Category: Memories
A meeting forty years in the making
Perhaps you’re asking what did it take to break me out of a six-month blogging/social media slump? It wasn’t our continuing adventures in home improvement (Which include the good news of my still having 10 fingers following my first use of a miter saw). It’s not stories from the new gig (And there’s a lot to say, but now more than ever I gotta stand by my ‘No Work Rant’ editorial policy). It’s not that quadrennial exercise in democracy called an election (I’m itching to dive into this one, but my editorial policy also prohibits me from adding to the terabytes of opinions transiting the inter webs).
Well, you may be asking by now, what is it that’s inspired me to log back onto the blogosphere? How about a meeting that was 40 years in the making! Yes, I finally met one of my all-time favorite artists. I was face-to-face with John Oates when his book tour rolled into Philadelphia.
Not exactly shooting my best side, but in this we’ll make an exception!
What stood out most about meeting John (Exploiting the first-name basis like we’re old friends) wasn’t the memories of too many concerts to remember or those occasional times (Well, actually, often) when I pretend my car is the old Philly Spectrum or the Tower Theatre in Upper Darby, and I throw my H&O playlist on shuffle and add my unique vocal stylings to the duo’s songbook.
What stood out most was how good John looked for a 68-year old dude. Bright eyed, tanned, with a sprinkle of grey (How I hope to look when I’m that old – well minus the tanned part).
What also stood out – even if just for the moment in time I was in the same space – was how many events in my life – good, bad and all in between – were accompanied with one song or another from the Hall and Oates catalog.
She’s Gone was the soundtrack for more than a couple of breakups along the way (As was a deep, album cut Ain’t Gonna Take it This Time). Kiss on My List played on Lucky 99 FM in Atlantic City, blaring out of the speakers of our old Plymouth Duster in the summer of ‘81 shortly after I got my driver’s license. Maneater was a hit back in late 82, when I wa
s trying to figure out where I fit in as a college freshman. When I think of those days after my father’s death in 89, I think about the entire Change of Seasons album that was released shortly thereafter.
I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
Meeting John Oates was more than simply getting a book signed. It felt like seeing an old friend – a friend who’s been around, hanging out on the periphery of my life for the past 40 years.
Oh, and by the way, the book is a pretty darn good read!
Coming home – Part 2
You’ll recall when last we convened, I was waxing reminiscent about my return to my home state. Since then, we have closed the deal on the sale of Casa de McCullough, our former suburban Atlanta residence. Earlier this week, we signed the papers on our new digs: a modest, unpretentious Cape Cod-style home in New Jersey’s historic Gloucester County, a short hop across the Delaware from Philly.
My new address is also the date I got married. That’s got to be a good sign!
Not to weigh you down with the sentimentality that comes with being 50-plus – I did enough of that in our last post, but there is something special about living (Dare I say settling down?) in a community that – for my wife – is just up the road from where she grew up, and for yours truly, a ride down the Expressway.
Our new domicile will need some work, a few sprinkles of sugar before it’s home sweet home. This, my friends, is kind of exciting, despite my recent adventures – which I may share later – in the world of plumbing. I don’t want to go all HGTV on you, but I am looking forward to doing that whole Bob Villa weekend warrior thing, starting my Saturday at the neighborhood big box home improvement store (after a Jersey diner breakfast, of course), picking paints and sampling swatches, measuring once and cutting twice (I didn’t take shop class), and essentially working side-by-side with Mrs. M to put our mark on the place. The child is on board, and she has already selected colors for her room (And keep this between us, but I may have found a spot to display my 25-year old collection of shot glasses!).
The cats have settled in.
I think my aforementioned better half might be compiling a video diary of our journeys in renovation. I won’t go into spoiler land by posting any ‘before’ shots.
So if you see me in a tool belt and hard hat, it’s not that I’m decked out to audition for the Village People reunion (If so, I’d be the Cowboy, since he remains my favorite), it’s only me, enjoying the American dream, swinging my big hammer and trying not to lose any fingers!
P.S. For my comic book loving fellow geeks – and you know who you are! Check out the funky porch light the previous owner left behind. I looked around for a power ring to go along with it, but no luck!
“In brightest day, in blackest night…”
Coming home
I remember Easter Sundays strolling the Atlantic City Boardwalk decked out in a new suit straight off the boys’ husky rack at Lit’s. This, of course, followed a resurrection Sunday sermon at Union Baptist Church – the same house of worship where I would meet the love of my life on Mother’s Day, May 8, 1994.
I remember my third grade teacher at Holy Spirit Elementary School, Mrs. Phillips, who first taught me a lesson that still works today – if you don’t have something nice to say, say nothing at all. It was during the summer before third grade when I screwed up my ankle, landing incorrectly, sliding down a pole pretending to be Adam West’s stuntman circa 1967. I remember three of my teachers at Atlantic City High School, Mrs. Garfield who instilled what’s become a three decade dislike of anything dealing with Math (Why couldn’t I get Mrs. Hudgins??). On a more positive note, Mrs. Fordham turned me on to journalism, and Mr. Murphy who opened my mind to creative writing (A pair of writing disciplines that have helped put food on the table over the past thirty plus years).
There are memories of John Sr’s side hustle (back when it was called moonlighting), helping him during catering gigs at the Ramada. I remember slinging hash at the Trop (as in Tropicana Casino), holding down the garnish station at Shumsky’s, interning for Elyse and Sandy (who are likely reading this) at WMID/Lucky 99, and later weekend overnights – with my first FCC license and meter checking clipboard in hand – running the board a few notches up the dial at WFPG, running down news stories a few notches up the Parkway at WJLK and covering lawmakers I’d soon be working for/with during a stint at “New Jersey’s Station”, 101.5.
Those youthful days were the backdrop for dirt cheap matinees at the Beach and Charles theaters, a sip or two of a margarita at Los Amigos, never being there when Bruce would drop in at the Stone Pony, a couple of summer visits to frat brother Joe’s beach house in Spring Lake, concerts at the old Brendan Byrne Arena and more than a few Ice Capades and WWWF (yes, long before WWE) shows at the even older Convention Hall in Atlantic City.
Then I grew up and did a turn in the public sector, in Asbury Park and Trenton. In Asbury (The locals don’t use ‘Park’), I staffed Police Chief/Mayor/Assemblyman Tom Smith, who taught me a great deal about integrity and standing up for what you believe (The same thing a future former manager tried to do not too long ago with, sadly, not the most favorable results).
I still have my autographed copy of Governor Tom Kean’s Politics of Inclusion.
It was in Trenton when I had the opportunity to work down the hall from the first N.J. governor named Christie, who was also the state’s first female governor. If things worked out differently she could have made it to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue (which is as close to talking about politics as I’ll go in these pages).
In the private sector, I punched a few clocks. I was a government affairs official for the state’s number two electric utility (And how ironic that 16 years later, I’m working at number one!), where I was assigned to spend New Year’s Eve 1999, waiting for the world to end, in a bunker at the N.J. State Police headquarters. My Jersey work life (present employment notwithstanding) culminated in a very cool gig at a big telco supplier whose name keeps changing.
And in true Big East fashion, this 2.8 S.U. Orangeman (Sorry, my S.U. memories will always be Big East) bachelors grad actually picked up a book to become a 3.8 and change Seton Hall Pirate masters grad (Funny how one takes one’s education more seriously when one is paying for it!).
The last Garden State memory I’ll share is that life-changing morning thirteen winters ago, when a little girl named Zoe ripped (inside joke) her way into the world in the delivery room at Plainfield N.J.’s Muhlenberg Hospital.
I share these memories to provide a deeper context for my friends and colleagues who questioned my motives for returning to my home state.
Don’t get me wrong, I truly enjoyed the past ten years spent in Atlanta. The history and the culture are unparalleled, and I’ve had the good fortune to meet some spectacular individuals whose friendships I will cherish for the rest of my life (especially a couple of guys in white coats for whom I’ll be forever in debt).
It’s today’s family responsibilities that have willingly brought me home, but equally important and more impactful are the decades of memories that came rushing back as soon as the McCullough wagon train crossed the Delaware – many of these memories I’ve already shared over the years in these pages.
Getting a tad too old for a do it yourself move, but we got it done!
Yeah, I’ll pay higher taxes (with my, thankfully, slightly correspondingly higher salary), I’ll shovel snow (a little core work won’t hurt this dad bod, but I don’t think we’ll be paralyzed by a few flakes like a certain city was a couple of winters ago, cough – Snowmageddon – cough), and yeah, I’ll miss those life-decaying minutes stuck in traffic.
But that’s OK, because I’m home, and I’m looking forward to making new Jersey memories (Get it? ‘new’ Jersey) during what’s left of my middle ages and beyond.
That’s all for now. I’m going to have my car filled up (I can’t believe we still don’t have self-service in Jersey?!?! ), swing by the farmer’s market for some Jersey tomatoes, then hit Whitehouse for a sub and a bag of Herrs.
For those of you who remember the old Piscopo bit, I’ll save you the trouble. When you come to visit, take Turnpike exit 4!
Just Help
Back in college I had a summer job at Shumsky’s restaurant in Atlantic City. I was a porter and every now and then, I got the chance to work on the line. On Saturday nights and some weeknights we would get a big dinner crowd (Please remind me to share a few memories of Summer nights in Atlantic City in the early to mid 80s), and during those services when we got especially slammed, I remember one of the owners – the one who usually dealt with the front of the house – who would appear in the kitchen – seemingly out of nowhere.
He’d take off his jacket, roll up his sleeves, throw on an apron and dive into the fray that was a busy kitchen during a hectic dinner service.
He didn’t ask if anyone needed assistance. He just helped.
Memories of a summer job
He didn’t say – hey, I’m going to grab a stack of clean plates off the dishwasher and restock the line – he just helped. He didn’t ask if he could assemble a few orders and serve waiting customers – he just helped. He didn’t ponder over whether to dump a trash can and drop in a fresh liner – he just helped.
And when the rush was over, he didn’t stand in the center of the kitchen and await recognition or applause, he simply took off his apron, unrolled his sleeves, grabbed his jacket and went back to the front of the house.
Sure, you might argue, he stepped in because he’s an owner and an overwhelmed, backed up kitchen ain’t good for business. That may have been the case, but I will always remember the way Mr. Shumsky’s almost knowingly, proactively stepped in and just helped.
This is something I strive to do, but it’s not always easy.
We all can think of situations where by the time help is offered, we’re so deep into our situation (or as we said in the kitchen – in the weeds) that the help – although greatly appreciated – may not be enough.
This is why we shouldn’t wait until someone is struggling. If it’s within our range of ability – we should get involved. Don’t wait until your friend, family member, co-worker, neighbor, etc. has a garbage can that’s overflowing. Help them take out their trash and go a step further and assist them in starting over with a new liner.
Metaphorically speaking, that is.
How can you and I get better at this? We can pay greater attention. We can show empathy. We can aim to be selfless. And more importantly, we can simply get our cranial anatomy out of our lower bowel, rectal orifice and just help.
Lose win situations
A week or so ago, I had two chances to win in a pair of separate 50-50 drawings.
Both times I lost.
But that following weekend, the nice lady at my neighborhood big box retailer got a little heavy-handed while slicing my cold cut order. She went a few slices past the pound I ordered. I wasn’t too bothered because the meat wouldn’t have gone to waste, but she took the extra slices off the scale, rang up a pound, and then put the overage back with the rest of my order.
I left the deli counter thinking that was a nice thing to do (Without a drop of remorse over getting nearly a quarter of a pound of on the house turkey from my big box grocery conglomerate!), and then I later thought, that made up for losing in the 50-50s earlier in the week.
As I drove home from the store, thoughts of similar lose win situations flowed through my brain.
Rewind the clock back some 40-plus years when I was a little guy. Actually, it was around this time of the year – summer – when I didn’t have the opportunity to go to day camp, get a cool t-shirt, swim, make crafts and do whatever else kids were doing in day camp. Instead I stayed home – balancing my time between hanging out with my grandmother and playing freeze tag, hide and seek and dodge ball with my neighborhood friends.
Summertime in the early 70s!
That was a lose win situation because to this day, I have great memories of both running the streets (When it was safe to run the streets and not end up a statistic or on a milk carton) and getting Ph.D. level life lessons from my grandmother.
Another lose win situation came in high school when I had my heart set on going to Temple University. I didn’t get in. I had to settle for my second choice – Syracuse University. I won because those four years at SU were four of the most entertaining…uh, I mean educational years of my life.
I’ve lost and won in the romance department. Without going into specifics, I lost a lot in my twenties, but as the song goes, I fooled around and fell in love a month or so after my 30th birthday, and I’ve been a winner ever since.
Cousin Steve!
And of course no story about lose win would be complete without a discussion of my flowing ebony locks – which I slowly began to lose in my early 30s. Little did I know that in losing my hair, I would be winning because for the rest of my days, I get to hear how much I look like Steve Harvey!
What is my point, you might ask?
Life is a series of lose win situations. We may not always get what we want, but that’s OK. Just deal with it. Adapt and move on, because when we least expect it, a few extra slices of cold cuts or some other victory is usually just around the corner.
Sweet Problems
It’s been awhile since we’ve had a Toastmasters chapter at the ol’ j-o-b.
Now we’re all recharted and back in the speaking game!
Submitted below for your consideration is a reconfiguring of remarks I recently shared with our club.
I’m going to share a personal matter, and since we’re all friends, I feel safe and comfortable in making this heartfelt confession.
I have a sweet tooth.
A sweet tooth particularly for candy.
If you read the health reports, you’ll see that ‘they’ – whoever ‘they’ are – say that too much candy is not good for you. And, in some cases, ‘they’ are right. But this presents one of those opportunities when we can turn a negative into a positive.
This is why I would argue that there is at least one case where candy – particularly hard candy – can be very good for you – and it’s not just to freshen your breath!
I’m a pretty happy go lucky guy. I’m blessed and fortunate not to have too many issues in my life, but every once in a while, I have problems. And when I do, I think about hard candy.
But I don’t want you to think this is a speech about candy.
It is a speech about problem solving. It’s a method you won’t find chronicled in the Harvard Business review, and I don’t believe they’re teaching it to the MBAs at Georgia Tech, but it’s a way of thinking that works for me, and perhaps you may find some value in this approach and direct it toward any problems you might encounter in your lives.
I find that the best way to handle problems is to treat them like hard candy.
We all know there are two tried and true ways to consume hard candy.
One, you can hold it in your mouth and eventually it will slowly melt away.
Think about some of the problems you’ve had – whether they be business or personal – they are like pieces of hard candy.
Those problems appear hard, they appear impenetrable. But if you are patient, those problems – like pieces of candy will slowly melt away.
Second, there is a more aggressive approach.
You can take a piece of candy and crunch down on it hard and in a few seconds, it’s gone.
This is also a very effective way to take care of your problems. Bite down hard and chew them up as quickly as you can.
A variation on this theme is how we used to consume Charms Blow Pops as kids. We either slowly worked our way down to the gum, or we didn’t waste time and just crunched away at the hard shell and got right to the gum.
I always liked to take my time and work my way down to the gum.
It says a lot about our personality – are we slow and methodical or do we hurry up and get to the gum?
There’s no right or wrong. It’s all about what works best for you. It really depends on the situation, there are those times when we need to move quickly and there are those times when taking our time and working things out slowly is the best approach.
Of course at a future date, we can talk about an entirely different class of problems.
Those are the problems we may encounter that are like Jujyfruits. We chew, and chew, and chew before they eventually go away.
And let us not forget those worst-case scenario problems – the ones that are like gum on the bottom of your shoe – they just stick with us until we literally have to scrape them away.
Of course, I’m having a little fun – comparing candy to problems. But in all seriousness, when we encounter problems in our life, solving them tends to take two distinct forms – we can take our time and work to solve them slowly – or we can bite down hard on them and work them out quickly.
Whichever way works for you, just go for it. Again, there are no rights or wrongs. My only wish for you dear friends is that all of your problems are sweet ones.
My grandmother’s pen
Pictured below is an assortment of pens I’ve had ever since I packed up the old Ford Escort and moved away from Drexel avenue way back in the winter of 86.
Over the years, this bunch of pens has contracted and expanded. Pens have come and pens have gone, but there’s been one writing instrument that I’ve seemed to have held on to all of these years. It’s an old pink Paper Mate pen that belonged to my paternal grandmother.
It’s a pretty basic pen – ink, not gel. It doesn’t have a stylus tip, and there is no squishy ergonomically correct cushioning to reduce the potential trauma of writing more than five words.
It caught my eye one morning not too long ago as I was grabbing a pen to toss in my pocket.
All was well until I was sitting in a meeting and had a cause to take notes. I attempted to write and realized this pen – I think first used when Carter was in office – was all dried out (Not to be confused with All Cried Out, that Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam 1985 hit). Always prepared (Truth be told, I’m one ink ruined shirt away from carrying a pocket protector – hey if fanny packs are coming back, why not?) I deployed my back up writing tool and commenced my note taking, in my never ending efforts to look professional (As I tried to avoid asphyxiation brought on by the cloud of pompous, hot air that sucked all breathable oxygen out of the room).
Normally if one of my old pens fails to perform I toss it out, but in this case I couldn’t bear to part with this relic from my younger days. I had to bring this old girl back to life.
As soon as I returned home, I gently dismantled the pen and removed the expended ink supply, and like CSI Gil Grissom at a crime scene, I tossed the empty ink vessel into a zip top plastic bag. Next stop, my neighborhood (Really, it is in my neighborhood, right down the road from Casa de McCullough) big box office supply store.
I found my way to the refill section on the writing instrument (Cause pen and pencil ain’t fancy enough) aisle. If there were any part numbers or similar descriptors on the old ink supply, I didn’t see them, so I had to rely on my sharp (Multi-focal contact lens enhanced) eyes to match the old ink to a new refill.
Suppressing the urge to yell “Eureka!” I found a refill that looked like it would fit. So I made the purchase and rushed back to my (Wannabe Tony Stark workshop) basement to perform the delicate reassembly.
The refill fit perfectly, and this venerable writing instrument was back in service.
Right about now I bet you’re wondering why I would take over 400 words to gush over replacing the ink in a 35+ year old pen.
Long time readers of these pages know I harbor a sentimental side. Bringing back to life a pen that wrote letters and completed crossword puzzles brought back memories of a time when people actually wrote letters and completed crossword puzzles.
I’m happy that this writing implement accompanies me to the 9 to 5 from time to time. It makes me feel like my grandmother – who didn’t get a lot of education and wore a domestic’s uniform gets to hang out with her grandson who got a lot of education (Some I even still use) and wears suits, ties and dress shirts.
And on that dress shirt is a pocket where I can carry a big piece of my youth close to my heart.
Rain
Into each life some rain must fall.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The McCullough Nature Conservatory has grown by one. Please say hello to Rain (Creatively named after the classic spiritual Didn’t it Rain)
My incredibly hip mother-in-law who is also Zoe’s grandmother lovingly gave this beautiful animal to us, and he is adapting very quickly to his new family and new surroundings.
What’s fascinating is watching the interplay between the charter member of the McCullough Zoo — Rocky — and his new housemate. Both animals are six years old but that’s where the similarity ends.
Rain, a purebred Shih Tzu, is a retired, award-winning show dog. Rocky, a mixed breed Pug/ Beagle, is a rescue dog who doesn’t know AKC from KFC. But yet these two irresistible hounds are getting along rather nicely.
Now normally this is where I’d go off on a deep philosophical rant about how two disparate souls from different backgrounds and upbringings can get along harmoniously.
Yes, right about now, I’d do a perfect cross fit like box jump on to my soap box and go all can’t we all just get along on you.
Both dogs are highly trained in the fine art of chilling
This is about the time I’d use Rocky and Rain’s new relationship as a metaphor to represent how two beings who are worlds apart when brought together in a loving environment should be able to co-exist with very little struggle.
Yes, this is the time I’d get (In the very subtle style long time readers of these pages are familiar with) preachy.
But that will have to wait.
It’s my day off and I really want to get back to playing with my new dog.
Welcome to the family Rain!
A sad day in the basement
I often enjoy rooting around in my basement. If you haven’t gathered by some of our past conversations, I’m a bit of a sentimentalist and from time to time I’ve been known to take a stroll down memory lane.
What a great book!
Such was the case a few days ago when I was going through some old books. Maybe this has happened to you, but when I pick up an old book, I not only think about its content, but I immediately think back to where I was in my life when I first read it, what was going on in my world and the world around me.
One such book is Brothers and Sisters by Bebe Moore Campbell. Released in 1994 (Right in the thick of my striped tie and suspender wearing wanna be buppie days), Brothers and Sisters is set in Los Angeles during the aftermath of the Rodney King beating and the subsequent riots (Forgive the digression, but ain’t it funny how history has a way of repeating itself). The main character of the story is a woman of color who’s trying her best to ascend the corporate ladder and have some semblance of a personal life.
It’s a decent story that 20 plus years later still stands up as a good read.
It’s such a good read, that while rummaging around the basement I thought to myself, what is Ms. Campbell up to these days. It’s been awhile, and I’d love to read any of her new material. So I took out my trusty mobile communications device and asked Siri (Because I’m a geek like that) to give me all she had on Bebe Moore Campbell.
Sadly, the first item among the search results was an obituary. Bebe Moore Campbell lost a fight with cancer In 2006.
Upon learning of her death, I uncharacteristically made things all about me. I was annoyed that I wouldn’t get any new material from her. I can count on one hand the scant number of authors I enjoy, and now that number was cut by one.
Campbell left behind a family for whom her death means more than just not having a good book to read. This reality fortunately snapped me out of what was an embarrassing atypical display of selfishness.
A wonderful feature of books (Paper versus digital is a debate for another day) is that they last and the stories they tell — especially good ones like Brothers and Sisters — endure.
Sorry I’m late, but rest in peace Bebe.
How’s your falsetto?
I treated myself to a copy of Daryl Hall and John Oates Live in Dublin performance DVD. You all know how much I dig those guys, so I won’t weigh you down with a review of the concert.
The guys offered up a deep track (Unless you’re a long time fan) you’ve never heard before. It’s a song from 1976 called “Back Together Again.”
The song’s chorus is punctuated by Daryl Hall’s smooth falsetto. Fast forward nearly 40 years to the performance of the same song from the Live from Dublin concert.
You’ll notice that Daryl’s falsetto is a little grittier. And that’s to be expected from a vocalist who’s been in the game longer than some readers of these pages have been on this planet.
So, where am I going with this?
I’ll tell you, but first, please buckle your seat belts because we’re going to take a quick trip down the philosophical highway!
Daryl Hall’s seasoned falsetto is a metaphor for what many of us 50+ midlifers are experiencing.
Can we still hit the high notes of our youth? Probably not (And in some cases, why would we want to? Some songs from our old catalog may best remain unsung – if you know what I’m saying!). But our more seasoned voices are still strong enough to rock the house.
And to keep this musical analogy going, kinda like an encore. (Get those lighters up!),
I’m sure many of my fellow performers in the band that is midlife would agree, we’re at a meaningful point in our existence where it’s more fulfilling to please a small amount of true fans in an intimate club setting, versus trying to make everyone happy in an overflowing stadium.
Ouch, I should have warmed up before that stretch. I think I got a groin pull!
Anyway, rock on Daryl! And to my fellow midlife band mates, yeah, our falsetto may have a little age on it, but that doesn’t mean we have to stop singing our song!
The Midlife Chronicles 