A Rockin' and a Rollin'

I’ve been thinking about Van Halen recently. A father and son came into my store the other day because they heard that quartet had come out with a new book. I did my best to hunt down what they were looking for, but wanted to inform them that Van Halen had stopped being cool about twenty years ago. Sadly, they had not produced any literature in recent months. Father and son didn’t seem to mind much so all was okay.

Conversations of this nature happen daily. Misguided customers are a regular occurrence, but these two reminded me of a moment in my childhood. It was 1984 and I had saved enough money to purchase the new Van Halen album titled . . .”1984.” I was eight years old at the time which meant I had no way of transporting myself to the record store without the help of someone at least sixteen years old and in possession of a driver’s license and a car. This usually meant my mother, but on rare occasions . . . very rare occasions, it also meant my father.

My mother was twenty-one when I was born. She “grew up” on the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles. She spoke often of Tom Petty, Steve Miller, Janis Joplin. Bruce Springsteen was usually blaring when I came home from school. Needless to say, my mother had great taste in music and I recognized this at an early age. So how did it happen that my father was driving me to buy the latest Van Halen album? I never complimented my mother on her choice in music, it didn’t seem right, but shouldn’t she be taking me? Did she not like Van Halen? Maybe not, but she loved me, right?

No, I'm pretty sure this one could be chalked up to a guilt trip. Looking back, I can clearly see my mother accusing my father of not spending time with his eldest son. “Jack, take your son to buy his tape, bond with him,” she would have said. Normally, this accusation would not have fazed my dad, but on this day it did. Maybe we’ll never know why, but it happened. Next thing I know, I was on my way to the record store with . . .my father. The guy who listened to Grand Funk Railroad and thought “Reelin’ in the Years” was Steely Dan’s best song.

This is where the story gets even more interesting. (Go ahead and admit you’re interested) Upon arriving at Tower Records, a young punk sporting a Mohawk informed me that they were sold out of the new Van Halen album. I remember being disappointed, who wouldn’t be, but determined to hold onto my money until stock arrived. I told my dad the situation and said that we could go home. “Get something else,” he told me. “I’m waiting for 1984,” I replied annoyingly, “Ed Scapinok has it and it is AWESOME.” I wasn’t going to compromise.

My dad walked over to the section containing previous releases from Van Halen and suggested I choose another album. I once again insisted that I was saving my money for “1984”. “No,” my father said, “I’ll buy it for you.” Now, Jack Eseltine didn’t utter those five words often. I remember feeling as if I was being tested. What was this guy up to? I was racking my brain, asking myself, “What am I supposed to say here?” Maybe it wasn’t a test. I had heard about alien abductions on TV, but never thought it could happen so close to home. My father was never known to offer much, but here he was.

I reluctantly chose “Women and Children First,” a collection of lesser quality, but the price was right so I didn’t complain. Maybe my dad wouldn’t have accompanied me that day unless my mom forced the issue, but he came along. He made the effort and even at eight years old, I knew that was important. I wonder if that father and son, bonding over rock and roll, enjoy Van Halen as much as I did listening to it in the truck and the way home that day.

For the record: My mom started liking Van Halen about the time I disregarded them; With the departure of David Lee Roth and the introduction of Sammy Hagar.

Little League Woes

I am really starting to like this “story of federalcheese” thing. It gives me an opportunity to reflect back on my childhood and ruminate immensely. My favorite part is not the completion of a post, but the deliberations on what to write about next. I don’t want to proceed out of my childhood too fast as there is so much to write about. My parents, my brothers, my triumphs, my follies, all provide such fodder for this site.

One of my favorite things in life is baseball. My father signed me up for little league when I was five, but I don’t remember much about it. As legend goes, the first ball that was thrown to me hit me square in the chest as I was never told about the act of putting one’s hands up to catch it, or at least, deflect it from slamming into you. You have to think about the intricacies of the game of baseball for young children. “I’m going to throw a hard, round object at your head, you try and catch it.” The whole situation is wrought with potential disaster, yet it happens everyday. Why, because baseball is the greatest thing invented by mankind since. . .well since a tart named Eve stole an apple and started the whole thing.

Little league was a minor aspect of my life until I reached the age of eleven. Sure, my minor league team had won the division the year before, but that was in the Minors. No, recognition only came from victories in the Majors and my team was the Cardinals. My mother’s boyfriend is a Dodger fan. Why, because his children played on the Dodgers while in little league, which I believe to be CRAZY. Yet, I still have a soft place in my heart for the Cardinals, because they represent the best times I had playing baseball as a child.

The Cardinals biggest rivals were, by far, the Rockets. They were notorious. They had a coaching staff of like TWELVE guys. They were the Yankees of little league. Young, zealous parents strived to have their kids on the Rockets. Uninformed, simple folk rooted for them solely because they won games. And the Cardinals were the team to bring them down. We had the team to do it too. Mike Debiasi at short, our ace in Richard Lear, the Josephsons, the Currans, we had it all. I had discovered a new position at catcher (which would later be the end of me due to genetically bad knees) and was having the time of my life. Everyone seemed impressed with my play behind the plate and I didn’t understand it. It was so easy for me and it took such little effort, but it was not to last. My father’s genes were to strike me down in the long run. But at the time, the world was within the Cardinal's grasp and all we had to do was take it.

It was not to be. The Cardinals and Rockets dominated the league. At the end of the season, we played one final game to determine the championship. Two evenly matched teams, dueling it out, a fight to the death, but extenuating circumstances took control. There was a controversial “runner interference” call, crushing the Cardinal’s momentum. Now, I can’t prove money was exchanged, but the call was BULLSHIT and any impartial fan there would agree. Twelve-year-olds shouldn’t have to witness such aberrations of justice, but we all grew up a bit that day. Nice guys don’t always win. That day was proof of that.

As children, we don’t know the full extent of defeat. That feeling doesn’t come until adulthood, hence our parent’s crushing depression following our loss. The kids on the team quickly moved on, several of us being selected to the All-Star team coached by the Rocket’s Manager Bob Beberg. I hate to admit this to the true Cardinal fans of the day, but I learned a lot from being on that all-star team. The Rocket's coaching staff was nothing but graceful and accomodating to me. Later, in college, some of my best friends were some of the very same kids on that infamous Rockets team.

What’s the moral of this story? Kids are resilient? Sports are inconsequential? No, the moral is that adults always screw things up and children should always remember that. Don’t make the same mistakes our parents made. Organize and make the bribes before the other team can.

Escapes

I had a day off a while back and had decided to go surfing. Upon arriving at the ocean, I discovered the surf sucked. But I was determined to do something outside this day. I spend upwards of forty hours a week in an air-conditioned vacuum and the guilt was becoming too much to bear. No, I was going to be outside today, if only for an hour or so. I remembered a nice little trail around some open space near my house and, best of all; I wouldn’t have to get in the car.

I took the camera and the binoculars and was on my way. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been on a hike and after giving it much thought, I still can’t. I had also forgot how a simple act like going for a walk really put life in perspective. It is so easy to forget about the escapes so close to us such as watching birds and listening to the wind in the trees. These may not be your personal escapes, but I hope everybody has their own.

It was during my hike that I remembered how much I used to enjoy the annual family camping trip. It was my personal escape from the hustle and bustle of adolescence for years. We usually went late in the summer, after the little league season was over, but also after most of the rivers had run dry. It was the last hoorah of the summer, with school beginning in a few short weeks. I call it a “camping” trip with some reservations. When my brothers and I were young (and small) my family would spend a week crammed into a large family tent. To this day, I have absolutely no idea how we managed to do it, but I do remember it being a ton of fun. Later when we were bigger and my dad had more money, we all stayed in a one-room cabin at Silver Lake on Highway 88. Eventually, we were able to stay in the “luxury” three-room cabins with the only luxury being the ability to separate myself from my dad’s snoring. But none of that mattered. It didn’t matter if it was Silver Lake or my aunts’ cabin near Donner Pass. It didn’t matter if it was overpriced Sorenson’s catering to BMW driving yuppies (we only stayed there once and I was witness to my mother crying at the news of Stevie Ray Vaughn’s death). What did matter was that we were out of the city.

Now, looking back, my childhood wasn’t all that stressful. There were some intense street football games and the heated phone calls if the paper route was running late, but all and all, it wasn’t so bad. The camping trip was always the pinnacle of the summer. My dad would stress that we needed to be packed the night before, because he wanted to get an early start. And every summer we would believe him, but we never left early. No, my dad had this little trick. He was always angry with us and/or my mother for something we had done or not done. The threat of calling off the camping trip due to this delayed departure for a few hours. After we were underway, the complaints from dad then revolved around getting such a late start.

Once at the “camping” site, the first goal was always to explore the surrounding areas. It didn’t matter if we had stayed at this particular site for the past three years; there were perimeters and outposts to be set up (God bless the Cold War for providing such fodder). My brothers and I would play the ultimate game of hide-and-seek culminating in all three of us sitting by what remained of the river and throwing rocks. I would sit and listen to the river and the birds and the trees while my brothers pushed and shoved each other. We could do this until it got too dark and cold, always postponing the trip back to our parent’s arguments until the last moment.

There was fishing, hiking, swimming and always a whole lot of just sitting around. Now, as an adult, I don’t get to go camping as much as I would like and it never seems as much fun as I remember it. If I can get the time off of work and can find an unreserved spot, the camping trip is never going to be what it once was. But I can still stop and wonder about how birds came to be so beautiful. I can still listen to the sound of a creek and the wind in the trees. Those escapes will always be the same.

Life with father

My mom once said that my dad was too young when I was born. That he didn’t know how to be a father yet. This explains a lot about my father and I and our relationship growing up. I didn’t understand him and I don’t think he understood me. We had similar interests such as fishing, baseball, model building, but fundamentally we were different people. My entire childhood can be seen as the two of us slowly getting to know each other.

I remember getting very upset once, at what I can’t remember, but at the time it seemed important. It may very well have been important simply because my father felt the need to cheer me up. This didn’t happen very often so I remember when it did. My frustration had grown to such a level that I retreated to my secret hideaway deep within the recesses of our back yard pine tree. It turns out it wasn’t so secret as my father decided to do some work in the garage, in plain view from the pine tree and try to entice me into helping. He even went so far as to begin work on a model of a `49 Ford and yell out that he wished that he had somebody to help him with it.

Now, looking back, one would think that I would have been overjoyed that my father had wanted my help with something. My father was reaching out to me, trying to create a bond with me in the hopes we might find a hobby to be enjoyed together. I didn’t see it this way.

What I did see was a hollow attempt to bring me out of that tree and I was not about to cave. I saw this charade for what it truly was; a test of wills. And at ten years old, I knew I was stronger. I held my proverbial ground, and didn’t move. He persisted, and even went so far as to break out the airbrush for the first primer coat. What he didn’t know was that I had the forethought of bringing up a copy of Boy’s Life Magazine with me into the tree, knowing I was going to be there for a while. I was not about to let my father win.

One might stop and ask the question: Why did this young boy feel that his relationship with his father was to be viewed as a battle? To which I reply that that was the reality my father created. It did build obvious barriers to a functional relationship, but it also helped me out in life. That competition has helped me overcome many challenges. From baseball games to always getting in the last word when someone was making fun of me, I learned not to back down from much. To this day that competitive fire is still inside me, for better or for worse.

So who won? Another lesson I learned at any early age was that my father was not a patient man. If you stuck to your guns long enough, there was a good chance you would come out on top. After about twenty minutes of his painting and gluing and my reading about the physiological changes bears undergo during hibernation, my father gave up. But my father was never one to simply stop what he was doing if he saw he was beat; he gave up with a bang. In this case it was the bang of the ’49 Ford slamming against the garage wall. My father never attempted to bribe me again, partly because it didn’t come easy to him, but also because I think he respected me a bit more for not giving in.

Grandpa Himel, I didn't forget about you!

Readers of my previous post may have been fooled into thinking I spent my entire childhood at my paternal grandparents' house. The truth is I spent a lot of time at my maternal grandparents' as well. But if I spent a lot of time with my Grandma Ruth (Eseltine), I spent just as much time with my Grandpa Himel.

My grandfather grew up poor in Louisiana, having to quit school in 7th grade and work the fishing boats to help support his family. Like my other Grandfather, my Grandpa Himel (pronounced e-mel in Louisiana) served in WWII and, like my other grandfather, was discharged in the Bay Area where he met my grandmother and raised a family. Despite having only a 7th grade education, he achieved a career as a machinist at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory.

All of that didn't matter much when I was a kid. What did matter was his garage. The garage, which doubled as a workshop, seemed to house every tool imaginable. My brothers and I learned to use a band saw, a table saw, a drill press and even a lathe under his tutelage. But it wasn't the skills we aquired in that garage, it was the fun we had. My grandfather prided himself on the toys he made to give as gifts at the holidays. From the whirlygigs and wooden neck ties to toy trains and customized wall mounts to hang bats and gloves, my grandfather was always in action. And were his workers.

What seems amazing now is the patience he must have had to watch over my brothers and I while we worked the heavy machinery. The thought of band saws and children's fingers could frighten off even the bravest of souls, yet he never faltered. I am proud to say I still possess many of my creations from those afternoons in the shop, as well as all of my fingers.

I mentioned that my grandfather was from Louisiana and during my childhood that really meant only one thing. Gumbo. My grandfather was a pretty good cook and he convinced or tricked me into eating a lot of tradtional cajun fare, from frog's legs to turtle soup, but Gumbo was his speciality. It was my personal, and I imagine other family member's, saving grace during family gatherings and no one has come even close to repeating the recipie since his death.

I was a sophomore in high school when he died following surgery to remove a brain tumor. He had survived colon cancer and a previous brain tumor and maybe that was why everyone seemed so optimistic prior to the surgery. I was not. Brain surgery sounded big and I guess it was. Is it just a coincidence that a guy who worked at a lab that performed cold war nuclear testing contracted cancer three times? Maybe, maybe not, but my mother's family was never quite as close after his death. Being from the South, family was the most important thing in life to my grandfather and with his death, a big part of his family died with him. We have grown back together in the years since, but it will never be quite the same.

My grandfather was my first close family member to die. I'll never forget seeing his lifeless body during the viewing the night before the funeral. It was the most frightening thing I had seen up until then. At that point, death became something real to me rather than just an abstract idea. I guess what really saddens me is that I never got to know him as an adult like I did with my other grandfather. But we did have a lot of fun.

first attempts

It’s funny. I sat down to try and recall my earliest memories. I made a table to organize my thoughts, categorizing each memory into “family” or “school.” But not much came. There was the obvious. Friend’s names, little league teams, pets, but nothing that begged to be put down in writing. Creativity seems to occur when you are not trying. But yet I try.

Memories come to you at inopportune times. The good ones come to me when I am lacking and the bad ones come when I need peace. I don’t understand it, but it usually works this way. Feeling useless and alone, memories of old friends and good times find their way back to me. But trying to sleep or read a book, thoughts of dropped fly balls and bad choices haunt me. And so it happened the other day when I was aimlessly walking through downtown. Feeling a bit lost and bored, some memories came flooding back.

My family lived in small house on Rosal Lane in Concord until I was about five. Both sets of my grandparents lived nearby, my father’s parents living just around the corner. I spent a lot of time there, often sleping over. There was always soda waiting for me, often the remnants of a previous can due to my grandmother’s Depression era childhood. She would give up everything if I came over and if she was busy running errands, I was always invited along. If there was a baseball game on, the best times were spent listening to my grandfather’s rants about how much the Giants sucked. And they did. His use of expletives and derogatory terms was so much more refined than my father’s and I learned a lot from him.

My brother Johnny was born when I was three and Daniel when I was five. I didn’t require a lot of maintenance as a child, and so I would go to my grandparents and let my mom deal with babies. Their house was an easy escape from the noise of my own. My brother Johnny was/is a handful, as was my father and I slept over at my grandparents because I was the center of attention. My grandfather always seemed preoccupied, but he always wanted to know how things were going. There was usually a good meal involved and a late bedtime. Which seems amazing now as both my grandparents were usually up by 6am. I would get up in the morning to a bowl of cereal and my grandmother’s commentary prompted by the radio on how Reagan was ruining the country. My grandfather never looked up from his paper. Later my grandma would read aloud from my aunts’ and uncle’s old copies of Tom Sawyer and Edgar Allan Poe. My fondest memories still remain sitting in that big chair, under a blanket, a grandparent on either side, watching Benny Hill.

These are some of the memories that cause me to pause and smile. I don’t make it over to my grandmother’s as often as I would like, but when I do, it’s often like I am five years old again. My grandmother still drops everything, still takes me on errands, but we have so much more to talk about now.