Science, Zoos, and Trophies

Row upon row of neatly decorated experiments lined the entire cafeteria like soldiers standing at attention, each one representing a different experiment or cause. The effect of walking through a school cafeteria with the low tables designed for youthful diners, the mirror polished floors, and the super low water fountains draws you slowly back......back to the days of your own youth when your biggest worry was...the Science Fair.

Science fairs for PinF were a pain-in-the-ass. More so for my poor mother I'm sure, as science wasn't really her forte I don't think. Added to the facts were the reality that she may be overseeing anywhere from three to five experiments on any given year, and, well you get the picture---tense. Still somehow every year there would be some silly ass experiment of osmosis, corrosion, or random occurrences. Contrastingly; Sophia loves science fairs. Incredibly, she's been quite good at them for the past three years she's done them. I've assisted with material procurements, and occasional technical assistance, but by and large I've just kind of watched. This year however we kind of got caught off guard, the way many parents do either through lack of asking the right questions, or most likely--lack of information from our in-house scientist as to when the projects are due.

Suffice to say there was a three day scramble for project ideas/experiments/submissions. This automatically rules out 80% of projects that require "time", "growth", or "observances". What your left with after that is the basic type of science. What potato chips leave the biggest grease stains?, How are rubber bands' elasticities affected by temperature? You know the last minute type of home-grown science projects. So it was with a sense of relief that Sophia proposed both an affordable and interesting project. The premise was what container would keep Coca-Cola coldest? Aluminium, plastic bottle, or glass bottle? Bam!!. Her mother was lead technician on this years "project". Her style of project management is invariably different than Dr. Von Paynter's, so I took more of a behind the scenes pose. I recommended images, styles for presentation, and provided copy ideas that would best describe the project--from hypothesis to result.

So T-minus 72 hours and test subjects, tools, art supplies, and patience were all assembled in the name of "science". Kids were supposed to do their research and photos, and present them in a folder type format. Of each class, 5 projects would then be chosen to represent in the school wide contest. Much to her own surprise " it was ok papi, but I didn't think it was that good", Sophia was chosen. Of course this now meant we had to purchase more supplies, enlarge more photos, and now re-package the entire experiment in a larger format for judging in the cafeteria. Sophie's mom is very art-orientated, and I must admit the project was quite cute; I supplied her with the protocol techniques of experimentation, and she did all writing in her own handwriting.

Tuesday PinF was again traveling down memory lane--literally. He was on a School of Palm Beach County school bus as it rolled along down I-95 with 50 kids, six parents, 2 teachers, and one bus driver. As a parent volunteer, PinF is often called upon for such "hazardous" duties. I willingly volunteer, as I know and completely understand that THESE are the memories Sophie will be profoundly affected by. Her papi coming on a school trip, something not a lot of father's do. To my surprise there was another single father, a real nice guy similar in age, and originally from Warminster. His father a graduate of West Catholic High School in Philly. Go figure.

We both couldn't help comparing our youths of the 60's and 70's and how it would have been unheard of for either of our dad's to be in the same situation. I thought of my dad in the 70's, strong, loved, a good provider, but definitely not 60 kids on a bus material---no way. That's the difference in parents today. dad's are willing to shed traditional roles that have defined "maleness" for years. I care little whether I'm the only man on the bus--I'm here for Sophia, and truth be told, I like interacting with all the little kids and seeing the dynamic of childhood relationships play out. You learn so much about your past watching and remembering being on the school buses of your own life.

The teachers? Well they love when men come---Mrs.Goode showed her keen appreciation by her assignment of the two problem boys to PinF's group of 5 kids. Not a problem there, as PinF is hip to the psychology of little boys, and their need to show-off and impress little girls. Ten minutes into the Zoo and PinF was aware that he'd have to burn a quick 20 second time out--and I did. I called my two "star" players into the huddle while I let my three other's (girls) take a breather. In as imposing yet clean, angry yet calm, threatening yet nice, voice I laid down three rules. I made my two players repeat them to me, then I gave them the penalty consequences---suffice to say I won them over from then on. Kids--it's all about using the psychology of childhood against them.

Great trip. I'll now be attending the Lighthouse Elementary School Volunteer appreciation breakfast on April 17th. Back to Science. Sophia handed in her project yesterday and assumed the elite distinction of being one of five representing Mrs. Goode's class. Of course she wanted me to go to the open presentation of all experiments last night in the cafeteria. So off we went. It was advertised as from 6-9 PM, we arrived at 7PM...not a car in sight. Strange? Had Sophia gotten her days mixed up? Her times? She assure me she hadn't. We drove around back of the school on the motorcycle and saw a car leaving, so we were hopeful. We came up to the cafeteria door and I looked in upon the rows and rows of neatly lined "experiments"; a slight tug on the door revealed that it was open, so in we both went. It was us alone, save for the Colombian cleaners working their magic on the school.

We were the only two there? No matter, we had the entire cafeteria to ourselves, and with that came all the silly facts of Sophia's day that I wouldn't have been privy to otherwise. Like for instance---where she sits--that's right I sat in her cafeteria seat. Who sits next to her--that's right it's Haley. We walked by critiquing everyone's experiments and bemoaning the fact that so many are really showcases of the parents---as there is little or no clues that a 3rd, 4th, or 5th grader had done many of these truly technical, and often times artistically advanced presentations. I sometimes wonder what type of kids we're raising today when I see this. Clearly many of the experiments, while interesting--were far too advanced for children of this age. Parents, sadly are often too involved. This is precisely why Sophia had to write her entire project in her own handwriting, and not some computer generated script.

I'm quite sure that Sophie, like me, will always remember us alone in that cafeteria--it's one of those unique experiences. While looking around we hit the soda machine for a Coke, (by the way aluminium keeps Coke coldest) and as we were preparing to leave Sophie said "but papi what do I do with my Coke on the motorcycle?" I told her to give it to me, and I walked on over to exhibit 17 and placed in front of the results of her experiment. Hell we were alone, no one saw it. We walked out into a dusky swirling sky of pinks, reds, blues and the first stars of the evening. I told her I was very proud, and that the prize is not in winning any awards, but in seeing her complete her project and being proud of doing it. She said "yeah, but I hope I win a trophy papi!" So do I, for her sake.

I want to tell her that life is full of trophies. You just don't know that you've won them until many years later.

March 17, 1997, '06, '07

March 17, 1997.

PinF is at Packy's. Surrounding him are dozens of lifelong friends, his brothers and the Jah Works band. The revelry of St. Patrick's Day, combined with the emotion of leaving all my firends and family is an odd mix. PinF's mom is first to go. He walks her out, they exchange hugs and words on State Street and she's gone. An hour later PinF walks his 62 year-old father out to his car, exchanging small talk along the way. We're both uncomfortable. I know that unlike my mother, my dad is going to be affected to a far greater degree than my mother. I have been in my dad's life so many different ways--through work, through hundreds of hours logged at Sea Isle City at the Springfield Inn, through countless nights at juke joints catching his favorite band of any given month. We're card carrying members of the Bungalow, the American legion, the Columbus club and countless others.

We reach the car, he gives me his standards - watch yourself on the highway, etc....he's sad, real sad. Still I gotta go, my future wife is waiting for me in Florida....I tell him we'll be together soon....we hug. He leaves. I know he's crushed. I know I'm his favorite buddy of a son.


March 17, 2006.

PinF stands before his father's funeral mass at St. Bernadette's in Drexel Hill eulogizing his beloved, dear old dad. Shock is probably the best way to describe it. Looking back now, I was on auto pilot. I had held my father as he drew his last breath. It's taken year and I still am not comfortable with it, neither have I gone even one day without wishing I could call him, hear his voice ,or alert him to some show that was on. Old habits die hard. Nine years exactly to the day I said good-bye to him for Florida, I was now saying good-bye to him for good, or at least until I get to where he went.


March 17, 2007.

PinF spends another lazy day at the beach with his beloved daughter. She's being a little difficult, says she wants to stay home. It's been a tough week. Back from New Orleans, sleep deprived, aware that the day of my father's passing is approaching. So today Sophia is being a bit difficult. I finally tell her, that today is no day to be difficult as her papi is a bit weak with sadness. I remind her that one year ago today we buried my papi, and I'm a little sad, so she should cut me some slack.

Now here's where having an only child kicks in. Sophia gets a bit down, tells me how much she misses pop-pop too, and says she'll get ready for the beach. The rest of day is spent lazing at the beach, enjoying eachother, music, and the day. We come home planning our day for St. Patrick's. I remember many St. Patrick's day's with my pop. I see there's a St. Patrick's day event in a local park, so we shower up put our green on and we head out. Sophia has been a study in quiet support since I told her how tough today was for me. She revels in her Irishness, and implores me to stop at the Hallmark card shop so she can outfitted in some Irish "details". we settle for some berets for her hair with green shamrocks, combined with her long curls, and green top she's about as Irish looking as can be.

We need food though. It's 7:30 PM, I turn onto US 1 South and begin trying to recall every little roast beef joint I know. On my right 2 miles before the Irish fest park, I see Sullivan's Irish Pub. I pull in. Sophia's pumped. We walk into the typical Irish American bar scene. It's kid friendly though. I see a stage with a complete set up in place. I order a brew and a coke, and a lovely woman offers Sophia a seat at the corner table in front of the stage. The Lahynch Mob, a local band, playing Irish themed music.

The band comes on and Sophie is in her glory. They play some Van Morrison, some U2 and other rock favorites. We're now entrenched. Irish stew, Smithwicks the deal. The lead singer acknowledges Sophia twice, so now she's completely enamored. Next song? Sweet Caroline. There's now a bartender on the bar dancing with the fiddler who's in his kilt...the place is thumping......

" hands, touching hands....reaching out, touching me....touching you......SWEET CAROLINE...Bam, BAM, BAM...good time never felt so good...."

Sophia's singing, waving her arms and it dawns me. How many times I sang this song with my dad at the Springfield Inn under the same damn crazy scenario. Kind of like the old man was there was us. I told Sophia we had to leave to get to the park, and the bounce houses....she looked at me like I was crazy-- telling me "papi, we need to stay and watch this..." and so we did.

10 years to the day that I had left my dad. I had no child. Now here I was with a child, doing with her what I had done many times over as boy with my pop, listening to live music. Sophia was slack-jawed in disbelief at seeing live music so close. The spirit and memory of my dad was truly alive, as he would have been right next me at such a friendly, musical pub. Sophia's desire to stay, and be a part of her Irishness-- further proof that through our spirit we all live on in each other.

The old man was there, I know he was. What a ten years it's been

You Want Some PinF eh?

Noticably silent, though always pondering the details of life. Not posting as of late, at least not online; but always in my mind. This is a tough time. Some may recognize this, some may not. Grief comes in many forms, sometimes it's in watching my daughter try a new experience or being somwhere where we had been together. Most often it'll be a photo, or a song, and Sophia will turn to me sincerity in her voice and say "I miss pop-pop" -- gulp. So do I.

Time has dulled the pain though not erased it. I know I'll feel this hole forever. This time last year PinF was packing to fly to his father for what he knew was the last few days he would spend with his pop in this lifetime. I arrived March 8th. dread in my heart, tears in my eyes, and a lump in my throat. I held his hand, played his music, rubbed his back and waited. And waited more. Now PinF packs again, this time for New Orleans to raise hell like I know I will at an Irish Catholic wedding in the French Quarter.

I hear you all, I read your emails. I just haven't had it in me. Everyday brings the reality and the anniversary of my father's passing closer. So PinF is still there, he just isn't here. I found this post written almost one year ago exactly..........I know for now that he is where he was meant to be.

Deus Ibi Est.