The Clock

          At some point in the early 1980's, my grandfather bought a clock.

          Now, without any background knowledge of my grandfather, one would be inclined to read that sentence and not think twice about it. If you knew him though, you'd know just how rare of an event it was for Grandpa to purchase any kind of material possession whatsoever.

          My grandfather loved to build things. The list of things he built is seemingly endless, with his own house topping a long and impressive list. Simply put, if he needed it, he made it with his own two hands and if it was broken, he fixed it himself. A repairman's business would go belly up if he was waiting on a call from John Burghardt.

          So on that day in the '80's, John accompanied his wife Hazel at one of the stores in the Fox Valley Mall. While she was browsing up and down the aisles, John suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and stared at an item. Hazel noticed this, began moving over to his side, and when she arrived there John just continued to stare straight at the item and announced, 'We're buying this clock.'

          What could she say other than yes? She knew her husband rarely bought material possessions, but he was obviously taken by this mini grandfather clock so they made the purchase and soon thereafter, the clock hung on the wall of their living room, directly adjacent and to the left of Grandpa's reclining chair.

          The clock worked to perfection. It would chime the appropriate number of times on the hour and it immediately became my grandfather's prize possession. I remember him talking about it when I was a teen, and thinking that I really didn't get his infatuation with it at all. It just looked like an ordinary clock to me.

It was hardly ordinary.

          My grandfather became ill during my senior year of college. He was suffering from both lung and prostate cancer. A few months before he became gravely ill, the clock stopped working. It remained on the wall silently, with the pendulum no longer swaying from side to side. With him being so sick, my grandmother had higher priorities than taking a clock in for repair.

          In the spring of 1990, with his wife of 55 years and his 45 year old son (my father) at his bedside, John passed away at Copley Memorial Hospital in Aurora. From the day of his birth in 1911 to the day of his passing 78+ years later, he would reside in my hometown. His loss was felt by his family, friends, and the community as a whole.

          The time of his passing occurred at approximately 10:30 p.m. After his death, there was paperwork to be taken care of and arrangements to be made and as a result, my father and grandmother did not arrive back at my grandparents' home until shortly after midnight. Dad was going to spend the night at his mother's house so she wouldn't be alone.

          When they entered the empty home, they heard a bonging sound coming from the living room. The pendulum was now swinging. The clock's hands were stuck at midnight, yet the bongs repeated far more than the usual dozen times. His loved ones stood, stared, and listened.

Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong.

          Finally, my Dad walked over and adjusted the hands to the proper time.

          When one o'clock arrived, the clock bonged once and then went silent. The hands once again began their minute by minute journey around the face, the pendulum swinging to and fro in normal rhythm. The clock had returned to normal functionality.

          The clock broke down again shortly after his death. My uncle asked if he could have it. It was removed from the wall. No word on if he had it repaired or simply let it be and stored it as a keepsake.

The streets of heaven are filled with the souls of our loved ones.

On the evening of April 22nd, 1990, John Burghardt let us all know that he was now among them.

         

         

          

Remembrances of a childhood friend

          My brother Scott is four years younger than me. When we were kids, his best friend was a boy his age named Mike Moran.

          We lived in a house located in a large cul-de-sac. Mike lived about a minute's bike ride from us in a home located about eight houses down from ours.

          Scott and his buddy Mike were together often. In fact, they were really inseparable. They would play baseball together in the cul-de-sac, participated on the same team in our Saturday morning bowling league, played board games together, and were even in the same classroom multiple times throughout elementary school.

          Since Mike was around our house often, I got to know him well. I learned early on that the only other male in his house was his father. Perhaps that's why Mike looked up to me. Over time, I willingly took on the role of his older brother. I recall coaching him on proper baseball techniques and giving him tips in bowling as well. He was smart, eager to learn, and genuinely fun to be around.

          Mike had two older sisters. Barb was a year older than me and attended East Aurora High as a junior, while Sandy went to Simmons Middle School. He'd express frustrations about his sisters on occasion, but they were just minor annoyances compared to the person who was unquestionably his biggest challenge to deal with in life.

That person would be his mother.

          Mrs. Moran was a former nurse who was now a stay at home Mom. She was also an angry, unhappy woman. One could hear her screaming from all parts of the neighborhood. Yelling is something she did quite frequently.

          She had lost one leg to diabetes, so she had a substitute leg in its place. I can still picture her hobbling about the kitchen, hollering for Mike to come up from the basement or leaning out the front door and shouting for her husband or one of the girls to come inside.

          She was also hard of hearing and by age 10 or so, Mike figured out that he could say things behind her back (literally) and get away with it. I recall him mocking her with head sways and goofy faces while standing directly behind her, as well as getting away with mumbling backtalk when standing within earshot, all the time knowing she wouldn't be able to hear him. It was unquestionably a household full of tension and one that saw every member of that family catching Mrs. Moran's wrath in some form on a regular basis.

          September 7th, 1982 was a Tuesday. It was the day after Labor Day, so it meant a return to school after the three day weekend. The school year was still young, with only a week or two in the books up until that point in time. I was a sophomore at East Aurora High School that year, while Scott and Mike were in the same sixth grade class at Hermes Elementary School.

          Since East High was a 45 minute walk from home and Hermes Elementary was in our neighborhood, the normal morning routine saw Mom drive me to school while my brother walked to class, usually with his friend Mike by his side. That's how this day began. Normal.

It would turn out to be a day that was anything but that.

          Around 10:30 that morning I was called out of class by an administrator. In the hallway, a gentleman who identified himself as a detective asked me how I had arrived at school that morning. I told him my mother had taken me, and he then asked if her driving me that day was unusual. I stated that it was not and shortly thereafter he abruptly ended the conversation by saying, 'Go back to class.' When I asked what was going on he repeated sternly, 'Go back to class.'

          I didn't think much about it for the rest of the day, and soon was walking to my grandparents' home after school, just as I did every other day. Usually my grandfather gave me a ride home but when I arrived at their house this time, I was surprised to find my Mom there. She was in the car, along with my brother and six year old sister. This was highly unusual and upon the sight of them parked in front of my grandparents' home, I was immediately confused.

          When I got in the car I asked Mom why they were there. At that moment my brother screamed, 'Because Mike's dead! They're all dead!' I looked at my mother and said, 'Tell him that's not funny.' She didn't reply. Rather, the look in her eyes gave me the answer.

It was true.

          After Mr. Moran went to work early that morning, Mrs. Moran drugged her three children and dragged them into the car, which was located in the closed garage. She sat down in the driver's seat, started the car, and all four eventually perished as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. 

         My brother stopped at Mike's house on his way to school so they could walk together. However, he heard the car running in the garage, figured Mike was getting a ride, and went to school without him.

          Mike's grandmother found them later that morning and called 911. Emergency personnel tried to revive Mike, but it was too late.

He was 11 years old.

          Three Chicago news crews came out to our suburb and reported from our block for their newscasts that evening. We watched ABC's 10 o'clock news as a family, and it was their lead story. They recanted the events that occurred on our block that day as we watched in silence. When they wrapped up the story, they posted a picture of Mike as they faded to commercial. The television in our living room went silent, but our house was now filled with the sounds that accompany incomprehensible sadness. When I looked at that picture it was the first time that it became real to me. I am in tears of sorrow once again while remembering that moment for this piece, these 32 years later.

          After the tragedy I learned that a few days before it occurred, Mrs. Moran had received word that she was going to lose her other leg as a result of diabetes. That may have been the trigger to her actions. The note she left behind was addressed directly to her husband. It was said the note was full of anger and delusion, and that it mentioned the impending removal of her leg. I don't know that the contents of the note really matter though. Barb, Sandy, and Mike were gone. All the notes in the world couldn't bring them back.

          Many people reading this have lost someone they love too. When we think of them, we remember the good times we had together, the things about them that made them so special, and we think about them at peace now, no longer tortured by illness or sadness or difficult life circumstances.

          When thoughts of Mike pop in my head these days, I try my best to focus on those good times. The smile that beamed from his face when he got a strike in bowling. The elation he felt when he smacked a baseball hard and far. The laughter he released when he heard a funny joke. The way he looked at me in such a studious fashion, wanting to absorb my tips on how to pick up a certain spare, how to maneuver his way out of a rundown.

          Over time I've come to the realization that I'll never understand why it all happened. The question of why can be asked time and again, but there really is no answer so I've stopped asking it. One answer I do have is the knowledge that my life was better because Mike Moran was in it, even if it was for far shorter of a time period than it ever should have been. Some of you reading this knew him. I wish all of you did. He was a special child.

          I love you Michael. If you're reading this from heaven, you can stop and go back to hitting home runs and bowling perfect games now. I hope to see you again one day.

         

         

         

         

         

         

         

         

         

         

         

           

          

The game of my life

The game of my life occurred in the summer of 1980.

I was 12 years old.

          Little League baseball in Aurora, Illinois was divided into two age groups when I was a boy. Boys between the ages of 8-10 were grouped together in the Minor League and those ages 11-12 were in the Major League.

          I played for a team sponsored by Ford Gum when I was 9 and 10 years old and was proud and excited about the fact I made the All-Star team as a 10 year old. When it came time to make the transition to the Major League, I felt I was ready. Little did I know things would not go according to my plan in that summer of 1979.

          I was drafted by a team sponsored by Broadway Restaurant. The manager's name was Harry, and it's safe to say he really wasn't cut out for the gig. Our team went 3-15 that season. My playing time consisted of one at bat and a couple of innings in the field per game for the first half of the season, but things changed dramatically when I hit my first home run ever in a mid season contest. Six innings and batting cleanup would be my new reality for every game from that point forward, but Dave Kingman I was not. I didn't go deep again and I ended up hitting a mere .230 on the season.

          My Dad watched every inning of every game from the stands that summer. He told me later in life that he would sit and stew while spectating, lamenting the fact that not only did he see his son stuck riding the bench for game after game (up until the homer), but also over the blatantly obvious fact that Harry was clearly disorganized and clueless as to how to effectively manage the games strategically. Dad told me that at one point late in that summer of '79 he said to himself, 'I don't know how good I can be at this, but I know I can run a team better than this guy.'

          Thus, my Dad volunteered to manage a team in the spring of 1980. League President George Andrews gave him a choice of two open squads and he chose the one that had the worst record that previous year (1-17!), as it meant he'd be entitled to the first selection in the draft of boys who were now coming up from the minor leagues. His good friend Ken and my Uncle John also signed on as coaches. As his son, I was moved from the roster of Broadway Restaurant to my new team, the squad led by Bob Burghardt and sponsored by the Aurora Police.

          Dad and his coaches selected a boy named Randy with that #1 selection. He turned out to be one of the best pitchers in the league and he arrived on the scene with quite a splash: In our very first game Randy retired all 18 of the batters he faced, winning it with a perfect game.

          In our third game of the year we played a team in our division, sponsored by Aurora National Bank. We lost the game 3-2, but we only lost one other game up until the game of my life (ironically, to my old team, Broadway Restaurant). So come late in the season, our record stood at 13-2. I was having the season of my life (batting around .450) and loving baseball as much as I ever have before or since. We were in second place with the league's second best record (no wild cards in those days!), two games behind the only undefeated squad in the league. That was the very team that had defeated us earlier and was now next up on our schedule. Aurora National Bank's record stood at 15-0, and they had the best and hardest throwing pitcher I had ever seen. His name was Scott Younger.

          If you're a baseball fan around my age you surely remember Houston Astros right hander J.R. Richard. He was African American,  tall, lanky, and threw extremely hard in his prime. Simply put, Younger was his 12 year old clone.

          When we played ANB that first time, neither side had any idea how good the other team was and in turn, neither manager chose to have his ace pitch in the game. This upcoming game was different however. There was no doubt that this game would see arguably the league's two best pitchers square off: Randy vs. Scott for the full six innings.

          I was the first baseman in that game. During the pre game warm ups I noticed the stands were full, but that wasn't unusual. What took me aback was the fact that there were people lined up all along the fences that ran around the entire course of the field. I had never seen anything like it, not even when I attended the previous season's championship game. It struck me at that moment that this was the biggest game of my life.

          We were the home team for the contest and I was batting in my customary #5 spot in the order. After Randy retired ANB easily in the top of the first, I stood in the dugout and watched as Younger took his warm up pitches from the rubber. His height added to the intimidation, as his long stride gave the illusion that he was practically standing halfway between the mound and home when he released that lethal fastball. To this day, I've never been in such awe of an athlete in my life.

          When I came to bat in the second inning, the score was still 0-0. When I arrived at home plate I immediately moved to the white line chalked into the dirt at the far back portion of the box. Dad instructed me to move back even more, and as I inched back the umpire put a halt to my rearward movement by dragging his foot through the dirt in a straight line that now clearly defined the furthest portion of the box. It wasn't nearly far enough back to put me at ease.

          I struck out on four pitches, swinging late with each of my three cuts. The same thing happened when I came to bat to lead off the bottom of the fifth. Two batters after my strikeout the side was retired in the frame and the score remained 0-0. Each team had just one hit as we proceeded to the sixth inning.

          During infield warm ups in the top of the sixth I paused and looked around once again. Arguably the two best teams with the two best pitchers were locked in a scoreless game that was a must win for my side, with my Dad and countless others in attendance. That very moment, as I looked around and surveyed the scene, was the single most exciting point of my athletic career. Even at 12 years old, I knew this was as special as baseball would ever be for me.

          ANB managed to get a runner to second base with two outs in the top of the sixth. The next batter hit a sharp grounder in the hole between first and second and I dived to my right to stab it, but I was a half second too late. The ball went under my glove and out to right field, where the outfielder hesitated before throwing the ball home. The runner scored from second and we now trailed, 1-0.

          The storybook ending to this story would see me step up and smash a two run homer off the greatest Little League pitcher I'd ever see. I'd win the game with the clout and send my teammates and coaches into hysterics! In reality, I'd never get that chance.

          Younger mowed down our final three hitters, striking out the side and putting the finishing touches on a masterful one hit shutout, complete with 15 strikeouts. Aurora National Bank won, 1-0. I was in tears because we were now mathematically eliminated. I was in tears because this game of all games in my life was now history.

          It's now 34 years later. The tears I shed now are not because we lost. Today's tears are a result of the wonderful and vivid memories that came from the greatest game of my life. I cherish them.

I can only hope these memories remain firmly implanted in my mind.

Forever.

         

         

         

          

Peanut Butter and Jelly

Love can come in many forms.

One way that it came for me when I was a child was in the form of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

My parents bought a home at the end of a cul-de-sac in the spring of 1974. If one cut through the neighbor's yard they could be on the local school's playground within two minutes after stepping out my front door.

I had a stay at home Mom and that, combined with the short distance from school, meant I was able to go home for lunch. I did such every single day from the second through sixth grades. And every single day that I walked in the door there was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich there waiting for me. Every. Single. Day.

Mom made it perfectly, with just the right amount of Jif creamy peanut butter, just the right amount of Welch's grape jelly. She always cut it into two halves as well. Perfect sandwich. Perfect cut. Perfect taste. Perfect love.

Every time.

I would usually scarf down my sandwich and any sides as fast as I could so I could get to the television and watch 'The Bozo Show' or 'Underdog' or 'Tennessee Tuxedo' for a bit before heading back to school for the afternoon. Mom would engage me in conversation when I was at the table, but she'd never complain about my rush to eat quickly and to get to that t.v. time as soon as possible. She knew I thrived on routine. She knew my lunch routine consisted of a daily PB and J and cartoons. She knew she was there if and when I ever needed her. She knew how to create a household in which a child felt loved.

Oh yes, she knew.

Back in those days I lived in a world rich in love and comfort. At that time it was all I knew and I thought this was how life was for everyone. I learned over time though that not everyone was as fortunate, and at some point in the years that followed I realized just how blessed I have been. As time has continued to pass I've gained even more perspective, and have come to realize that everything I am today is because of the groundwork of love I received from Mom from day one. All of the incredible moments and blessings I've experienced have branched from that daily love that I received in the beginning years of life.

Mom is 70 years old now and I only get to see her a handful of times per year. I think the next time I'm back home visiting, I'm going to ask her if she would make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I have a feeling she won't mind making it. I have a feeling it'll taste just the same as it did all those years ago. Maybe I'll even flip on the Cartoon Network after I'm done with my sandwich.

This time I won't rush through the meal though.

This time I'll fully engage Mom in conversation for as long as she likes.

This time I'll cherish the memories it's sure to trigger.

This time I'll know that love comes in many forms and that a homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich is one symbol that will forever signify my mother's rich and unconditional love for me.