Yes I Can!!

Tom Froehlich

So it’s New Years Eve and I’m not really too big on that resolution thing. At this point in my life I have quit drinking, stopped smoking and lost more than enough weight. I have been on weight watchers, the Scarsdale diet, that cabbage soup fiasco and my own personal triumph, skip dinner and drink margaritas until you pass out diet. Eating cheeseburgers and pizza to cure the hangover kind of undermined that weight loss program. Pending alcoholism was a bit of a hitch in that giddy-up as well. All told I have most likely lost and gained back more than 5000 pounds in the past fifty-five years so there are no plans to latch onto the latest fad diet as the ball drops in Times Square at midnight.

So no, I’m not really too big on the resolution thing, but I do believe in chasing dreams.  And I think that for our dreams to be realized we need to put ourselves out there. We need to say, “Hey! Here I am and I’m ready! Bring it!!” So I am.

Fonde’. That’s F-O-N-D-E accent mark. Fonde’ is a friend of mine from Milwaukee.  Fonde’ Patrice Bridges.  He is my brown angel. You see, Fonde’ hated the color of his own skin when he was growing up. He was the blackest kid in the neighborhood and he tried to scrub the brown away. It didn’t work. I grew up gay. Still am. Unfortunately a bar of soap doesn’t do much for that either. I refer to us as the twin sons of different mothers. We may have had different backgrounds, but we share similar pain.

Remember the movie “The Swiss Family Robinson”?  The original one?  It came out when I was about five years old.  I remember liking the older brother Lars, the one with the curly blonde hair… a lot. And I knew I was different. Different in a way that meant I shouldn’t tell anyone.

I didn’t know what gay was. Hell, I was five. Hell, I really don’t think anyone my small Wisconsin town in 1963 new what gay was. But, I remember my parents talking about a guy names Ralph Saunders. He was the kind of guy who hung out at malls looking for little boys. I’m not sure if it was true. Hell, we didn’t even have a mall. I guess it was a metaphor. And if it was true someone should have done something about Ralph, don’t you think? But, what I do know, is that is what the people in my small town in Wisconsin thought gay people were in 1963.

When I finally understood what gay was and new I fit into that category I was about 12 years old. I remember lying in bed and I can still smell the dusty carpet of my attic bedroom and remember the sun streaming in the bank of three windows. A place where most would have felt safe and protected yet I didn’t. How can parents protect a child when they don’t truly know who he is? And would they still choose keep him safe him if they did? These are the thoughts that go through the mind of a gay twelve year old. You can trust me on that. I know, because I was that child. And I thought, ‘Please, please, please, let this make sense one day. Why would you have me born into this family in a small town, in this part of the country and make me this?!’ I thought maybe it was because that one-day I was suppose to open up my family’s eyes and minds to people who were different from them. I had no idea how I could ever make that happen, but that was the only reason I could think of that something this awful could have happened to me. “Plan B” was to get a hold of my college fund and see a shrink who could change me into normal person. I wasn’t really sure how that one was going to work out either but it was all I had. I was 12, what do you want?

I was a good student and had some talent, but I tried not to let it show. I didn’t want to stand out for fear someone would yell faggot at an inopportune moment, which frankly was any moment and humiliate me in front of my friends or even worse my parents. Because you see, it had happened. While walking through the library or waiting for the school bus or walking the hallways at school. I just could not bare the thought of that happening in front of my parents.

In 8^th grade I was receiving an award at the end of the year assembly for being the best foreign language student.  The most advanced student in ten years. I didn’t tell my parents because I was afraid they would come to the assembly. I was afraid they would come and someone would yell faggot or homo as I walked across the stage. I just could not bare that.  I will always remember the great relief I had after having crossed the stage with no incident. That became my reward.

I won entry into a juried art show when I was a sophomore in high school. A show that was made up mostly of Juniors and Seniors. I was pleased and proud, but I told no one. I didn’t want them coming to the opening.

I spent my teenage years and much of my early adulthood trying to excel in the shadows. I stayed in the shadows because you see I never really felt like I deserved the awards or trophies or recognition anyway. Because I was flawed. I was second best. I wasn’t someone you should revere or approve of. The saddest part of all is that I actually believed this.

And then in my early thirties I finally came out to my family and the world. The funny thing is, is that now I’m one of the favorites in my family. And because of that, everything is supposed to be okay.

It's funny how people think everything is okay once you come out. They say, "We're all cool with it, so let's just move on, okay?!" Seldom do they take the time to look at the damage already done. Not a day passes that I don't struggle with or process something that is a result of repressing and loathing who I was for too many years. It would just be nice if people would take the time to listen when we say, "No. Really. I'm not okay. I want to be, but I'm not." Please take the time to listen to someone you love.

Recently I received an email from my friend Fonde’. He sent me the address for the website for LIVEOUTLOUD, an organization who talks to high school and college students about being gay and it’s challenges and getting past that to leading happy and fulfilling lives. On the application they asked one question. “If you are chosen what would you tell them and why?”

With out a moment’s hesitation or forethought I wrote, “I would speak on the importance of celebrating everything that we are. Of holding nothing back. Of giving everything we can to become the best ‘me’ we can be. I would speak of loving ourselves enough to be courageous enough to stand out in a crowd and not shrink back fearing someone will shout out the word faggot or homo or dyke. I would encourage them to not allow those verbal assaults to stop them from realizing their dreams. I would speak of how the fear of my being who I am lead me to alcohol as the only way to cope with the feelings I had forced down inside of me. The fear and the anger and the hurt. The feeling that I was somehow inherently flawed. The certainty that I would always come in second best. And I would talk about how I climbed out of that dark and terrifying place and learned that no matter what our sexuality or race or religion we all deserve to realize our dreams. That all we need to do is step forward and say, ‘Yes I can!’

I would talk about how life is a journey of self-discovery and how we need to do our best to see the beauty in ourselves and everything and everyone around us. But, mostly I would talk about love. I would talk about learning to love and celebrate everything that we are. To love it so much that the love overflows into the lives of others and changes them and helps them become the best ‘me’ that they can be.

I would tell them of my friend Arturo. He was a young man I worked with who was from the barrio. Arturo is former gang member.  After working together for a couple of months he walked up to me and said, ‘Tommy, I owe you an apology. When I found out that you are gay, I told our boss I didn’t want to work with you. He told me I had no choice. And now you are my favorite person to work with. I smile every time I see you walk in the door. You are my friend.’ A tear rolled down his cheek as he opened his arms and said, ‘I’m so sorry. I was wrong, but I never knew gay people before. I love you man. Can I have a hug?’ And we did. Hug that is. And I felt all of the differences between us melt away. He is my friend, Arturo. And for the briefest moment I wondered if perhaps I had judged Arturo for where he came from rather than the man of integrity I learned he is. Because you see I am flawed. Not because of my sexuality, but because I am human and I make mistakes. And it is only when we stop judging others that we can begin to stop judging ourselves. Because we do.

I would tell them this story because I want them to understand that we cannot judge others by the color of their skin or their socio-economic status or their sexuality. And I want them to understand that laws don’t change the way people think. People do. And by becoming the best “me” that we can be, we can be that change.

And I would encourage them to be the love and the joy and the magic that they are looking for in life. And I would tell them that they can. Whatever it is. They can. In fact, they must. That’s what I would tell them. I would tell them these things because I wish someone had told me. But they didn’t. So now it’s my turn. At least that is what I am hoping for.”

So, it’s taken about forty years for the prayer of a twelve-year-old gay boy to be answered. But, it looks like I may finally get my chance. To tell people. To make them see others differently. Or the same. To change them. At least I hope so.

 “Whenever I am busy listening to the world tell me who I am suppose to be & what I am suppose to do, I have difficulty hearing my spirit tell me just how amazing I already am.”

Tom Froehlich-“I am a Very Spiritual Yet Vulgar Man”

Upon further research this blogger/inspirational speaker discovered that LIVEOUTLOUD is interested in speakers that are slightly more famous than I currently am, so until that happens please help me realize my dream. If any of my readers know of a school, a church or any kind of organization at all that you think would benefit from my speaking to them, please let me know because I would be happy to do so. I guess I  will just wait for famous to come find me while I am busy doing that. Please contact me at tomcfroehlich@mac.com.

 “Following your dreams offers one guarantee. You will never look back & say, ‘I wish I had…’. Now, the rest? That’s just a choice.” Namaste.-Tom Froehlich-"I am a Very Spiritual Yet Vulgar Man”

.

It’s Who We Are

Tom Froehlich

I saw the lights of Los Angeles twinkling below me like the Christmas I had left behind. While other passengers watched movies, played games on ipods and napped in the darkness of the cabin I replayed the Christmas I had shared with my family. My eyes welled up with tears more than once in the course of the four-hour flight. Part of it is because I am a 6’3’, 235 pound (Hey! That’s what it says on my driver’s license! Don’t mess with the DMV!) cry baby. The other reason is that this holiday I became even more aware of the incredible family I come from.

It began with my older brother Rick, driving three hours in a snowstorm to surprise me at the airport when I arrived in Milwaukee, to drive me to our mom's house where our family would be gathering for Christmas. I could have started bawling then, but us big sensitive types need to choose our moments of emotional collapse carefully or we could end up in the loony bin. Frankly, there at times, the loony bin doesn’t sound all that bad. Three squares a day, a room of ones own and basket weaving on Tuesdays.  Things could be worse! Anyway, the point is that I was very touched by his gesture.

My younger brother Bill’s family arrived a few days later and my twenty-one year old niece ran into my mom’s house giving me a big hug and said, “Uncle T, I am sooo excited!!’ I asked her why, thinking it was perhaps about a new ipad or pair of boots or some other gift, but I was wrong. Instead she answered, “Because we all get to be together!” Her brother echoed her sentiments at full volume, as my mom would say, “As if he’s giving a sermon.” His voice carries. So does mine. Hey! We have important things to say and want to make sure everyone can hear us…whether they choose to or not.

I became, “Uncle T”, years ago when my nephews, my older brother’s three sons, decided I wasn’t really like a regular grown up (intuitive kids) and was more like a twenty-year-old biker guy. The reality is that I have been on a motorcycle once in my life and was terrified. Many would even claim that it is questionable whether or not I should have been issued a driver’s license. And last summer I was thrown from my Trek mountain bike when I was hit by some fat-assed, bleached blonde, tweaker bitch from the valley as I was biking back from the beach. Perhaps some of you may think that description is somewhat judgmental. And perhaps you will change your mind when I mention that as I lie in the street, bleeding she rolled down her window and yelled, “Do you want me to stop?!” Yes, really. I suggested that since she hit me with her piece of shit 1998 Chevy Malibu that might be a kind gesture. At that point her needle-dicked, Michael Bolton haired boyfriend who I also believed to be a tweaker, just because I can, got out of the piece of shit car and tried to stand me up in the middle of the street as I was blacking out. Anyway, based on those experiences, I think it best I not own or drive a motorcycle, Harley or otherwise. None-the-less, apparently based on my ever-present coolness my nephews dubbed me “Uncle T.” and it just stuck.

The three of them walked through the door in succession like Donald Duck’s nephews, Huey, Dewey and Louie, and crushed me with hugs and huge grins, and a simple, “Hey T!” “Hey T!” “Hey T!”

Aunts, uncles, cousins and their children would be arriving the following day for our family Christmas celebration. We now have dinner at a nearby restaurant as our family has now grown to over thirty. My cousin Lizzie and her husband arrived with their newborn son, the most recent addition to our family. Lizzie, may or may not be the same cousin I made out with back in the day. No, we are not from Kentucky and yes, you are correct, I am gay. The fact that I am also a recovering alcoholic may fill in a few of the blanks for you. As far as Lizzie goes? Well…she’s just kind of nuts. I adore her!

My cousin Paul arrived with his endearing smile and warm embraces.  One of his sons just returned from attending college in Japan. His other son just graduated from college and is taking a month to travel through Europe. They are both as demonstrative as their dad.

Aunts and uncles arrived, all now in their early eighties, followed by more cousins and their families. Cocktails were served, glasses clinked and dinner served.

As dinner came to a close, I faintly heard through the cacophony of conversation and laughter, my mom beginning to sing the words to the song “Edelweiss”, a song she has been sining since she was a little girl. You may know it from “The Sound of Music”. We know it because we sing it at all of our family weddings. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s that we are of German descent. It’s just part of who we are. Slowly, voice after voice joined together until the dining room was filled with our family’s voice celebrating Christmas and our coming together.

Many of these traditions began with my grandfather who was raised on a farm by German immigrant farmers on the Door County peninsula. After earning a law degree and starting his law practice he built a small shingled cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan where Door County lies.  This is the place we spent our summers. The place I learned to hate my bothers, love my cousins and love my brothers all over again. The same place that my nieces and nephews spend their summers with one another, as well as, my cousins children, all of whom we call nieces and nephews because we would never get that second cousin once removed thing straight and it just doesn’t matter.

These are the threads that are woven into the tapestry of who we are. And these are the things I miss most living all the way across the country in California. But no matter how far, I know that I am a part of something greater than myself. I am a part of this intricately woven and amazing tapestry of that is my family.

Soon my plane landed and I was back in my Venice apartment unpacking. In my suitcase I found a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. Evidently someone had slipped it into my suitcase without my noticing. I tore off the paper and inside, nestled on a square of cotton was a flat chunk of slate, about the size of matchbook hanging from a leather cord. The number 2-3-0-1 was painted on it in gold. Included was a note that read, “I found this on the beach after you left this summer and it reminded me of you. It’s the address of the cottage so you can always find your way.” It was signed, “Love, your Big Bro.”

My eyes filled with tears. Part of it is the fact that I am a great big crybaby. The other part is that 2301 S. Lake Michigan Drive is where my heart lies and always will. It is the place I learned to hate my bothers, love my cousins and love my brothers all over again. It is where my family became the family that I have come to love more than anything. They are irreverent and vulgar and kind and funny and thoughtful and loving. They are amazing. It is simply who we are.

A Blur of Chrome and Arctic Blue

Tom Froehlich

Over the years we all accumulate our personal treasure trove of holiday memories. Some of you may have memories rivaling those of that Hallmark commercial where the older, model-handsome brother miraculously appears on Christmas Eve, joining his younger brother at the piano mid-carol, joining the family in their holiday tradition. Or perhaps, your family donned matching lederhosen while harmonizing to your own heart-wrenching rendition of, “Edelweiss”, like the family Von Trapp. 

Unfortunately my family’s holiday memories are more like Ralphie’s of, “A Christmas Story”, fame. Getting an eye shot out. The Christmas turkey being ravaged by the family dog. One of us dropping the, “F bomb”, at an inopportune moment. In fact, you could count on that one. I may or not have been the perpetrator. Fine! Cuff me and book me, Santa. It’s not as if my behavior shined like bright copper kettles the rest of the year. 

Oh, it’s not that my parents didn’t make an effort. They did. It’s only as an adult that I realize real life is a far cry from having your brother step out of a, J. Crew catalog, to join you in song while the Yule log crackles or your family yodels a tune about rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens before happily trekking through the Alps to escape Hitler. Let’s face it. That one’s kind of tough to top.

However, somewhere between being fitted for an eye patch, getting my mouth washed out with soap and having Christmas dinner at the “Lotus Palace” down on Main Street, I do have some…well, maybe not so much fond, but certainly memorable memories. The stuff real Christmases are made of. 

I remember making “cut out” cookies and decorating them with frosting, cinnamon dots, colored jimmies and those little metallic balls that tasted like you were sucking on a penny.  I wonder if they caused cancer?  Certainly doesn’t seem as if they were approved by the FDA.   The reindeer almost always lost a leg that was secured back into place with, you got it, additional frosting. 

We later switched to the more traditional gingerbread, which was also a sturdier cookie so the reindeer didn’t look like amputee victims.   So sturdy in fact, a kid could lose a tooth attempting to bite through them. Who cares? We most likely had the onset of childhood diabetes from the layers of icing Rudolph carried and the jury’s still out on the long-term effects of those decorative silver balls anyway. 

One of my most memorable memories is the Christmas of 1970. I was twelve years old and it was the year we spent Christmas at our cottage among the snow-laden pines of Door County, Wisconsin. Oh yes, I can imagine the Norman Rockwell picture you are painting. Please, keep in mind those are not the memories my Christmases are made of. Our cottage amongst the pines included a tiny oil-burning furnace that could bring the temperature up to a sweltering 60 degrees. That is, if it was actually working and the oil hadn’t frozen, blocking the fuel line. That was unfortunate because even 60 degrees felt pretty toasty after you raced in from the outhouse. You got it.  No plumbing or running water. An outhouse may look quaint in a Norman Rockwell painting, but in late December in Wisconsin, you’re just happy if you don’t end up with a ring of frostbite on your ass. 

Perhaps this is the reason it took several weeks for me and my brothers to finally convince our mom that this, Door County getaway, is what would make our yuletide gay. There was no need to convince our dad. Not because he was already enthusiastically on board. Far from it.  But, once our mom had given it the go ahead, my dad simply caved. Oh sure, he always put up a futile fight to save his honor while my mother worked her manipulative magic. It’s just the way it worked in our family. My brothers and I looked on with glee, knowing eventually, looking forlorn our dad would let his long sigh of defeat, his white flag of surrender. It’s not that he wasn’t a good sport. He simply liked a constant 72 degrees and a toilet that flushed. 

My dad maneuvered our Montego Bay station wagon, loaded with the magic that is Christmas, through the slushy tire ruts. The pine boughs were in fact laden with new fallen snow, truly a vision for a Currier & Ives Christmas card. Things were looking more than promising. This would, with out a doubt, be a Christmas to remember.  The oil burner, proved to be fully functional, ready and willing to put a warm glow on our celebration, as did the two-seater outhouse. Yup! You got it! A two-seater. Nothin’ but class for our family!

Later, tucked into our beds, in rooms paneled in knotty pine we anticipated the following day, which was Christmas Eve. We traditionally opened our gifts on Christmas Eve and our parents told us that “Santa” had a special gift planned. Being ten, twelve and fourteen we were all past the Santa stage, but our parents refused to give it up and we were happy to play along. 

The following afternoon our dad drove into town to help Santa deliver our special gift. He pulled into the driveway an hour later. Attached to the back of our Montego Bay station wagon was a trailer carrying a chrome and blue Arctic Cat snowmobile.  Even though it was explained we had merely rented it for the day, my brothers and I were crazy with excitement. Keep in mind, we were not a family familiar with experienced in the joys of winter through the 166-horse power engine of an Arctic Cat. We were more accustomed to sledding down the hill in the back of our house on a sled that had real metal runners.  You know, the kind that could easily sever a kid’s finger, cutting right through the bone like a Ginsu knife? Hey! Take a risk! Ralphie never did shoot his eye out with that Red Ryder BB gun now did he!? 

After carefully driving the “Cat” off of the trailer our dad explained to the three of us that this was not a toy and we needed to be very careful. We all nodded in complete and emphatic agreement. He explained the accelerator was on the right hand grip and the brake on the left and that you should very gently rotate the grip when you wanted to accelerate. What?! You mean we actually got to drive this thing?! Suddenly that verbal agreement of caution carried less weight. I mean really it was just a nod of the head, not an actual verbal agreement at all now was it? 

Being the oldest, my brother Rick was to be the first.  “Just a quick ‘spin’ around the cottage until everyone tries it out,” my dad instructed.  After that, we could take turns on longer rides. We all nodded once again thinking, “Come on! Let’s just get this show on the road! I gotta ride!!”

Rick climbed aboard and slowly rotated the accelerator as our dad had instructed and took his “spin” around the cottage. I was next in line and was already fantasizing about skillfully maneuvering my trusty steed through the Door County woods, the wind blowing through my hair, my cheeks ruddy with the brisk winter chill. Rick returned and was commended on his cautious control of the vehicle on his test run. I was next. Control? Well…I had some trouble wrapping my brain around that. I mean, let’s see what this baby has under the hood! I had more of an Evel Knievel experience in mind. 

I grabbed onto the handgrip and revved the engine feeling the torque of all one hundred-sixty-six horses. Squeezing the left hand grip I made a vague mental note that this was the brake, should anything get out of control. You know what a brake is, right? That’s something that stops you. Right?  A couple more revs of the engine and I let her rip like a racehorse leaving the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. If I remember correctly, the “Cat” may have even reared up like a wild stallion. I navigated my spin around the cottage, which was probably all of thirty yards with wild abandon. As I came around to the front, a mere blur of chrome and arctic blue, I realized I was moving at a speed that may or may not allow me to successfully complete the turn and thread the needle that was the gap between our Montego Bay station wagon and a white pine with a trunk about eight feet in circumference. Simple. I’ll just give that brake a little twist and slow her down a bit. Right?! No. So very, very wrong. I don’t know about you, but the last time I checked, “brake,” meant some type of device that slowed, impeded or possibly even abruptly halted forward motion. Well, someone should have informed Arctic Cat about that.  Or at the very least, it would have been nice if someone had informed me that wasn't the way it worked on a snowmobile. Evidently the “brake”, and I truly believe to this day that word belongs in quotes, merely slows down the engine, reducing the aforementioned “torque”, and does little to nothing to slow down the actual speed of this demon on skis. It took no more than a couple of fruitless twists of this so called brake grip for me to realize I was going to continue at this dizzying speed until either I slowly decelerated or something impeded my progress, meaning crashing into either our car or the massive trunk of the white pine. I realized in short order that the odds of my “threading the needle” were remote. There comes a time in life when a man has to make some tough choices. I chose the tree. I didn't so much crash directly into the tree as strongly grazed the side of the trunk bringing my trusty steed to a halt as one of the skis came loose, soaring into the heavens, rendering this death machine inoperable. To this day, I believe I made a sound choice.  Perhaps others disagree.

As I mentioned earlier, my family was not very well versed in the world of recreational vehicles. My dad wasn't aware that the Arctic Cat's skis came equipped with a safety release designed for the very purpose of your enthusiastic yet idiotic twelve-year-old kid running into a pine tree. Even after he was informed of this safety feature when he returned our “special gift” to the rental place after a full fifteen minutes of Christmas joy, he decided we had flirted with disaster once this holiday and once was more than enough.  My younger brother Billy never would get a chance to take a spin on this death machine. I think it is quite evident I saved him from a crippling and very possibly fatal mishap. Hey what are older brothers for?

So you can have your Yule logs and lederhosened “la, la, las”. I will happily take my family with all of its perfectly dysfunctional imperfections. I can pretty much guarantee you my older brother and I will not be caroling by the fire this Christmas, but guess who drove for three hours through a snowstorm to surprise me the airport when I flew back to Wisconsin from California two days ago? My brother, Rick. It seems he is no longer holding a grudge regarding that unfortunate Arctic Cat mishap. And if that’s not a Hallmark moment, I don’t know what is. 

Happy Holidays!

Prisms of Light

                                                                Tom Froehlich 

It was the tree trimming of 1972, the year the small Italian lights became so fashionable, that my father chose to demonstrate his electrical prowess.  When these lights first came on the market, if one light burned out, the entire string went black.  This required taking the additional light provided in the original package, which, of course, my father saved, yea right, and inserting it into each and every existing light socket in an attempt to find the dead bulb.  Being the troubleshooter he was, he first tested all four strings after disentangling them from the spaghetti-like clusterfuck they had been meticulously stored in since last January.  A faulty string of lights had graced a tree of Christmas past.  The guilty string had been, of course, placed in the center of the tree with either end plugged into the string preceding and/or following it.  It remained that way until three days before Christmas when my mother threatened divorce if my dad didn’t remedy the situation.  There was no way he needed an encore of that fiasco.

My larger concern was the importance of bulb placement.  I couldn’t stress the concept strongly enough.  Careful bulb placement was necessary to bring out the beauty of each individual ornament whether to be a Hallmark keepsake or a celestial angel made of flour paste, heavy enough to be registered as a lethal weapon.  My father was more of the mind-set of jam them in so they remain in place until December 25th at the very latest.  This allowed the trauma of light displacement to be experienced right up until Christmas Day.  Light displacement is when the string of lights seems to mysteriously jump off the tree.  The mystery being, why my father deemed the ring and loop system provided by the lighting company to secure the lights in place, complete with diagram, unnecessary.  He felt, year after year, that jamming the lights arbitrarily into the boughs was a far better system.  By the time the tree came down on Christmas day my father had already lost at least a pint of blood from shoving the lights back into place on a daily basis, and being violated by the rapier-like scotch pine needles.  Scotch pine was all the rage that holiday season and I was terribly pleased with my parents’ trendy choice.  This also made light placement ever the more challenging, as scotch pines are very dense. 

Having taken every precaution my father felt necessary, he now jammed the lighted cords into the boughs, wearing a pair of insulated ski mittens for protection, double-checking to ensure the plugs hidden within the tree were secure before we began hanging ornaments.  He then pulled the plug from the electrical socket cutting off “the juice”, as he would say, once again anticipating and therefore eliminating any and all potential electrical hazards. 

We began to hang assorted ornaments collected over the years.  Homemade baked “clay” gingerbread men challenging even the most stout of branches.  Clear hand-blown glass orbs, adorned with stripes of colorful matte paint, manufactured during WWII when the U.S. could no longer import the Bavarian glass from overseas, were used as fillers among the expensive new store-bought ornaments from the new garden center on the edge of town.  I added the finishing touch, swooping my garland with a flourish to be envied by even the window dressers at Macy’s department store in New York City.  Granted, I had never been to Macy’s, or New York for that matter.  Yet, I inherently knew, if there was any competition out there, it was a Macy’s during the holidays. 

We all agreed this was our most beautiful tree ever.  Trust me, that’s not saying much for the trees of Christmas past.  We stood back admiring our handiwork and waited impatiently for our father to plug in the lights that would transform our creation into the magic that is Christmas.  “Here we go, kids”, he announced, as he inserted the plug into the wall socket.  We gazed at the tree, giddy with anticipation. 

The tree was illuminated and created sparkles and prisms of light everywhere.  Herald Square had nothing on us.  We had once again transcended reality until our group “Ahhh!” was cut off somewhere around the seventh “h”.  The look of joy and awe seen in a child’s eyes at Christmas was replaced with panic.  Sure, there are sparkles and prisms of light everywhere, that is everywhere, but the center of the tree.  My father, not the most observant of men, had yet to see the challenge that lay before him.  Only one step behind us, his eyes locked onto the section of the tree devoid of light, taunting him.  And, of course, it is the center string.  Having thought he had covered all of the potential trouble spots, including wiring the tree itself to the curtain rod, he now stood before his nemesis with a look of defeat.  It is difficult not to see the humor in my father’s theatrical defeat, but my mother stifled us with a grinning scowl. 

“Well, I guess it’s back to the hardware store.  I sure as hell hope they’re open”, my father sighed.  Evidently, years before, the hardware store had conspired to take the merry out of his Christmas, by not being available a full twenty-four hours to cater to his tree trimming catastrophes.
 

“Well, honey, didn’t you save the,” my mother asked, answering her own question midway through asking it, “...extra bulb?

We helped our mom stow away empty boxes and straighten up, while my father was at the hardware store.  We all knew it was best that there be only one task at hand however daunting it may be, upon his return.  That, of course, would be locating the interior plugs within the boughs, enabling him to remove the faulty string and replace it with another.  Or so we thought.  Upon my father’s return, he believed he had devised a plan brilliant in its simplicity.  Rather than removing the existing dead strand of lights, which would require removing the decorations and maneuvering around the needle-sharp, flesh-seeking Scotch Pine needles, he would simply cut the dead strand into sections and remove it, replacing it with the new. 
 

Off he went to find his toolbox, which in and of itself, was frightening.  Fumbling around, searching out his wire cutter, he approached his dilemma with the confidence and determination of a skilled surgeon.  He explained the lights would need to remain lit, in order to determine which was the dead strand.  My father always approached these situations with a great deal of enthusiasm and very little forethought.  He grabbed haphazardly for the guilty wire nestled among the boughs and snipped. 

 

Now my family stood in complete darkness, that is, after the violet and orange sparks subsided.  It hadn’t occurred to him, that although he believed the faulty string was inactive due to one if its lights being dead, live juice still ran through its veins.  Not that it mattered, as far as, blowing every fuse in the fuse box, because any string, dead or live would have caused the same damage.  To make matters worse, he discovered he had, in fact, clipped the wire of a fully functioning string.  This, of course, meant yet another trip to the hardware store for another string of lights, for a total of two.  One to replace the original bad string and yet another to replace the good string he had bisected with his wire cutters.  
 

That’s okay, he needed fuses anyway.

 

                                  My Uncle’s Shoes
                                                                              Tom Froehlich

I had barely unpacked my bags when my mom called. “Do you want me to send you your uncle’s shoes?  He wore a size 14 or 15 and you’re the only one we can think of that they would fit.”

The thought of wearing a dead man’s shoes seemed kind of morbid to me. Granted he was my uncle, but even had he been living I’m not so crazy about wearing someone else’s shoes.

 “But mom, last time I checked I wore a size 13,” I said.

“They’re nice athletic shoes and I think one pair hasn’t even been worn. Stuff a little tissue paper in the toe,” she added, pushing the issue being the frugal midwestern German she is.

“Okay, my shoes have been feeling kind of snug I guess, but no need to send the wing tips,” I said, knowing my uncle had a full arsenal of dress shoes due to his life long career as an attorney. I had been told my uncle and I were alike in many respects, but foot wear and career choice were not one of them.  My uncle had practiced law in a small town in Wisconsin yet he had still been voted one of the top fifty family law attorneys in the country.  Certainly an accomplishment, but I would never say his greatest.

My uncle was the kind of man whose charismatic presence filled a room, no matter the size. Whether it be in a courtroom arguing a case or a cocktail party, enjoying a bourbon and water, his charisma filled the room.  And his energy was infectious. If my uncle laughed, which he did often, you laughed. You had no choice because there was no question his laugh was genuine and from the heart often the result of an off color joke he had told that may or may not have been appropriate for everyone present. Yet, they all laughed. They laughed because he told his jokes to circuit court judges and spinster schoolteachers alike, with the sly and mischievous grin of a ten-year-old boy that somehow superseded impropriety. They understood his only intention was to bring them joy. To bring them a temporary reprieve from the troubles of their day. And he did.

With a glimmer in his eye, he would look straight into your own and say, “Hey Tom, I got one for you,” and you somehow felt he had been waiting and saving the joke solely for you although you knew full well he had most likely told it countless times.  But it didn’t matter, because at that moment he made you feel as if you were the most important person in the room. It was important for him to bring joy and laughter to all those he came in contact with regardless of age, race or social standing. He told his jokes with no apologies and no regrets. It was who he was. There was no bullshit. No façade. For those things he had no time.  For a good laugh with a friend, of which he had many, he had all of the time in the world.

It’s not as if my uncle was without his opinions. Far from it.  And he voiced those opinions as loudly and colorfully as he told his jokes. You always knew where you stood.  He may not always agree with you, but you still had no doubt how much he loved you.  Although he may see your flaws those are not the things he chose to dwell on. He found your gifts and he applauded them. “God dammit Tom, just love what you do and be good at it. Who gives rat’s ass what anyone else thinks?  Screw ‘em!”, he would bellow.  He believed in and supported those he loved with out question. Without any doubt. You may have had our own doubts, but he didn’t. He just believed.  “You’re my nephew for God’s sake, of course you’re terrific! In fact, you’re damn near perfect!”, he would bluster with that familiar gleam in his eye well aware of his egocentric comment, yet believing it on some level which somehow made you believe it as well.

At the reception following my uncle’s memorial service, a continual slide show played, put together by my cousin’s wife, the unofficial family photographer, accompanied by his favorite songs.  They were the same songs he would sing with the same joy he would tell a joke, not caring if he was out of key or had to ad lib some of the lyrics.  The animation and joy with which he sang allowed you to forgive all foibles.  Again, he was there merely to share his joy and take you along for the ride. To bring everyone in the room a brief respite from everyday life. 

While I was watching the slide show, my cousin’s wife approached me and said with tear filled eyes, “You are him you know. If anyone in the family is, it’s you.”  I looked at her confused and surprised.  Laughing she continued, “You just don’t see it do you?  You are the one who fills a room with your smile and your laughter. All you have to do is walk in the door and the energy shifts. Remember at my wedding when the photographer explained to you that in her job she always looked for where the fun was at an event because those were always the best shots and whenever she arrived at the fun spot there you were?” she laughed, “My God, she joked about hiring you to take to other weddings!  You make people feel special and if you’re in the room they’re having fun. Just like him. That’s all I’m saying,” she closed with a wink. 

A few days after my mom’s phone call, my mail carrier, Gloria, delivered a box wrapped in brown paper, inked with a Wisconsin postmark, giving me her brilliant smile and said, “This one’s for you sweetie!” Yes, I know her name. Gloria lives up to the postal workers’ creed of "neither sleet nor hail nor dark of night shall keep her from her appointed rounds", which frankly in southern California isn’t too tough, but she does it with a smile on her face and always something friendly to say.  I don’t think calling her by name and returning her smile is too much to ask. 

As she was pulled several large boxes from a cart, I said “Hey Gloria, if any of those boxes are filled with cash deliver them to my place,” I joked.

Laughing along with me she said, “Only if you split it with me honey!”

“It’s a deal!” I agreed.

 Looking at the return address, I grinned at my mother’s frugalness and I had no doubt, satisfaction, that these not often worn shoes would not go to waste.  Smiling, I thought of the man who had worn them.  A man I loved.  A man I admired.  Putting the box away in my bedroom closet still unsure of the idea of wearing a dead man’s shoes, I laughed knowing my uncle would understand, he himself being somewhat squeamish about those kinds of things.  I guess we did share more than I had realized. 

One afternoon a few weeks later I was having difficulty and doubts about the new book I was working on.  A book about the joy in everyday experiences. The blessings we tend to over look. I thought, what if no one understands what I’m trying to say? What if it doesn’t touch their soul?  Change their life?  Those kinds of cliché  expectations.

It was a beautiful day and I decided maybe I would find inspiration with a walk along the Venice canals.   Fashioned after the canals of Venice, Italy by Abbott Kinney, the founder of Venice, California I always found them magical and just walking through them altered my everyday reality. 

Grabbing my gym shoes I realized they had seen better days. I reached for the box in my closet and opened it to a pair of Nikes.  I paused for a moment.  At that point it didn’t really matter to me if they had been worn previously or not. All I thought about was the man who had worn them. The man who made others laugh and brought joy to their lives merely by sharing who he was.  The man who believed in those he loved without question.

I pulled the shoes on and tied the laces.  My feet had once been a size 13, but I’ve heard that as you age your feet can flatten out and grow a size or two.  My uncle’s shoes fit just fine. In fact, they were perfect.

Stepping onto Venice I heard a horn honking and I saw the mail truck coming down the street with a hand waving out the window like crazy as if I were President Obama on a stroll or something. As the truck rolled by there was Gloria waving at me and flashing me one of her big ole’ smiles. I couldn’t help but return the grin as I waved yelling “Hey Glo, What’s happening!?”  

Suddenly my doubt felt less of a burden as I walked down the street in my uncle’s shoes.  I thought of the man he was and how I had been compared to him. I heard the words, “God dammit Tom, just love what you do and be good at it. Who gives rat’s ass what anyone else thinks?  Screw ‘em!” 

 

I walked in my uncle’s shoes that had once been two sizes too large for me, knowing that who I was and who I fully intended to become, was more than good enough.  In fact, it was damn near perfect.