I come from a family who hold strong opinions. I married into a family who also hold strong opinions. If you say black, someone is bound to say white, down to your up, or sideways just to mess with your head.
Conversations often became debates and sometimes, debates turned into arguments. It could be politics, sports, current affairs or how efficiently you just loaded the dish washer. Someone was always there to one-up and show they know best. And we all loved this “entertainment” in matching wit.
Things went a step further in the controversy surrounding Elian Gonzalez.
Elian Gonzalez was a little Cuban boy who washed ashore, tragically, without his mother. His father wanted him back. His Florida relatives said no. Should he stay or should he go? That was the international headline for months! If you listened long enough to the warring sides, you were sure to pick one. It could range on personal feelings, family views, patriotism, and honestly being torn about what was right for the child.
My wife and I sat down in a restaurant, along with extended family members. The room was big. We were out in the open, at tables pulled together to accommodate our party. Before we ordered, the rhetoric heat was ratcheting up quickly. Everyone had done their homework. All parties knew this would be a topic of discussion. It was difficult to breakaway to give the waitress our menu orders. When we unclicked the uncomfortable pause button, each of us chomping at the bit to say our piece on the matter, the exchange quickly transgressed from conversation to a knife fight with sharp words. It was clear, there were two uncompromising parties well prepared to influence the opposition come hell or high water. Everyone was guilty.
But two in particular drowned out the others – one was me. As the kids of the time would say – it was on!
We were factual. We were philosophical. We were loud!
It was personal.
My “opponent” had had enough, stood, tossed his napkin down and headed for the door.
Shocked silence filled the table.
I gave chase offering peace. I still offered it in the parking lot as he drove away. There was simply too much steam to cool.
What happened? I was embarrassed. I walked back inside and the rest of the family was stunned when I said he wasn’t coming back.
Somewhere along the way or maybe all along, a debate over the issue of the day became a heart-felt, passionate declaration. I didn’t recognize that at the time. It’s one thing to argue with someone when it’s a chess match of wit but quite another matter when the heart of a lion comes into play. The right thing to do in that situation, unless you’re equally passionate in your heart of hearts, is stand down.
That didn’t happen and now there was a price to pay even for the innocent bystanders.
We returned back at my “opponent’s” house where calmer nerves prevailed. My “opponent” casually prepared wild mushrooms for a snack without offering much to say. He had picked his own. Anyone who knows anything about mushrooms knows that improper identification can be fatal.
“No-no, Rocky, these over here I picked special for you.”
Pastime
When I was 7-years-old, Dad took Grandpa and me to a ballgame. It was my first.
Grandpa told me how he fell in love with the sport when he was around my age, several years after emigrating from Sicily. Dad went to get some foot longs and I sat there next to my grandpa, holding onto my little league glove. I heard the crack of the bat and saw the ball coming closer – Closer – CLOSER. We were in the upper deck down the third base line. When that ball whizzed directly over my head I yanked back my outstretched glove because I wanted no part of it.
I shook Grandpa afterward and screamed, “Did you see that!”
He grunted, "See what, see what?”
He had no clue what just happened. Little did he know that was the moment I became a fan of the game and his team, just like my father before me.
Decades later, it was time to pass down the family tradition.
My daughter, Cara, was only 4-years-old and we were going to move away because of a job offer. Before we left, I wanted to take my little girl to experience the magic of Jacob’s Field.
We got on what Cara called “the train ride” and settled into a seat that happened to face backward. She liked that. I didn’t.
The man sitting in front of us had big hair.
“Dad – look, that man has a comb stuck in his head.”
I saw the big hair shift but not make a complete turn.
After that, we arrived, stood at the end of the line and walked into the ballpark.
I don’t give my kids a lot by today’s standards but I flat out spoiled my daughter on that day. Program – yes. Hot dog – yes. Peanuts – yes. Cracker Jack – yes. After all this and three innings, Cara saw a man with a big tray of clouds on sticks, colors dancing in the light one section over. She followed him with her eyes. Finally, she asked about this strange sight. Now, her only mission in life was to try this thing called cotton candy.
Half an inning later, she was twisted backward, thumping my shoulder without looking, as she panted, “He’s coming, Dad. Dad, here he comes.”
I decided to make her earn this treat and said that she had to get his attention to come down to us or she would be out of luck.
She asked how to do it so I told her to just yell, “Cotton Candy here!”
So she did! LOUDLY and REPEATEDLY.
Seeing how she handled the entire transaction by herself, many in our section gave her a standing ovation.
Her head swelled.
I had to tilt my head back to contain the pooling water building up in my eyes.
When the game was over, we soaked in the experience for a while longer until we were one of the last there.
“Dad, I love our team. Did they win?”
“I’ll always remember this day too, honey.”
Achieving My American Dream
There were naysayers – and there were plenty of them – before I took the entrepreneurial plunge.
Having worked myself up the corporate ladder to Director of Marketing and Public Relations for the parent company, I knew they were going to close operations in Hudson, Ohio where I worked. Rather than relocate out-of-state and away from family, I signed what was called a stay-put package to remain through the transition to ensure it went smoothly. This stay-put package, my normal pay and bonus, and a generous severance package allowed me the luxury to take some time off and write a book while I sought a new employer. In the meantime, I “stayed put” for a year. I brushed up my resume and acquired new skills, including how to build a web site. Once the web site was in place, my PR savvy was put to work.
Not being able to afford advertising for my web site, I created homemade bumper stickers, which lasted until the first rain. Then, living on a busy – former country – road in Strongsville, Ohio, I created a homemade billboard for my front yard. Neighbors loved it I’m sure. It lasted until the next rain, which wasn’t long. But, lots of people started visiting the site. Then, I got creative – or quirky – and devised some things that grabbed media attention.
Spot-The-Rock was the first idea to catch hold in a big way. He was a throwback to the pet-rock craze of the 1970s. However he weighed about 20 pounds, not including his wagon. He had eyes, long hair, arms and legs (taken from one of the kids’ dolls along with a voice box). Spot became a sensation and was booked across Northeast Ohio to make appearances, meet kids and talk about travel and safety. After several other gimmicks and modest news coverage, I discovered a part of the web site was fast becoming a favorite – free places to travel around Northern Ohio.
By this time, I was out of work and also interested in free Ohio fun to entertain my family of four. Finding so many free things to do and places to go, statewide, I decided to write a book about it. Then, the entire web site was channeled to promote the book. Before it was printed (self-published after numerous rejections), I had a job-offer in Cincinnati and went through the pains of selling our ho
me and relocating my family.
Between houses, we had two apartments. One was short-term housing provided complimentary by my new employer along with a signing bonus. Within the next six months, we’d call four places home. On a mini trip, my children looked at our hotel room and asked if it was our home now.
Eighteen months later, book sales produced a little extra money. Managing to get my book in major bookstores, libraries and online sellers, resulted in about a dozen book signings. This meant sitting in a chair at a table and watching people walk by wondering who the hell I was.
More importantly, the web site had acquired a rather large audience – probably because it was cross promoted with the book. This prompted the biggest sales presentation of my life; not to corporate leaders, bankers or investors but to my wife! I had an entrepreneurial idea and asked her to just give me six months to make something happen. If it didn't work, I’d have time to find a new job, hopefully. Oh, and if I couldn’t pull it off, we risked having to spend our savings to get by. But to do this right and have a chance, I needed to go at it full-time. She reluctantly agreed to the risks in my start-up venture.
My expansion of OhioTraveler.com offered unique family attractions across the state and not just the freebies from the book. Even though book sales were still going well, I made the decision to dump its entire content into the web site, offering it for free. I also used the site as a tool to develop a marketing practice that helped those in the tourism field that the larger firms ignored – organizations with little to no budgets.
My first client was a non-profit in the poorest county in Ohio, smack in the foothills of Appalachia. It came by way of a direct marketing email campaign followed up by a cold-call. One of my first promotional campaigns for a client involved getting media and online attention for what are known as quilt barns or barn quilt squares. It was a hit. Today, quilt barns dot the countryside throughout the Midwest and beyond. So, a seed was planted and I was fortunate to harvest many new clients through word-of-mouth coming from this critical early success.
The road I chose to travel had its share of bumps and fear of failure. It was a roller coaster. The most difficult part was not having a routine paycheck. I can’t tell you how many times I thought I might end up peeing blood from the stress of providing for my wife and children. But, I stuck with it and my wife stuck with me, whispering confidence in my ear when I needed it most.
We had no money for extras. Renting videos and ordering pizza were beyond our budget. My wife said we could use a bookcase so I built one – a pretty big one – out of wood. What it taught us was how to appreciate what we had. But what I rediscovered most was what had been long lost – personal freedom! Gone were the days I’d only see my children an hour before bedtime during the week. Now, I worked from home. Coupled with my wife – a special education teacher – we had much needed flexibility in our schedules. Three years later, we were earning money beyond what was needed to just get by.
OhioTraveler.com grew to attract one of the largest audiences of any magazine online or in print in the state, topping 18 million hits per year by more than one million visitors.
I self-taught myself many things, including shooting and editing video for clients. This service would grow to become half of my business. I had never done it before but figured my creativity and general know-how would be enough to do a decent job.
After landing my first paid shoot, I stood on a sidewalk, watching my new client walk toward me. I started sweating bullets because I couldn’t remember how to turn the camera on. But, the video turned out nicely and she used it for years. Eventually, a client won awards for a video I shot.
I continued on with innovative ideas to capture media attention. Some of my bigger successes were called GraveQuest, The Boneheaded Tourist and Lost in Ohio. It propelled me to regular guest appearances on television morning shows in Cincinnati and Columbus. I also landed interviews by other television, radio, newspapers and magazines, some even national in scope.
Sometimes I became overwhelmed with fear because I handled everything in the business by myself and the competition had grown fierce. Other times, I’d sit back and just smile at what I had pulled off. It was refreshing and rewarding to pursue a dream and succeed on my terms, persevering through my self-doubt and growing pains.
It wasn’t easy but I had somehow achieved my American dream.
Deceiving the Innocent
One Christmas, when I was a kid, I hid behind the living room couch hoping to sneak a peek at Santa Claus. It was long after my bedtime. I dozed off.
When I awoke, I only saw feet from my vantage point. Something was wrong. Santa was wearing slippers. I stretched to see the figure putting gifts under the Christmas tree. My world crashed!
I think my daughter, Cara, was the most crushed I had ever seen a kid learning there was no Santa. But that wouldn’t be the biggest or longest lasting deceit she’d fall victim to.
When Cara was a preschooler, she drew up elaborate treasure maps with her magic markers. We would go through the house together, following these maps to see where they led. On the first nice spring day of the year, she showed me her latest treasure map and I decided to play it up big-time. We followed the map she made. Then I mentioned certain imagery matched certain landmarks and she agreed. This took us outside on a great adventure. She rolled with it.
“This dotted line here and that scribble up there – that must mean we follow the stone steps down to the bushes by the creek,” I said. “Does it look that way to you?”
She agreed.
“I can’t figure this part out, where do you think it goes?” I asked.
Cara was full swing into a great adventure by now.
“Dad, this must lead up to the old cemetery.” She was in control.
We zigzagged through the woods, back and forth over the creek, and finally to some old headstones.
“Look, this guy was born before the Revolutionary War!” I said.
“What’s the Wewutionry Board?”
“It means it’s old – very old – so old I wonder if he wrote the treasure map.”
“Dad, I drew it!”
“Oh-ya, where to next?”
Looking at the last scribble, I told Cara where I thought it led. She didn’t disagree – already a step ahead in her thinking that maybe something could actually be there. I sunk the shovel into the dirt. I made her dig, too, when I got tired.
It dawned on me that earlier I had been standing in a cemetery with a shovel on my shoulder.
Low and behold, Cara’s shovel hit a container. Her eyes lit up so bright I reached for my sunglasses on top of my head. We pulled out and opened a dirty “treasure chest.”
She screamed in delight at the things we found inside.
Cara ran up the hill, through the backyard and into the house – beaming – to show her mommy.
Years later, my wife, Becky, was driving Cara and her teenage friends to go shopping. They were talking about the things they believed in when they were younger, like Santa Claus. They also talked about some other incredulous stuff and that’s when Cara shared her true story of miraculously discovering a treasure through a map she drew.
“I mean, to this day, I still can’t believe it. Like, how was that even possible?” Cara asked.
The car fell silent.
“Uh, Cara, Dad buried that,” Becky chuckled, amazed that Cara still believed this was a real life event, especially coming from an honor student in all advanced classes.
Pause.
“Wait! What?”
And another lie to a kid was exposed, albeit well past its expiration date.
Spring Break for Old Dudes
Spring break means different things to different people in different stages of life. For me, as a middle-aged man, married with two young children, it meant a long weekend getaway for Easter break with family and friends.
Every January my friend Mike and I get both of our families together for a three night stay in
a nice large cabin with a hot tub somewhere in Ohio. But for whatever reasons, this time January drifted into February and then March. So we decided since both of our wives were teachers, we’d book a place over their spring break. That way, the wives and kids all had time off. Perfect.
When we arrived, it was not what we had expected. First lesson; don’t trust what you see online. It was a mini cabin in the woods, located on a cul-de-sac road, and nearby a lake. The surrounding cabins were bursting at the seams with college kids on SPRING BREAK! That is, every cabin but ours and as I would later learn, one somewhere across the street.
Mike was unusually quiet as we drank some beer and fired up the grill. Bon Jovi music was bouncing off the trees all around us. I guess that’s what the “kids” considered classic rock these days. The only good thing was that these small cabins somehow had thick enough walls, soundproofed enough, to block out the noise from the all night partying going on next door. Fortunately there was a vacant, tree-filled lot separating us. We decided to brave the night and express our disappointment to management at the main lodge in the morning since it was already getting late and the kids were ready for sleep. Our kids that is!
Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief Page 18
