Happy Birthday to Me

Today I'm celebrating my 28th birthday, which is roughly 26 more than I should've had (see first blog post: Left Out). That not withstanding, I wanted to take a few moments to reflect on life so far, since I'm somewhere between a mid- and a quarter-life crisis.

And really, the only thing worth mentioning is my family. I think I can honestly say that they're the reason I've survived life this far, and that I've become the person I am today: an overly nice, moderately attractive, mostly nerdy engineer with a burrito fetish.

Any time I perform an act of kindness (not necessarily a regular occurrence), or make a funny joke (also seldom), or neglect to pick my nose in public, or even remember to flush the toilet... You can thank my family for setting a good example (kindness and jokes) or for belittling me until I shed those bad habits (nose picking and not flushing). In all humility, my parents, siblings, in-laws, and cousins represent the some of the most talented, creative, loving, funny, forgiving [and more gushiness ad infinitum] people I've ever met. These are the people I love most in the world, and despite our various forms of dysfunction, individually and collectively, I couldn't be more proud to call them mine. They're my favorite thing about me.

So on today, my 28th birthday, I want to recognize my family and their (mostly positive) influence on my life. Thanks for not voting me out of the family a long time ago, even though I USED to be real annoying. Love you guys so much.

Kennedy family, circa 1994.  Impossible to tell if summer or winter based on clothes.  Impossible to tell any one of us would turn out to be productive members of society.  Except Andrew and his Super Soaker 2000.

Kennedy family, circa 2011.  Proof that all of us turned out alright, although Ruth seemingly had the highest hill to climb, judging from the Lee sweatshirt pictured above.

Father's Day

Wishing dads everywhere a very happy Father's Day, and thanking my own Dad for his love and support over the years.  He's far and away the manliest man I know, and he's the only person I have seen who makes even sewing look like a burly activity.

Lots of love and respect for you, Pops.  Thanks for taking it easy on me that one time in 7th grade when I accidentally killed the baby chicken that you had adopted as a pet for our family.

Dad on one of the road trips he made to Alaska in high school / college?

Dad sewing up some belt-looking thing, raising a child, and making Amish men everywhere feel slightly inadequate.  All at the same time.  With one hand.

Dad at an art show, plying his trade, rocking some fresh sandals.

Dad laughing at one of his own jokes (presumably).  Me, asleep on his lap, unaware that beards and chest hair could be contagious.

A Memorial Day Interview with Grandpa

Remembering my Grandpa today as a WWII veteran who served as a bombardier, flying numerous missions over Italy and Tinian in the Marianas.  While Grandpa often encouraged us to watch the History Channel to learn about WWII, he almost never spoke personally of the five years he spent fighting the war.  The attached transcript is an interview my sister Ruth conducted with him as a project for school, and it represents the only words I have ever seen or heard from him on the subject.  I can still hear his stern voice asking me to remove my hat during the National Anthem at my little league games.  It is always a struggle to choke back tears whenever I hear it now, and I'll admit that I've been less successful fighting them back while writing this post.

I wish I could have had the capacity as a child to understand a fraction of what you endured (I know that I still can't fathom it even now), so I could've said, "thank you."  I'll offer it now in your absence, though it seems like vain echoes through empty halls.  I only hope that you're there, somewhere in the quietness and the shadows, able to finally hear it.

Thank you, Grandpa.

James Leroy Kennedy.

RUTH: Where did you serve in WWII?

JIM KENNEDY: Well, I was in the fifteenth air force in Italy, and I was there from January of 1944 until October of that year. Then I came back and went in the B-29 airplane; then I went to Tinian in the Marianas. I got there in May or June of 1945-- right after the war in Europe ended. I was only there a short time because the war ended there with the dropping of the atom bomb.

RUTH: What was your prewar training?

JIM KENNEDY: I was a bombardier on heavy bombers, in B-24's in Italy and B-29's in the Marianas and Tinian.

RUTH: Were you involved in active combat?

JIM KENNEDY: Oh yes, very much so. We had fierce combat-- not so much when I got to the Marianas, there was some, but the combat in Italy was pretty fierce ... yeah, pretty fierce. We lost our share of people and airplanes over there, even at that late date.

RUTH: Were you wounded?

JIM KENNEDY: No, unless you want to count being scared half to death (laughing). No, I didn't.

RUTH: What about people around you?

JIM KENNEDY: Not in my crew, though we lost lots of airplanes. One of my good friends in an airplane right next to us got the front half of his foot shot off.  We had our share of casualties. But my crew, we lucked out.

RUTH: How old were you at the Time?

JIM KENNEDY: Well, let's see ... I was only sixteen years old when I joined the Illinois National Guard. In 1944, I was twenty-two when I entered the war. I was born in '22.

RUTH: How did your attitude change as a result of the war?

JIM KENNEDY: It has to have some effect, like today I get furious when I see people starting wars. And I say, ''Don't you realize how terrible they are?" The worse thing about- well, I just can't say enough about how terrible wars are to the people who have to fight them, not to the people who start them. No, they suffer nothing. Hitler and Mussolini and all the rest of them-- they lived a nice, big, fat life. But there's an intellect right at the beginning of the war in Europe. It started with Germany taking over Poland. Even the combat airmen-- they had no argument with these people. But they would see these poor refugees escaping from these towns that had been bombed, and they would go down with their fighter planes and strafe these people and kill them. Nobody who's never been there realizes how horrible war is and that it should be avoided all costs. We don't need it.

RUTH: What type of weapons did you use in your units?

JIM KENNEDY: Mine was a bomb sight that I dropped bombs from, and we had fifty caliber machine guns on the plane. Towards the end we had some 20 mm cannons, but mostly fifty caliber machine guns.

RUTH: How did you feel when you learned about defeats and victories?

JIM KENNEDY: Well, not all that elated; just, "Thank heavens it's over" because it was hard. There was a sadness there because it should never have been. What do you celebrate? What about the poor people who couldn't celebrate? They're long dead. So it was a mixed bag. Sure we were glad to get out of it and get back to our home life. I'd been in the army almost five years by then, and certainly I was happy to get out of it. There was a still sadness there-- I had good friends there that I went to high school with who were brought back later on. So there was not that much elation, no.

RUTH: How did you adapt to life after the war?

JIM KENNEDY: There was not really much... I suppose maybe we celebrated a little too much. But it was a few years before we got over the shortages. A lot of people wanted to get married and buy cars; there were no cars for sale. General Motors, Ford, and Chevy hadn't gotten back into building cars yet. They were still at a war time economy. So it was sort of a mixed bag when we first got back. Everybody said, ''Well jeepers!" (laughs)  It took a little doing to get used to the peacetime. It wasn't that simple.

RUTH: Did you have any immediate family that you left behind-- you weren't married, right?

JIM KENNEDY: Oh no. I got married shortly after I got out. To your Grandma in December of 1945, right after I got out of the service. I had a brother that was in the Marine corps. That was my only other immediate family

RUTH: Is there any thing else you would like to add?

JIM KENNEDY: Most of the horrors of war, they don't bother me. I don't wake up screaming or any thing at night. But I look back and I remember how, other than our own casualties and our own fighting, there was a total collapse of the economy in these countries that we were in. Like Italy, in 1944-- you know how we have government and we have people taking care of it--there was nothing. The people were just out on their own. There was no control over anything, no industry, there was nothing. They were just there. They had no jobs. It was sad. You say to yourself, "Why are these people doing this? What do they hope to achieve by starting these stupid wars?" Those feelings have never left me. And they shouldn't. Everybody should be aware of it, even the little words. I was stationed on Tinian. I will say this: I was in 504th group and the 509th dropped the bomb. They were right next to us. They dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. And we were right there because we were neighbors--we would play ball together and everything. We didn't hear about it for a couple of days. Everybody in the States heard about it. Of course there wasn't the rapid news coverage that we have now. If something happened, it would take two or three days to travel around the world. Now we get instant news. On TV we see pictures of things that happened today. People say, "Oh that was a terrible thing to do," but at least it ended the war. You know, we've never had any major wars since. Good Lord, God almighty help us if we did! With the weapons that we have, it would be the end of the world. So it has been a deterrent, I guess.

RUTH: So you were in favor of the atomic bomb?

JIM KENNEDY: Oh, yes, definitely. Sure it was a horrible thing to do; there were a lot of noncombatants that died in the war-- there were children. No, nobody can say it was wrong. You've got to have some compassion for the people, but it saved many more lives than it cost. If we would have had to invade Japan, there would have been no other way to conquer that country. Everybody knows that. The casualty would have been much, much greater. It would make the casualties at Hiroshima and Nagasaki seem like nothing.

Mother's Day

[Quick disclaimer: I wrote this post a couple of weeks ago, when it was ACTUALLY Mother's Day, but had to postpone posting it until I could dig through the family photo vault.  While I'm not a particularly perfect child, I'm not so bad as to wish my mother a happy Mother's Day weeks after the fact.]

In the spirit of mother’s day, I was reflecting on my own nurturing mother and my years spent in her care.  And admittedly I’m still there—in her care—no matter how much I try to pretend that being a bearded and bald adult somehow puts me beyond the need for her loving affection, but that’s probably a whole separate blog post and/or visit to the psychiatrist.

Mom had to play a lot of roles over the years—nurse, teacher, principal, cop, WWF referee, chauffeur, maid, chef—all of which she executed expertly, but none more so than her role as a mother.  When my youngest sibling finally left for college two years ago, it marked the first time in thirty-six years that my parents weren’t actively raising any kids.  THIRTY-SIX YEARS.  Of course there is now a small army of grand kids to dote on, but I think they’re happy to embrace the new role.

Out of the many talents Mom exhibited while transitioning between her various roles and responsibilities, it became apparent that bowling was a particular strength of hers.  I remember being lucky enough to tag along for a few of those smoke-filled evenings at the bowling alley, and being awestruck by my mother’s smooth skill and proficient aim.  In between her turns, I mostly contemplated the many risks of the emphysema I assumed would strike me at any moment.  (For the record, Mom didn’t smoke—at least not while I was looking—but that didn’t stop every other person in the alley from chain smoking.)   

A couple of years ago, our family thought it would really be “nice” to get everyone together and go bowling for mother’s day.  And so that what’s we did.  And now I am able to tell you from firsthand experience that there are few things in life—possibly there are none—more demoralizing than losing to your own mother in an athletic event, albeit bowling.  She hadn’t touched a bowling ball in over 3 years, and she successively bowled 128, 148, and 188 in three straight games, besting me in each one.  She’s basically a less vulgar, more graceful version of John Turturro’s character from The Big Lebowski: The Jesus.

Apparently everyone in Canada, where my mother grew up, does Duck Pin Bowling, which uses smaller pins and balls than conventional bowling here in the US.  Mom once explained to me that when she “moved to the States, bowling here was so much easier!”  Mom is also apparently supremely proficient in rubbing salt in wounds (but in a really nice way).

I’m tempted to draw some heavy-handed comparisons to bowling as a metaphor for life, to comment on my mother’s successes and shortcomings as a parent (mostly successes).  And they would be something about how even when you think you’ve done everything right, the pins necessarily don’t fall like you want… or to the contrary, that sometimes a ball destined for the gutter can make a late change of direction and get everything right.  But I won’t subject you, the reader, to that level of cheesiness.  I’ll instead simply admit that my mom is badass at bowling.

So while I continue my internet search for the right cocktail of performance enhancing drugs for next year’s Mother’s Day Bowling Royale, Mom remains the best bowler in the family, and the best mom I could’ve asked for.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.  Love you lots.  Your card is in the mail (seriously).

Mom cleaning up at the Shop (with a smile, as always).

Mom introducing me to cake on my 1st birthday!

DON’T STRIKE OUT!!

My dad’s dad, who we his grandkids affectionately called “Grandpa,” lived with our family from before I was born until he passed away during my 8^th grade year.  In the 13 years that Grandpa and I spent getting to know each other, I found out the man harbored more than just a few pet peeves.  Some of his favorites were:

• Jackasses who can’t find their ass with their own two hands
• “Those goddamn SOB’s” (this was applied generously to a lot of people)
• Forgetting to take trash out on trash day
• Ronald Reagan
• Kids who scream bloody murder when no one is actually being murdered
• Striking out (specifically in baseball, but presumably in life too)

Grandpa introduced my brother, Andrew, and me to baseball when we were young, and was then punished by having to serve as our baseball chauffeur for the entirety of our little league careers.  Looking back, I can only guess that as a WWII survivor grandpa was able to endure things normal citizens shouldn’t have to suffer.  He sat dutifully through every single game Andrew and I played, even though we played on separate teams.

Grandpa always sat on the bleachers right behind home plate.  When one of us was up to bat, he would sometimes clamber up to the chain link fence to offer some helpful advice:

“You got two strikes on you!  DON’T STRIKE OUT!!” 

In Grandpa’s estimation, a strike out was a forgivable offense if you at least stuck your bat out and attempted to make contact with the ball.  But there was NOTHING worse than striking out looking. It was inexcusable to let the final pitch pass you by without at least taking a hack at it.

Despite his best intentions to spur me onto greatness, my nerves as a 9 year old often crumbled on that final pitch, and I found myself trudging back towards the dugout, head down, baseball bat dragging behind me, hoping grandpa would just do us both a favor and leave me at the ball field until I could redeem myself the following weekend. 

Thankfully Grandpa was a better grandparent than I was a baseball player, and win or lose he never failed to treat Andrew and I to Slurpees from 7-11.  Where he also never failed to pick up a 16oz can of Miller High Life for himself.  Reflecting on those 7-11 stops, I think they were his way of congratulating us in victory and commiserating with us in defeat, where those Slurpees were the closest substitute he could offer us to his own brown-bagged beverage.  It was a moment of grandfatherly tenderness in which he knew that we needed a drink.  And so did he.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to say enough about how much Grandpa loved his grandkids (even if some of us couldn’t find our asses with our two hands).  But when I look back on my childhood, those little league days with Andrew and Grandpa represent some of the happiest days of my youth.  Even if I did have stomach ulcers for most of those days.

Grandpa in his element.

Baseball card from my first season of T-ball.

Reverse side of card.  Grandpa was furious that I said I wanted to be a catcher.

Left Out

I always got left places as a kid.  At church, the mall, the beach…  Pretty much anywhere.  And it’s not that my family doesn’t love me (I think), but it's more a natural consequence of being caught in the middle of 7 kids: you’re bound to get forgotten from time to time, maybe even routinely.  But who’s keeping track, really?  Certainly not this "well-rounded" middle child.

In the earliest part of my childhood, my parents shuttled their children around in a white 1970's VW microbus.  It was always a mad dash to get everyone into the van and out of the driveway to make it somewhere on time.  Which we almost never executed successfully (making it anywhere on time).

One quick caveat:  I am not sure if my parents were unconvinced of the merit of child safety seats, or if this was simply the era before child safety seats became mandatory and ubiquitous.  Regardless, my parents used to sit me atop a brown, plastic box to soak up the slack in the seat belt around my small waist.  [My adult self (pre-kids) consequently assumed that rear-facing car seats were unnecessary and were for pussies. As a parent, I am zealot for car seats.]

Anyways, it was a Sunday morning when--in the chaos of everyone frantically piling into the van for church--I was forgotten from the seating frenzy and elected to ride on the bumper.  To this day, I remember the buildup very clearly:  I looked into the van, saw that my brown booster seat was missing, and stoically resigned myself to the obvious fact that I would have to ride to church on the bumper.  Problem was, the rest of my family was too busy packing bodies into the car to notice 2-yr old me climbing into position on the rear bumper.

 
You should be asking “what the hell did you hold onto??”  Great question.  The back door of a VW microbus does not offer much of a handhold, but rather a small lip protruding below the keyhole, perhaps big enough to support a single adult finger or maybe 2 small fingers... say, of a 2 yr old.  And that’s what I held onto.  For dear life.  Pictured below is an actual VW Microbus latch assembly for reference.

The rest of the story is sort of a blur to me.  Most likely because I was SCARED SHITLESS, CLINGING FOR DEAR LIFE TO A TINY LATCH ON THE BACK OF A VAN THAT WAS DRIVING DOWN A MAJOR THOROUGHFARE.  I have pieced together the remaining details with help from my parents and sisters.  Supposedly, after driving some distance down the busy road, one of my sisters finally noticed my absence and raised the alarm.  At this point, my dad, who was navigating the van, looked in the rearview mirror and saw a giant pair of eyes peeking in just above the rim of the rear window.  My mom then sprang into action and pulled me into the car.  And somehow I survived the rest of my childhood and am here today to laugh about it.

If my 2 year old memory was correct, we didn’t make it much more than 1/10 of a mile down the road before I was discovered.  However, as most good stories have a tendency to grow and swell over time, it is sometimes told that I survived on that bumper for a full 2 hours during hurricane conditions!  One fact that isn’t debated at all among my family, and is also my favorite detail of the whole ordeal: no one else on the road that day tried to honk or wave or otherwise make any kind of attempt to alert my parents that a child was surfing the rear bumper.  Seriously.

Rare photo-op of the family (plus a few randoms) in front of the VW Microbus... me staring at my toes was not that rare.

 

VW Microbus, "au naturel."

 

Not sure what's more concerning: my shorts or the missing booster seat.