Tag Archives: fathers

Righteous riffs

Thinking of you ….

Was downstairs and at my desk early yesterday morning. 

Didn’t sleep much or well. 

I was up and asking Alexa for the time every 20 or 30 minutes all the way from 2 until I pulled myself outta bed in surrender at 5:48.

Headspace is a fragile thing when I don’t sleep. 

Vultures circle. 

Downstairs I cracked open my laptop as mechanically as if brushing teeth, with nothing on my mind or heart.

Just started typing ….

“Dried out and crispy, flicking flint on stone, desperate for a spark.” 

Then I received a text.

Was early for a text. 

“Can you chat this morning?” 

Old college roommate.

Seeing his name made me smile.   

Lives on the other side of the state, doing the work of the angels. 

We’ll sometimes schedule cup-filling calls on our respective morning commutes.

Don’t recall a chat ever being impromptu. 

It’d been a few months since our last one.

Didn’t figure myself for good company, but I called him right away. 

Me: On your commute? 

He: Already parked and walking for coffee. 

Me: Is it a London Fog morning? 

He’s a big fan of the London Fog — Earl Gray tea, steamed milk, vanilla, hint of sugar.

“Tastes like a warm hug,” to quote my old roommate quoting one of his office colleagues. 

Sometimes I find myself ordering one when I see it on the menu.

Always makes me think of him.  

He: Ha, yes! I’ve been trying to cut back, though.

Me: Everything in moderation … to quote Ben Franklin. 

He: I just walked past his grave, actually. 

He really did … he passes Christ Church in downtown Philly on his morning pilgrimages for Warm Hugs. 

Our conversation was as spontaneous as his text.  

We bounced across topics like skipping stones … sleep, dispiriting Eastern winters, kids, family, work … making our days count. 

During which I began to feel the gears of my heart start to loosen.

In passing I mentioned a friend’s recent retirement. 

He said he’s got his own date, about a year out. 

He spoke about ‘ending well.’

Said it’s something that’s been on his mind a lot.

He referenced one of our previous conversations that’s stayed with him.  

I’d forgotten about it ’til he reminded me. 

During one of our previously scheduled caffeinated commutes, I talked about how there’s a big difference between things that end, and things that have an ending. 

How there’s a whole school of thought on the topic … called “endineering.” 

How it’s an under-appreciated facet of experience design in my, um, experience. 

How there’s a sturdy body of research that posits that the way an experience ends disproportionally weights participants’ memories — what they take away, what they remember — about it. (look up “Daniel Kahneman” and “Peak-End Rule,” ICYI).

 And yet … most things in our lives just … end.  

Friendships. 

Marriages. 

Jobs.

He said he’s mindful of the legacy he wants to leave with the people he touches … for those that come after him.

Not for the first time, I found myself inspired by my old roommates’ example.  

We were about 15 or so minutes into our chat when I guesstimated he was on his way back to the office with his London Fog. 

He affirmed such was the case. 

So I made sure our conversation … ended well. 

I broke the fourth wall.

Told him how perfectly timed his text was.

Thanked him for thinking of me.  

Let him know his simple text had single-handedly re-directed the trajectory of the day I was headed for. 

Reminded him to never underestimate his capacity to be awesome. 

He made a point to remind me of the same.

___

I can’t overstate the power inherent in the simple act of letting folks know when you’re thinking of them.

You will be astonished by the flowers that bloom from parched earth.

Your timing will never not be perfect.

It scatters the vultures. 

At least long enough to give our Thursdays a fighting chance. 

I will go to my grave (while mentally walking past Ben Franklin’s) shouting it from the rooftops.

The work of the angels, it is.

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Postcards

Taco Night

I don’t remember if it fell across a couple years, or just one. 

Don’t remember exactly how old we were. Early 20’s I think. 

Don’t remember how often, or how many instances of it there were. 

I just know that when Bill would drop Taco Night on the calendar … 

… some of us would fast like it was Ramadan. 

Mrs. Sochko makin’ tacos. 

I remember the first time I attended … popping into the kitchen to say hello and thank you, and noticing she was pan frying the tortillas. 

In our house we just opened the box and took the shells out of the plastic bag. 

I remember thinking, “What is this sorcery?” 

I can’t even remember who all would show up. 

Just that there was always a table-full: Bill, his older brother Danny, and Mr. Sochko in their assigned seats, and the rest of us filling in the others. 

Looking back I can’t fathom the amount of provisions she must’ve secured in advance. 

I mean, the Sochko men and a table full of post-teenage boys.

I don’t remember her ever cutting us off.

If we were still eating, she’d keep making.  

The tacos were just the best. 

Mortals like me would fill ourselves full and tap out after seven or eight. 

Matt was usually good for a couple more. 

Bill, Danny and John? 

In another league. 

I remember one night in particular. 

Somewhere north of double digits Bill called it quits. 

Danny and John, though, kept goin’.  

Defending home court I think Danny took it as a point of pride. 

John, skinny as a rail, was simply enjoying himself. 

I think Danny tapped out around 14 or so. 

Meanwhile John just kept going … and going. 

I don’t remember how high he climbed that night. 

The number in my head is jumbled, like the way the older boys at Areford playground would keep track of their home runs back in a day. 

I only know that John’s performance that night cemented his Taco Night legacy for all time. 

__ 

For the record, Taco Night was one of two truly epic happenings hosted at the Sochko residence. 

The other: Trivial Pursuit. 

With Mr. Sochko.

While all of us enjoyed hanging out with each other, Mr. Sochko was the main attraction whenever we played. Big B we called him (he was a Bill, too). 

Though it’s been more than 30 years, mention “TP with Big B,” to any of us post-teenagers and watch the smiles conquer our faces. 

It wasn’t just that Mr. Sochko was the wisest person any of us knew. 

Oh my gosh he knew so much. 

It was how he delighted in knowledge.

The best part of our games was when he’d expound on the answers. I can still picture him peering over his glasses and smiling as he’d elucidate on a topic. 

His was the kind of smile that made you lean in as you listened.

The kindest of smiles.   

And we were as ravenous for Big B’s wisdom as we were for Mrs. Sochko’s tacos. 

Big B kicked our asses pretty much every time. 

I mean, he was a wizened citizen of the world playing with boys who didn’t yet know all they didn’t know.

But as I recall his record wasn’t undefeated.

What made that more special was that Mr. Sochko delighted as much in seeing one of us win (for the record, I’m not sure I ever won). In his congratulations he’d share the same generous smile as when he was sharing wisdom. 

There’s a wisdom in that, too, now that I think about it. 

To win a game of Trivial Pursuit when Big B was at table? Not sure our neighborhood offered higher accomplishment.

For me the common thread between Taco and Trivial Pursuit nights was that, in those moments I knew enough to know that I was in the best company.

My friends. 

Bill’s family.

I mean, the best company.

And that knowledge — that wisdom — is as alive and nourishing to me now as when we gathered around Bill’s dining room table.

I know some post-teenage boys — who now know what they don’t know — who would say the same.

And though Mr. and Mrs. Sochko aren’t with us anymore, in my heart it will always be a short walk to Connor Street … to lingering a couple seconds on the front porch before knocking, just to take in the scent of tortillas frying in the pan. 

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Fathers and Sons

Room for Dessert …

Saturday, Oct 21, 2023 

I can still hear the sound … the vibrating clasps of his trumpet case, cracking open from the back room.

The ritual, reverberating release. A sound of dedication. I remember it clear as yesterday because I heard it so often growing up. Followed by him trudging dutifully downstairs, closing the basement door behind him … to disappear the world for a bit.

Scales on repeat. Low tones held long, the horn players’ equivalent of planking. After a good half hour or more woodshedding, he’d always save room for dessert.  Whatever he was feeling in that moment on that day, always rubato so there was ample space for his spirit to move. Sometimes blues, sometimes Harry James, sometimes a classic … a la Mood Indigo. 

The joy of each and every gig. From my drumset, from my best seat in the house, I’d look over to my right to catch him standing up a couple bars before a solo. He’d tip the mic up, limber his fingers for a microsecond, draw a deep inhale, bend his knees, lean back, close his eyes … and just blow. On occasion, he’d confess to me on break, “Got a good lip tonight.” When I heard that, I’d lo-key petition Sam the bandleader for something that featured a couple choruses … maybe “Woodchopper’s Ball,” or “Tuxedo Junction.” He prided himself on never playing the same solo twice … save when he’d pay respects to James’ sinister intro on “Two O’Clock Jump,” or signature sweetness on “You Made Me Love You” (game respects game). Writing the names … I can still conjure his heart and tone in notes long since gifted to the ether.

Even after age and the frictions of the late nights and travel nudged him to give up gigging, he’d still shed. Dutifully downstairs to his sacred space …. or to his bedroom when the basement steps became too much. For years and years. After his quadruple bypass. After the aneurysms. After heart failure. After each, he couldn’t wait to pick up his horn. Get back at it. Always gave him something to look forward to. In the hospital … he relished when they’d want to test his lungs, giving him this plastic apparatus to blow into, see how high he could make a red ball in the tube go, and for how long he could hold it there. He’d hand the thing back to the nurse afterwards like droppin’ a mic. “I’m a trumpet player,” he’d say with pride.  

I remember once visiting with him at the kitchen table in the days after Mom passed, and him excusing himself … to practice … going back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Then the sound of the clasps. The scales. Then … WIL-low weep … for me … WIL-low … weep … for me .… Mourning in rubato. Disappearing the world for a bit.

Even in his last years, even in his failing health, whenever I’d call or stop, he’d update me on his practicing. “I think I’m getting stronger,” he’d always say, referring to his lip and lungs. He was always looking forward.

When I got older, if I wasn’t able to visit him on his birthday, I’d call. “Hey, dad,” I’d say when he’d answer. Then … 

“Peeeeeete!” 

How his voice would pitch up a couple notes in excitement. Every time. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t excited to hear from me. I don’t recall him ever saying it wasn’t a good time.

“Peeeete!” 

I think I might miss that sound more than the sound of his horn. 

It’s a very human and comforting thing to imagine what loved ones might be doing in the hereafter. 

So, on what would’ve been his 96th birthday earlier this week, here is my imagining …. 

After cringing through the angels and Mom serenading him “Happy Birthday,” (Mom always sang flat, he often lamented), taking his sweet time making his wish, extinguishing all the candles in one shot with his trumpet lungs, summarily housing an entire Bob Evans Banana Cream pie by himself, then washing it down with a Jamocha shake from Arby’s (bottomless, his appetite), and taking a good hour ‘doing his teeth’ as his belly settled …

Dessert.

… the glorious release of the reverberating claps on his case, shedding for a bit to get loose … then hopping on stage to jam with a proper upright bass player, a pianist who knows from fat, juicy chords, and a drummer laying it down … knees bent, eyes closed, leaning back, taking chorus after chorus after chorus on a B-flat blues, making time melt playing to the wee hours. 

How I can hear the sounds. 

Standing in the back row, middle … so much good music yet to come.

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