweatshirts, paint-splattered dress slacks, I've see it all. Instead, I see him tugging at his favorite denim jacket.

"I don't know," he replies. "It was sitting on my chair."

He doesn't know? He wears that jacket every day! He got it from a former employer; it's even embroidered with their logo. How bad was he today?

"It's nice and warm, and zips up. Keeps my neck warm" he continues, and I realize that he's talking about what he has on underneath the denim jacket. "I like it!"

"It's a Patagonia jacket," I yell, mouth full of toothpaste."You got it for Christmas, from Julie and Mike!" Despite my yell, the conversation in the other room continues without a pause.

"I know it was on your chair," says my mother. "I put it there. I kept seeing it in the room, so finally I washed it and put it where you could see it. I just don't know where it came from."

I try again. "You got it as a Christmas present!" Unfortunately, due to the froth of toothpaste, this come out as "Ew ot-i or Rismas!" For two hearing impaired, that's never going to be translated correctly. Besides, they're still talking.

"Oh! Well, I don't know either, but I know I like it!"

As I rinse out my mouth, the sound of the walker comes closer. Dad stops by the open bathroom door and asks if I had said something. "Yes," I reply as I dry off. "Julie and Mike gave you that jacket for Christmas."

"They did? How do you know? Did you buy it for them?"

"No need for that," I laugh."Julie is perfectly capable of doing her own shopping. No, you and Mom each got one."

"Oh!" he says, satisfied at last. The walker heads to the door, makes a clanging sound against the door frame to reassure us of its presence, and he is off to see the neighborhood sights. And to talk to the dogs and the owners, the guy on the corner trimming his bushes, the lady across the way, the man who lives behind us...

Discovering the Family Tree

In case you missed it, I have spent the past year or so rooting around in my Dad's brain, searching for good memories to share. For the last few months, I have been doing some rooting around in his memorabilia, as well. 

Introducing the Tony Trock Memory Box:

Steamer Trunk as Memory Keeper

 It's kinda big, cause he's kinda old. I mean, he's been around a long time. I mean, he's done a lot of living, and you can't contain all that in one sad little file box. 

Inside the box are things like his 8^th grade diploma, a map of California (he loooves maps), a set of protractors and compasses, the wooden bowl his sister hand-turned for him, and the worn-out collar of his dog, Heidi. There’s also his trusty leather money belt that he never used to carry money, but rather as a handy bottle-opener. And, perhaps most dear to his heart, a VHS tape of his Chicago Bears, from their Jim McMahon-led Super Bowl season.

Inside the memories

  

It has been, to say the least, enlightening to go through boxes with him. He doesn’t have much of a filing system: I found his Navy records in the same box as three blank notepads, a special issue of Sports Illustrated (Walter Peyton tribute), 5 inkless pens, some drywall screws, maps of the Bay Area, and a handful of birthday cards. To be fair, he’s moved around so much, it’s probably just been easier to sweep everything from one area into a box, tape it up, and deal with it later. Not that any of you have ever done such a thing. Nope.

Happy Engagement!

As I’ve rummaged through the accumulated detritus of decades, I have also discovered numerous family photos, taken by Dad, mailed to him by siblings, collected from schools and weddings and vacations. My favorites are the slides, which seem like little surprise parties, just waiting for the confetti. I’ve found four-generation pictures, childhood memories, and even my parents’ engagement pose.

Finding all of those old pictures inspired me to get to know my family tree a little better. I know I have tried to introduce you to some of the family, but it can get a little confusing. Just in case anyone has gotten lost with all of the "Tonys" floating around, I am hereby including an abbreviated family tree for clarification. 

Three Generations of Tonys

 Anton "Tony Sr." is Dad's grandfather, the one who emigrated from Hungary in the early 1900s. He was married to Raisie, who made the strudel. 

Anton "Tony Jr." is my Dad's father, who moved the family from Chicago to Lake Zurich, and built them a house. Tony Jr. was married to Martha Lucille, whom everyone called Lucille, or even Lou.

Lucille's parents, John "Jack" and Agnes "Nonnie" (of, "don't call me Grandma!" fame) divorced at some point in the 30s, and Nonnie left for California, coming back occasionally to check in on her daughter's growing family. Grandpa Jack stayed put, living in Illinois until he passed away. 

Then there's my Dad, Tony, who was known as "Sonny" until he left home and joined the Navy. He's married to Cory (who isn't on the tree graphic). 

Nonnie, 1 yr old--this was labeled!

Right now, I’m perusing the oldest photos, trying to figure out just exactly who these people are. Here is a friendly PSA—label your photos as accurately as you can, with first and last names, dates, and places. Your kids and grandkids will thank you. I showed Dad some album pages I had put together, but he could only remember one or two things (“Oh, those are Nonnie’s step relatives—they were a real pain!” Or, “That’s my cousin,” said in a tone of disgust).

                                                      

There are some very good reasons for writing this post. Families should share their stories. Once the story keeper is gone, so are the stories. These tales remind us of who we are, where we came from, and what is truly important. Label the pictures. Record the stories. Remember. 

Letter Home

1956, NJ: John, Dad, Jim 

Remember the Class C training? Last week, in a box of old bills, Dad discovered a letter he had written to his parents. The letter is postmarked Jacksonville, FL, and was mailed to East Orange, NJ, where his father was temporarily employed. I have typed up the letter in its entirety—fixed some spelling and minor punctuation, but otherwise left it alone—but no typeface can possibly take the place of the handwritten (on personalized Navy stationery) flavor of my Dad’s missive. Take a peek.

The road trippers!

A. W. Petrakovitz

VR-6 Mats. McGuire A.F.B.   Box 47 NAS JAX

Trenton, NJ   Jacksonville, Fla

10-1-56

Hello,

Guess who is writing? You’re right it’s your lazy son. Well, really I couldn’t write because I have a broken arm? No, huh, you didn’t believe it—how about a sprained wrist. No again. Huh. A badly cut finger, a hangnail, no lead for this pencil, ah, no stamps, or I could try the one about losing the keys to my locker, but you wouldn’t believe that either. Okay, I give up—I have no excuse, and you can bawl me out when I get back. You can even use the belt on me and I won’t say a word—go ahead and beat me. I got it coming.

I saw Donna and Bob, boy, did they look good. They picked me up at the gate Saturday at 1:30 and we spent the rest of the weekend together. Man what a ball. I did get mad though, Bob wouldn’t let me take them to dinner. I couldn’t pay a thing except the hotel room where I stayed. ($2.50) Boy they stayed at a nice motel, swimming pool and air conditioning. Donna sure has good taste.

Wait, this car was green?

Last Saturday, myself and two other guys went down to Jax Beach. We got there about 10:30 A.M. and parked the car on the beach. We went in swimming and before we knew it the tide was in and we were stranded on the beach with the car. Luckily the car was on high ground and didn’t get wet—even though the road was under water—it sure got loaded with sand between the wind and what we tracked in. Sunday we had to wash it, and believe it or not, under all that dirt I found green paint. Man I had to wash ever thing on the car. Underneath, inside and even under the hood—the motor was covered with sand so I turned the hose on it and washed it off.

I got the straight dope—we are leaving here a week from Friday and driving up through the western part of North Carolina. One the guys lives there and we are going to spend the night there to break up the long trip. So if I don’t see you that Sunday I’ll be up on Monday nite for sure.

Well, this is your favorite son (I hope) signing off until I write again (you hope).

Love,

Tony

xxxx

Naval Man, 1956

Hog Hunt

The other day I read that funny letter “written” by a farm kid who had just joined the Marines, urging the family back home to enlist immediately. Marine life was apparently a cake walk compared to the daily farm chores, hike to the rural mailbox, shooting the night’s dinner, or wrestling with the neighbor boys (or oxen). Even the food was okay, especially since you could eat the city boys’ leftovers in addition to your own tray. The writer just knew the other siblings would also excel at this soft life, with easy-to-please drill sergeants, and easy-to-avoid officers. Dad started chuckling at the first paragraph, was guffawing by the third, and when the letter was revealed to be written by the farmers’ daughter, he howled.

An actual letter home, from my dad to his.

Once the mirth subsided, he shared with me a tale from his Navy days in New Jersey. He was part of a group of men from his base chosen for Class C avionics electrical training in Florida. Dad was one of the few enlisted men on base with a car, so they pooled their money for gas and headed south on a road trip. Along the way, they decided to stop in South Carolina, at the home of one of the young Seaman from the group.

Dad has fond memories of their Southern hospitality. The couple was awfully impressed that Dad would give their son a ride to Florida—and back! They were very warm and welcoming, taking the entire group into their home, and feeding them up right. And there was entertainment. While they were there, the young men were invited to help put food on the table by joining in a hog hunt.

Feral pigs. Wild boar.

Makes me think of medieval hunts and ferocious, scarred-back, long-tusked menaces that must be killed to save the communities they terrorized. Of high feasts, accompanied by a bardic tale of the epic hunt, the prey brought down by large groups of fearless men on stalwart steeds, equipped with barbed spears and mighty crossbows, the boar then served for supper well-roasted, with an apple in its mouth. Brave deeds and heroic efforts. Trumpets. Crowns. And stuff.

The reality is that South Carolina has wild pigs rooting around across the entire state, and it’s always open season. The hogs are a menace, in that they steal food from the native wildlife, damage farmlands and infrastructure, spread disease to livestock, and attack people.  They are mean, stubborn, and not at all inclined to be eaten. They also tend to fight amongst themselves.

When they fight, they use their tusks to scrape along their opponent’s side and back. As these wounds heal, they create a tough layer of scar tissue that seems impenetrable, even to bullets. Not knowing this, Dad was all set to take a hunting rifle and head out the door, but he was stopped and told you never just take a rifle alone. Hunt in a group, he asked? No, take a .45 in a holster, as well.

“What do I need that for?” he wanted to know.

“Because once you’re out there, and that animal gets you treed, he’s there. He stays there till the day he dies. He won’t let you down from that tree. You may have shot at him with the rifle at the start, but you think you gonna get a rifle shot off from that tree? No way. Before you know it, there might be two or three of them there. So, you take that .45, and shoot ‘em in the head.”

Dad wouldn’t give me details of the hunt, and I leave it to you to decide whether the two-gun wisdom was shared before or after the hog hunt, but dinner the next night was a right tasty side of pork.

(I will tell you this: he was invited on a deer hunt when the family lived in Pennsylvania. He got up in the trees, sighted a likely buck with his rifle, took a good long look into the deer’s eyes, and lowered his gun. He just couldn’t shoot it.)

Twigs, Trains, and Blueberry Trees

Yesterday, my father told me that when he was young, he had no toys. It was the Great Depression, you see, and they couldn’t afford any little frivolities. Instead, said he, he would make do with the scrap ends of the lumber his father was using to build their home. Poor, sad, little boy. Resourceful and plucky, but forced to grow up early, and put away childish things. Serious from the start, that’s my Pops.

Don’t you believe it.

We had been looking through some old photos from a museum, and one featured a wooden rocking horse, brightly painted, and built around some sort of gliding mechanism. Real hair for the mane, saddle made of leather, reins draping downward. This was not your typical rocker. But Dad looked at that for only a moment, dismissing it quickly. So, too, went the metal roller skates that attached over the shoe—“We lived on a gravel road! How would I roller skate without killing myself?” No board games, no puppets, and what on earth would he do with a stuffed animal? They did have a radio, but that’s not a toy.

Last night, my mother called his bluff. Of course he had toys, said she. It may have been the Depression, but that didn’t mean the kids lost their imagination or determination. For her part, she and her group learned to make toys, like dolls out of corn silk or rags, or find a rock to scratch a hopscotch pattern on the ground. At this point, Dad admitted to making things, too. He would take two bits of wood, and nail them together to make a gun, and go play War. Or find a twig on the ground, and chase the little girls with it.

Dad on his trike, looking for things to run into.

But of course he had some toys, manufacture or otherwise. When the family lived in Chicago, there was some money, and my dad was the first grandchild. You may remember his balloon-tire tricycle, with which he attacked neighborhood garage doors. There were always pennies to put on the railroad tracks, and the fence around the railroad right-of-way to clamber over and conquer. There was a frenemy who would scrap with him every day after school, just for the fun of fighting—or perhaps because of the pretty-boy clothes Grandma Lucille insisting on dressing him in.  

Dad looking fancy in 1938.

When not chasing little girls or fighting bigger boys, he could look forward to rides in the family’s new 1940 Ford convertible. With his father at the wheel, his mother up front with his baby sister, Dad had the backseat to himself, and he could stretch out and revel in the wind in his face. There was the small matter of his father’s chewing tobacco. Grandpa Tony would spit out the window, but right back in it would come, right at my dad. He laughs now, but I’m not sure that part of the ride qualified as fun.

And he had an electric train set.

Like most things in his life, he just had to push the limits with that train. Maybe three or four cars long, with a caboose, it was just big enough to have some real fun with. He would race it around and around the track, letting it gain momentum, trying to see at what point it would jump the track. It just wasn’t a complete session unless the train derailed. Much like how he rode his bike as a young teen—standing on the seat while racing down steep hills. Always live to the edge. Always see just how far you can go.

You can’t always stop the fun to think about the consequences. Once, he noticed a handsaw in their garage in Chicago. The Investigative Child immediately grasped the possibilities, as well as the handles of the saw. He trotted over to the blueberry tree his Grandpa Petrakovitz had planted, from which fruit he made his wine, and climbed on up. Once he was comfortably ensconced on a limb, about 4 or 5 feet from the ground, he began to saw. He just knew that limb had to come off—oh, the fun he would have with it then!

Well, he was sawing away, and sawing away, stopping every so often to check on his progress, when his father emerged from the apartment, camera in hand. He just stood there, close to the tree, watching his four year-old son at his play-work. Eventually, Dad noticed the camera, and asked what was going on. “Oh, said his father, laughing, “I’m just waiting for that branch to come down. Just keep cutting.”

“But why are just standing there, with that camera?”

“Just waiting for the picture to happen. Son, when that limb falls, you’re going to fall. You’re sitting on the wrong side of the cut!”

He stopped sawing. But the disappointment still remains: his adventure was cut short. His glory went unachieved. Unlike the time he borrowed a buddy’s motorcycle. But that, as you know, is another story, for another day.

Christmas, 1951. Back: Tony Sr., Rezie, John, Tony Jr.
Front: Lucille, Jim, Donna, Dad. There were toys aplenty,
but none for Dad (cue the sad music). 

The Henry J

A little off on the spelling, but all the cops in town knew him by first name, anyway.

Dad’s love affair with cars began early. He was 15 years old when he received a provisional driver’s license. That, of course, is not the age he actually began driving. 

His first job was at a gas station. The station was also a mechanic and body shop, and they had a contract with the county to clear the wrecks from the roads. He had a first-hand glimpse into what happened when you took your mind off the road.

Of course, Dad is immortal, so instead of being scared by the twisted hunks of metal, and the horrific scenes that awaited him when he went along on the tow-truck as assistant, he learned. As he rode along those country roads with friends and relatives, he began to assemble his rules of the road. These include:

Look beneath a parked car for little feet—their owners often can’t be seen by looking over the car.

Don’t worry about the idiot directly in front of you, but the one a quarter-mile ahead.

Brakes are for stoplights, not for speed or course corrections.

Speed limits are just suggestions.

Slow drivers are road hazards. Don’t be a road hazard.

He never forgot those early rules. While some of them contain nuggets of safe driving wisdom, the lessons he took to heart included drive hard, drive fast, go around when you can’t go through, and wait till the last possible second to stop. He’s scared many an unsuspecting passenger and fellow driver over the years, but, by gum, he’s still standing. He’s just not driving anymore. But I digress.

When Dad was 18, he bought his first car, a used Henry J. The mechanic at the gas station had one, and the car treated him well: great gas mileage, solid engine, good for the commute and the errands. Dad figured he’d give it a try. The one he found was cream with red—nice and sporty looking. It wasn’t quite as sporty as it appeared, being blessed with only 3 gears, but Dad still found a way to goose it up: he never took it out of second gear. The resulting rumble was loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the neighbors. That car only lasted a year before it somehow needed both a new set of tires and a new engine.

Dad and his new girlfriend Henry J.

Dad then traded in the used Henry J for a new one. Dark paint job this time, and a 6-cylinder engine. Which, again, he never took out of second gear. He tried to explain that this practice meant that he never had to downshift when he needed more power for passing other cars (or pacing trains--not that he would). He claims he always drove responsibly. Naturally.

One year later, it was again time for another motor, er, car. Rest in peace, Henry J.

The Ford that he purchased saw him through his apprenticeship, through boot camp and on into the Navy, where it was the go-to vehicle for Drive-In Movie Dollar nights. But that, you know, is another tale, for another time.

Thankfulness and Bowling

Forest around Lake Zurich. Good place for hunting.

During his youth Thanksgiving marked the opening of rabbit-hunting season for my father. With his small rifle, he didn’t bother going after larger game (assuming there was any left in the area other than the deer that lived on the farms). So, early fall was squirrel season, late fall-early winter was rabbit season, and anytime he had the car to chase them around the fields qualified as pheasant season.

It is doubtful that any of his kills ever ended up on the Thanksgiving table, although he doesn’t recall the exact nature of that festal spread. When he was small, the family shared their holiday meal with Anton and Raisie, eating whatever delightful dishes Raisie could concoct. Instead of apple pie, the meal would be topped off with piping hot apple strudel. Mmmmm. Sounds good, doesn’t it?

In Lake Zurich, it was up to Grandma Lou to do the cooking. During the war, food was rationed, so even the holiday meals were planned around what was available. After the war, it still took a few years for the economy to rebound. By the time he was old enough to appreciate a groaning table laden with goodies, he was old enough to want to be out and doing on a day off from school.

And, let’s be honest. My grandmother was no chef. She could burn water. One Friday when he was a wee lad, dad was handed a plate of scrambled eggs and corn—just as appetizing as it sounds, folks—for his dinner, and instead of eating it, he threw it at the ceiling in disgusted protest. He didn’t get anything to eat that night. Frankly, I’m surprised that he didn’t get a whipping, and then have to eat what fell off the ceiling.

Once he was married, he and mom came back to the homestead for Thanksgiving for several years, right up until they moved away for work. Then it was my mother’s turn to try to please several finicky appetites. One of my sisters-in-law has fond memories of helping her mother prepare their Thanksgiving dinner. But there were so many little bodies invading mom’s kitchen—and not to help prepare—that mother, in frustration, asked Dad to take them out of the house. He decided it was the perfect day to go bowling.

Learning to bowl is required in our family.

And that, my friends, is our family’s Thanksgiving tradition: we go bowling. Oh, there was a year or two where Mom joined us, but only if the meal was already under control, and the turkey was a’roasting, or much later, with only a child or two left at home, when we tried to go to a restaurant for our feast.  Usually, she shooed us out the door, and enjoyed some peace and quiet while she attacked one of her least favorite chores, cooking.

Dad, as it turns out, was a league bowler, both before and after his Navy stint. He took Mom bowling a time or two when they were dating. He had a purple-and-gold bowling outfit (yes, outfit. His mother managed to find purple pants to go with the lovely purple team shirt. So what if they were too big? Just tack that waist, and enjoy the oh-so-flattering paper-bag effect!), but Mom managed to “lose” it during a move.

Both he and Mom bowled on the company bowling team when they lived in Pennsylvania. Legend has it, the two best female bowlers on the team were both 9 months pregnant (yes, Mom was one of them) during the league championships. The betting pool was fierce. Both ladies went into labor the same day, but there were many different bets booked. Who would deliver first? (The other mom) Which baby would be bigger? (Ours) And who would win the wheelchair race to the cars after being discharged from the hospital? (Dad and Mom, by a hair).

Old school bowling alley

Tony came by this bowling craze quite naturally. There was, after all, an 8-lane bowling alley in Lake Zurich. The perfect place for a young, not-quite-hoodlum to gather after work with his buddies. 

By his late teens, Lake Zurich had the alley, a drive-inn restaurant, a gas station-restaurant-malt shop complex, and two—yes, two!—police officers. There was the night-time guy who doubled as the street-sweeper during the day, and a new-to-them daytime officer with actual experience in law enforcement, and his own pistol.

Now the police officers knew my father. They knew to watch him. When Dad got in his car, the police officer would follow him around, and then report his doings to his parents, hopefully before too much trouble happened. Once, when Dad was at the bowling alley, he came outside to find the day officer in the parking lot.

At one end of the lot was a large pile of dirt that had been excavated from a building site.  Now, remember, the officers knew Dad, and Tony, by then, was well acquainted with them. And Dad has always been good at shooting the breeze. This Saturday, he was full of hot air, discussing guns and aiming and the practice of policing.

Dad asked the officer how well his aim was. Could he, for instance, hit a small target at a medium distance? I’ll bet, said Tony, that you couldn’t hit my watch if I put it on that dirt pile 80 feet away.

Well, the officer was willing to take that bet, and hoped Tony wasn’t too fond of his watch. Dad marched over and put his watch—actually, his father’s watch that he had borrowed from him, but why quibble over unimportant details?—on that mound of mud. The officer took slow and careful aim with his pistol, leaning against a break wall, steadying himself before…Boom! And off went a round.

The dirt flew up from the mound in a fountain of brown spray. There was certainly no doubt he could hit a large target, but what about the watch? Now Tony spared a moment to consider what his father might have to say about a watch with a bullet hole, and he approached the pile with some trepidation.

Not to worry. The officer had missed the watch by about an inch, covering it with dirt and muck, but leaving it otherwise untouched. Tony just brushed it off, and tucked it away. The watch would live another day. And so would he. Maybe that was an early Thanksgiving Day for Tony.

Maybe that’s why we go bowling on Thanksgiving: not to get us out of Mom’s hair, but to remind Dad that possessions are fleeting, but family is forever. To remind him of the lesson he learned that day by the bowling alley.

But don’t bet on it.

Happy Thanksgiving!