Chicago Cubs Win the World Series – Grandpa Rudy Was Wrong

This is a blog written by my husband, Tony Marrazzo, reflecting on a more personal significance behind the Cubs winning the World Series. I’d say his heartfelt and kind story is perhaps a more profound take on not only how passion for a team can bring families together – but what life, love and family mean. Enjoy my first ever guest blogger.

The Cubs won the World Series. I can’t believe I just typed that. There are no words to describe how I feel. Well, maybe a few. Allow me to reflect. As I write this, I completely understand that most everyone could care less about other people’s personal attachments to the team – the stories are all basically the same. I think you might find mine interesting and parts of it familiar.

Like most kids who grew up in the 1970’s, watching Cubs games on WGN was what you did. My crew during those years – Chris Pupillo, Phil DeMichel, Donny Lazuka, Mike Solesky, Frank Becker and Mike Kenna – would spend summer mornings in Elmwood Park playing whiffle ball. We would head down the block to Tom’s Mom’s (a local bar on Harlem Ave that would serve lunch) and grab a burger and fries for a $1.10, then hurry back home to watch the game. If a good team was in town, like the Pirates or Reds, we would jump on the CTA at Harlem and Grand, take the Harlem Ave. bus north to Addison, buy a transfer and take the Addison line down to Wrigley. Ten bucks could get you into the bleachers and you would still have enough money for a hot dog and bus fare both ways. Wrigley would open the gates at 9 a.m. back then, and you could watch batting practice. After the game, hop back on the bus and you were home in time for dinner and a game of whiffle ball. Dad would come home from his job delivering Tribune Newspapers and he would always interrupt the whiffle game to take a couple of “cuts”. He would mimic his favorite player, Billy Williams, and would often hit for way too long, always to the chagrin of the 10 year old boys who wanted to finish the game.

My father loved baseball. He played on a team while serving in the Army, and he was proud of the team photo. And he loved the Cubs. Like all Cub fans his age, he suffered through the 1969 collapse. At eight years old, his father took him the 1945 World Series. As Italian immigrants, they couldn’t afford to get in the game. My dad climbed a tree to get a glimpse of his heroes. That thought makes me happy.

The 1970’s were my Cubs fandom formative years. Those teams were awful. Between 1973 and 1983, the team did not have a winning record. They averaged 1.5 million in attendance during those years – half the number that pass through the gates on Clark and Addison these days. But I watched every game.

My dad would take me to Opening Day at Wrigley every year. He would pull me out of school and we would go. Sometimes, my Grandpa Rudy, my mother’s father, would tag along. He was also a Cub fan, but a different kind of fan. He was a Polish immigrant who worked the coal mines in Southern Illinois. A big man with a mean streak who was bitter, especially when it came to the Cubs. Who could blame him, he was 70 years old and never saw the Cubs win anything. (He arrived in this country after 1908).

My Dad on the other hand was the eternal optimist, always believing it was going to happen. In the evenings, when the Cubs were on the road (no night games at Wrigley back then), we would sit together in the den and watch Cubs games together in our apartment. The Cubs would take a beating from the Dodgers or some other National League team, and Grandpa Rudy would chide my Dad to no end. “They’re bums”! “They’re never going to win anything”! “You will never see the Cubs play in a World Series, Marrazzo”! My Dad would try to argue the merits of a bad team, but then just go to bed to get some rest, because he had to get up early and deliver the newspapers, which were full of headlines about the Cubs loss. I didn’t take it as well. I shared a room with Grandpa Rudy. After Cubs losses, my Mom would give me Pepto Bismal because I was so upset. As I lay in bed next to him trying to go to sleep, I would try to understand why Grandpa Rudy was so bitter. I didn’t get it. Did he like to make my Dad upset? Did he get some joy out of all those Cubs losses? Or maybe he considered himself a realist. Fortunately, I ended up like my Dad, the eternal optimist, believing it was going to happen. And hopefully, someday, Grandpa Rudy would be wrong.

Some of my greatest memories as a kid was going to a Cubs game with my Dad. We would get in his Oldsmobile Delta 76 and make the trek down Addsion. I would always bring my baseball mitt, and he would assure me on the ride down that I would catch a ball. It never happened. In 2002, he passed away, never seeing his beloved Cubs never win the World Series. In 2003, I attended my first baseball game after his passing. Eric Young got around late on a Carlos Zambrano fastball in the first inning and hit a scorching line drive foul ball over the first base dugout, directly at me. I caught the ball. Divine intervention? If you believe in that kind of stuff, then yeah, of course. Could it be the randomness of a foul ball finding me among 40,000 spectators. Maybe. I choose to believe the former. That ball sits next to his ashes in my Mom’s bedroom and has been there for 13 years.

We came close, Dad and I. 1984 – that was the year. We had a good team. Driving back from a Cubs 7-4 victory over the Montreal Expos on June 13th, 1984 in his Oldmmobile Delta 88 (Dad upgraded his Oldsmobile), we were listening to the Cubs post game on WGN AM 720. Lou Boudreau told us that the Cubs had traded away two of their top prospects – Mel Hall and Joe Carter – for pitcher Rick Sutcliffe. I was not happy. Being a loyal fan, I knew about Hall and Carter. Hall was a rookie of the year candidate the previous season (he finished third), and looked the part. Carter was a highly touted prospect and his career speaks for itself. But I quickly got over it as Sutcliffe would win the Cy Young award going 16-1 down the stretch leading the Cubs to their first Division title in 39 years! I would move away from home to attend college that fall in Rock Island and couldn’t watch the playoff series with Dad. Going up 2-0 in the series and even though Grandpa Rudy had passed several years earlier, I had a feeling this was the year the Cubs would prove him wrong. We all know how it turned out – 2-0 lead in the series, ball under Durham’s glove, Steve Garvey, etc, etc, and the Padres were on to the World Series.

Several years ago I was at a business meeting in Scottsdale, Arizona. A co-worker, my wife and I made our way down to the bar at the Kierland resort for a late night drink. The bar had a side room designed for a shuffleboard table and nothing else. I spotted Sutcliffe playing alone with a friend. I grabbed my co-worker and wife and told them we had to play shuffleboard. I challenged Sutcliffe to a game, he accepted, and I took the side next to him. I immediately told him the story of the car ride home with my Dad. Sutcliffe let out a bellowing laugh and said let me tell you a story. He went on to tell me that after the trade, Mel Hall bad mouthed him in the media. The next year, in a Cactus league spring training game, Mel Hall came to the plate to face Sutcliffe. The catcher, Jody Davis, called for a curve ball. Sutcliffe shook him off, so Jody put down one finger for the fastball. Sutcliffe then hit Hall. Baseball revenge. The next batter was Joe Carter. Davis called for a curve ball. Once again, Sutcliffe shook him off. Davis immediately charged out to the mound and started in on Sutcliffe, “You can’t hit Joe, he’s a good guy.” I love that story.

1989. The Boys of Zimmer – Hawk, Sandberg, Grace, Maddux, The Wild Thing, Jerome Walton, Dwight Smith and Sutcliffe. Five all-stars and a rookie of the year. Three future Hall of Famers. In August 1989 I was relocated with my job to Holland, Michigan. After an exciting summer of division winning baseball, I was left to watch the division series alone. But I remained confident, we would prove Grandpa Rudy wrong. No doubt, this was the year. Then Will Clark happened and we all know how it turned out.

The Cubs would go dark for another 10 years. They had one winning season between 1990 and 1998. And it was a dark time for Major League baseball. The 1994-1995 strike cancelled the entire 1994 post season. In 1995, I moved once again, taking a job in Milwaukee.

Then, 1998. Harry Carry dies in February. Kerry Wood strikes out 20 on May 6th, as a rookie! Sammy Sosa hits home runs – 66 to be exact. I personally saw number 64 and 65 from the second row behind home plate at the old County Stadium in Milwaukee. That was the Brant Brown game. Ron Santo famously yelled “Oh no, he dropped the ball!” on WGN radio. The Cubs did not win the division, but in 1994, MLB added wild card teams, and the Cubs ended in a tie with the Giants. The Cubs would go and win a one game playoff against the Giants to make the playoffs. I couldn’t watch the NLDS with Dad because I was in Milwaukee, and the Atlanta Braves happened – a quick 3 and done sweep at the hands of Maddux, Smoltz and Glavine. I was beginning to think Grandpa Rudy might be right after all.

The Cubs would go to miss the playoffs for the next four years. 2001 was close. I was living in St. Louis, relocated once again. The Cubs were 13 games over .500 and 1 game behind the Cardinals and 1.5 games behind the Giants for a Wild Card spot. Then 9/11 happened. Baseball took a week off and when they returned, the Cubs went 10-11 and missed the playoffs.

The following year we learned Dad had cancer. I lost him on October 3rd, 2002 and moved back home to Chicago. He was gone way too early. When you lose someone you love, you are left with memories. And my memories of my Dad were all about baseball. Coaching my little league teams, interrupting my whiffle ball games and most of all, our passion for the Cubs. Then 2003 happened.

I really thought 2003 would be the year. I remember celebrating the Cubs clinching the Division, watching the game in my garage with neighbors on a small 19″ color TV, opening a bottle of champagne after the game. It was meant to be, right? Dad in heaven, getting the last laugh over Grandpa Rudy. Telling the old man “you haven’t seen me in 25 years and I came here just to watch the look on your face when the Cubs win the World Series”. Oh, and I caught that foul ball earlier in that season. I wanted the Cubs to win for so many reasons – but mostly for the memory of Dad. Game 6, 8th inning, five more outs. Five more outs! We all know what happened – Bartman, Gonzalez, Marlins rally, game 7…… my belief that it was going to happen and my Cubs optimism was beginning to feel silly…. and Dad was gone. Grandpa Rudy was probably right.

Then 2007 and 2008 happened. Lou Pinella, Ramirez, Lee, Soriano, Soto, Dempster, Zambrano. Those were good teams. My brother Danny’s favorite singer Eddie Vedder wrote the song “Someday we’ll go all the way”. I could totally relate to that eternal optimistic piece of song writing. It was like trying to will it to happen through lyrics. But back to back sweeps at the hands of the Diamondbacks and Dodgers in the NLDS and the Cubs were quickly dismissed.

By now we know the rest of the story. Ricketts buys the team. He hires Theo. Theo tells us to have patience. Trades everybody. Drafts hope. Hires Maddon. A shot, a beer and a promise. I feel like a kid again. Checking minor league box scores like I used to read the back of a baseball card (For the record – I have an awesome baseball card collection – much better than Brian Hooker). I installed a 120″ HD projector TV in the garage to watch the games – hope had returned!

2015 didn’t end with a World Series appearance, and I’m sure Grandpa Rudy thought, like the rest of us, that this doesn’t look like any Cubs team we have ever seen before. Young talent. Really good young talent. A Manager who seemed to know what he was doing. A front office you could believe in, a stacked minor league system, improvements to the infra structure (Domincan Republic facility, a new minor league complex, improvements to the stadium, a new club house). This felt different. Disappointment over not proving Grandpa Rudy wrong was replaced by a feeling of confidence.

Then 2016 happened. The year started interestingly enough back in Scottsdale, Arizona at a resort, again, there for a business meeting. I was sitting in a hot tub with a co-worker and Jake Arrietta appeared with his son and John Lackey and joined us. We went on to talk about the 2015 season and our mutual anticipation for what was to come (I found Lackey to be a bit surly – go figure. Jake was Jake, serious and focused). It was the day before pitchers and catchers were to report. I made my treks down to Wrigley during the season….memories. There was the game I attended with my wife on our anniversary, the rooftop game in September, the Lincoln Park game with my brother in law where I met Tom Ricketts and personally thanked him, (My brother, Danny, Phil DeMichel and Joe Greskoviak ended up riding Divy bikes from Wrigleyville back to Joe’s house in Lincoln Park after the game – we were in no condition to be on Divy bikes), and the game where I took relatives from Florida to see their first game at Wrigley. (I love seeing the reaction of friends or family when they first walk up the stairs at Wrigley – it reminds me of being a 5 year old boy, holding Dad’s hand, Cubs hat, baseball glove). I was also fortunate enough to attend the second game of the World Series in Cleveland (Thank you Joe!). All of the games I attended resulted in a W. As usual, I watched every game on TV, with a feeling that something good was going to happen. But were Cubs fans, right? Conditioned for disappointment.

Then Wednesday night happened. I was a wreck, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think about anything except the game. My anxiety was torturing me. I kept telling myself, don’t reach for the Xanax, you don’t need it, not now, this game is too important. When it was time to leave work to head home to get the garage ready for the game, I reached for my keys, where I always put them, side pocket, back pack. Grab them and go, time for game 7. But they weren’t there! I emptied the bag over and over – no car keys! I tore through the office – every garbage can, every desk, every person I had come in contact with throughout the day. Nothing. We had an extra car at the office, so at 4:45, I was given a key to the spare vehicle and drove home.

14 years earlier, after Dad had passed away, my Mom called and said the kids could come to the house and take any of his belongings. I showed up not really intending on taking anything. I went for Mom, I knew it would be good for her if I came and showed interest. When I arrived, the first thing I saw was my Dad’s key chain. He had a buffalo nickel that was inserted into a round piece of metal on a circular metal ring. It was worn from years of use. I never knew the significance of it, other than for as long as I could remember, that was his key chain. If you saw the buffalo nickel on the key chain on the counter, you knew Dad was home. I scooped it up and exclaimed “I’ll take this”!

As I drove home from work, all I could think about was losing that key chain. Dad’s key chain. I was overcome with a feeling of guilt and sadness – why now? Why was this happening? Bad timing.

Game time. I couldn’t think straight. My daughter Abby was working on a school project that was due the next day, a report on the Godfather movie. My wife was stressed because Abby had procrastinated. My neighbors edgy because the garage wasn’t set up (This isn’t like Tony – what’s wrong?). The stress of game seven looming – and the keys, what happened to the keys?

My friends who watch big Cubs games with me in the garage know I can’t sit still. I set up the best chair for myself in front of the TV and rarely use it. Pacing nervously, anxiety ridden, hopeful. 15 minutes before the game started, my neighbor Chris Kalscheur approached me and simply said “I know how much this game means to you” with a warm look in his eye. Suddenly, a feeling of calmness overcame me. I sat in the chair. The whole game. No anxiety. The Cubs go up 5-1, then blow the lead with two outs in the eighth, been there before. Rain delay. A feeling of impending doom as another Cubs torturous loss seems imminent, angst among my 30 or so guests in the garage. But not me – I’m in my chair, in the den, second floor apartment. Grandpa Rudy on my left, Dad on my right. Then the 10th inning happens. Cubs win the World Series. Dad smiles, hugs me, goes to bed, important papers to deliver in the morning. Mom puts the Pepto Bismal away. Grandpa Rudy gives me one of his expected mean glares and says “I guess I was wrong.”

The next morning, I woke up. Got to return the extra car back to work. I grabbed the spare set of keys. Then, for no explainable reason, I decide to check the back pack one more time. I pull everything out, laptop, notebook, power cord, etc. Nothing. The notebook looks a little thick. I open it up ….. buffalo nickel key chain.

Really poor decisions, yet again, lead to death and prison

This case involved a young couple taking desperate measures to make ends meet and the death of one who took advantage of their plight.

(Click link below)

I have no more words.,0,1921646.story

Things can never really be that bad, can they?

Until next time, love each other……

I’d love your input and comments on this one friends and family!

Funeral held today for Baby Jeremiah Michael: newborn found dead in Chicago Ridge recycling plant

Dear friends and family:

This is without a doubt the saddest assignment I’ve ever covered. The mother is out there, likely somewhere in the northern suburbs of Illinois or southern Wisconsin. Someone knows who she is. She knows who she is.

There are options for unwanted babies. You have up to 30 days after delivery to safely, legally and anonymously relinquish your unwanted baby to anyone inside a police department, fire house, hospital or a security office on any college campus in Illinois.

Spread the word. You will save a life.  Please read story in Chicago Tribune (link below).

And until next time hold your kids tight, thank God for the all the good in the world and pray for the darkness to be lifted.,0,4008708.story

Family’s reaction to conviction in decade-old cold-case with no body

Dear family, friends and followers:

I wrote a story in the Chicago Tribune today about reactions of the families in the aftermath of Mario Casciaro’s conviction in the murder and disappearance of Brian Carrick.

Brian, a 17-year-old boy, described as small, skinny, sweet and funny,  was last seen on Dec. 20, 2002 running up the stairs to his bedroom in his family’s large, white farmhouse where he was raised with his large, Irish Catholic family – with 13 siblings.

He was last seen by co-workers in the grocery store where he worked as a stock boy, located right across the street from his home, at the back of a produce cooler arguing with known felon Shane Lamb, described as “the muscle” – “the intimidator” of a small rural town drug ring.

Again I say there are no winners. This is a sad story all around about youth and poor choices. I have followed this case for many years. I have come to know the families on both sides of this case and they are very nice people who love their sons and brothers.

I welcome your comments and questions. It is a confusing case to understand. But prosecutors say they did what they had to in order to hold someone accountable for the loss the Carricks have suffered. Prosecutors say they will continue to investigate where the 17-year-old stock boy’s body is.

For more background search my blog. There are several stories posted from the trial that ended Tuesday. Until next time, love each other.,0,3812487.story

Mario Casciaro guilty in 10-year-old cold case

I have followed this story for years. I covered both trials. I have met and come to like the family members of both the defendant and the victim, the young boy whose body has never been found. There are no winners here. There is no joy.

One young man, who could have had a wonderful, happy, successful future is facing 20 to 60 years in prison, and another will never come home. His family will never really know what happened to him – or his body. Read link  to Chicago Tribune story below.

Share, like, comment, let me know you stopped by. And until next time, PLEASE love each other….Too much sadness in the world.,0,4742818.story

Drug dealer says defendant tells him “I make people disappear.”

Hi friends, family and followers:

Another day in the Mario Casciaro first-degree murder trial.

At the end of the day the whole situation is just so sad. Everyone involved in this tale were just teenagers when all of this calamity was put into motion.

If anything good comes of this sad sordid tale, let it be  a reminder that we really need to pay attention to who our kids are hanging out with.

We need to know at all times what they are doing.

Also a reminder that the teen years, the years of experimentation, can result in long-lasting problems. Our kids need to know that decisions they are making now, if not good choices, can follow them around for the rest of their lives.

(link below),0,5660141.story

I welcome any and all comments.

Until next time…

Claudia and Bernice, decades apart, but not so different

A couple of weeks ago I worked on a story about postpartum depression as part of a case I have been covering in McHenry County.

One morning just a few days before Christmas, Claudia Mejia stabbed her 9-month-old baby boy, in the throat with a knife.

Her husband was home and she was supposed to be laying down with their infant son -the youngest of their four children- for a bit before they were going out Christmas shopping. Her husband then heard a shrilling scream from their room. He ran in to find the baby bloody and his wife catatonic,  saying only that she had no idea what happened.

She was arrested, held in jail on $2 million bail, and charged with attempted murder.

That was about two years ago, today in court her lawyer said that a doctor determined she was in fact insane at the time.

In a couple of weeks there will be a bench trial where it is expected the judge will sentence her to the Illinois Department of Human Services until she is found to be stable, instead of sending her to prison. She will eventually return home to her family. Her son survived and is a normal almost 2-year-old toddler. Doctors say he will not remember the stabbing.

Claudia’s story and two others on postpartum depression, written by Chicago Tribune reporter Lisa Black, ran on Jan. 9  in the Chicago Tribune.

A few days later the editors received a letter from an 89-year-old woman named Bernice. She thanked us for the article and shared a painful story that she had never before spoke of. A story decades before Claudia, yet somewhat similar.

She wrote of how one night when her husband was away on a trip she was desperate to get her crying baby to sleep. It had been five days and the baby cried incessantly and she was “exhausted,” she wrote. She had planned one night to turn on the gas in her apartment so they both would “sleep.” That is how she worded the sentence, but if we read between the lines, I think we know what she was saying, but could not bring herself to write it.

She continued that luckily, a neighbor invited her over for dinner that night and somehow helped her to get her  baby to fall asleep.

No one ever knew of her deep depression and frustration as a young, lonely, first-time mother, nor did she ever tell her husband or anyone, until now.

She also wrote of the wife of a friend. This woman jumped off of the top of the hospital building within days of her baby being born.

Both of these women were married to ministers. One would think these men, men of God, would have been more  sensitive, more in tune with their wives. Or that these women would somehow have had a stronger grasp on life and stress. (Link to Bernice’s letter is below),0,4300176.story

Bernice’s story made me think of the movie The Hours. There was one character, played by Julianne Moore, a “perfect” 1950s, housewife and mom with the perfect husband and house, but she is depressed and lonely and in the end she kills herself. There is another movie Revolutionary Road, with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio. Kate Winslet also plays a 1950s housewife who is so depressed, feels trapped, wants to move away from their idyllic suburban life and travel. But she finds she is pregnant. Gives herself an abortion and she dies.

These movies and Bernice’s story took place decades ago. TV tells us it was such a wonderful, blissful time back then, when women relished in being married and having children. They wore dresses everyday and pearls around their neck. Their houses were always clean and their lawns manicured. They cooked, really cooked, three perfect meals each day. Right?

Today, thank God, there is awareness of women and the unique issues we face with depression, anxiety, postpartum depression, and so on. Obviously we don’t catch all the cases in which women might harm themselves, or someone else, or their own baby, but I think we are in a somewhat better place than when Bernice was a young wife and mom. I don’t think we try to appear perfect. I know I don’t. I mean look it’s 6:30 p.m., I  have laundry to be folded and have not even thought about dinner yet!

Life is so hard and it is long. There needs to be awareness for those in heartache and deep distress.

Maybe Bernice’s neighbors sensed something bad was about to happen. They stepped in and helped this young, lonely mother. Maybe they just heard an angel whisper to them.

I thank God for them, whoever they are, as I’m sure Bernice is grateful to them. I’ll never meet this woman as she declined anymore attention from the newspaper.

But I can  only imagine how she works through that time in her life, now that her baby is a grown woman, maybe she has grandchildren.  What made her sit down at almost 90 years old and share that dark, sad time with the newspaper?

What made Claudia Mejia do what she did to her baby?  She loves her baby, her other three children and her husband, and they love her. Her husband  only asks that his wife comes home to them and that they can be a family again.

I hope she gets the right treatment and can go home as well. I hope her story and the others that Lisa Black wrote and Bernice’s letter catch the eyes of the right women.

You never know what is going on in someone’s head and heart.

Until next time love each other.

Please read, share “like” and comment. Let me know you stopped by!

House of Horrors

Hi my dear friends! Please visit Bittersweet (link below) sometime this week! I wrote a blog about a story I read in Chicago Tribune about a horrible house in a Chicago neighborhood where women were held, beaten, drugged, forced to prostitute……Just awful. I know, not happy and cheery, but important nonetheless. I really appreciate your support here and over at Bittersweet! Please read, like, share, comment and let me know you visited. Also, please write in your email address over in the box on Bittersweet. That will then generate alerts each time I post and tell ChicagoNow big shots, that I’m doing good and I have readers! xoxo

Until next time…..  🙂

Saying something that actually matters, finally

As much as I try to avoid the Lance Armstrong show, it pops up all around me in the news.  Today something struck me and I probably wrote the quickest blog entry ever. Please click over to Bittersweet (link below) and comment, like and share. Also, there is a new feature on the right hand side of Bittersweet. Please dear friends enter your email address and let me know if you receive notices from Chicago Now when I post blogs.

See you soon! Thank you for your support.

The man in the moon and me

As we should all know by now, Neil Armstrong, the first man to step on the moon, died in August. He was 82. And from all accounts that I have read he was a good man who lived his life quite modestly after doing something that changed, maybe connected the entire world, if only for a little while.

For this Blog entry I literrally scoured the internet and read about a dozen obits on this man.

I did this because when he died, there was one graph in one of the many, many tributes to him that hit me on such an emotional level.

A feeling that I still have not been able to shake. And I believe it is worth reprinting and discussing and sharing with the “blogasphere” why it touched me so.

I finally found it at the end of a piece written on Aug. 26 in USA Today.

Here it is:

For those who may ask what they can do to honor Neil, we have a simple request,” his family said in a Saturday statement. “Honor his example of service, accomplishment and modesty, and the next time you walk outside on a clear night and see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink.”

Oh man, it happened again! I got that lump in my throat re-reading this.

Because the idea, the visual this presents to me is so simple, yet so so so grandiose.

One thing is, I have always seen the face of the man in the moon. And so many times, since I was a child, I remember asking others if they see a face in the moon. And, not everyone does. I could never wrap my head around that.

The other thing is this.

There is one moon, billions maybe zillions of people in this world, again just one moon. OK, we see it at different times of the night. There is one Big Dipper, one Little Dipper, one of each unique, brilliant star in each of its little own endlessly dark piece of the sky. (Please stay with me here)

I have dear friends and family in many parts of this country. Sometimes I wonder as I look up at the sky at night and take in the beauty and the wonderment of the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the moon, that one little super shiny star, that I think is a planet, that sets just to the bottom right of the moon… I wonder sometimes, are any of my dear, long-lost friends or family in other parts of this country looking at that part of the sky at that very same moment. And we just recently had that beautiful, magical Harvest Moon display, and I wondered the same thing. Is anyone out there looking at it and taking in all of its magic at the same time I am.

And if they were would we not be connected in that very moment?

When I was 11 years old, I met my biological father for the first time. Before meeting him I never even knew his name, never even knew he existed. Further, I never even knew that I was not who I had long believed I was. It was– and still is– quite complicated and hard to work through.

The reason I bring this up, is this – I remember in the months and couple of years afterward– after meeting this man, this stranger, this man who added so much confusion, pain to an already tumultuous existence–looking up at the sky sometimes and wondering if he was looking at the same part of the evening sky and thinking of me. I particularly recall one New Year’s Eve, shortly after meeting him, when the town was doing fireworks and fire crackers right at Midnight, and I went outside…There were people and noise makers everywhere, noises from all parts of town, I felt so alone. And I wondered where he was and if he was looking up at the night sky too.

I wondered in my young mind, if before he met me did he ever look up at that vast sky and wonder where I was. Did he wonder, was his child also looking up at the sky, the moon, the man in the moon? Did she see the man in the moon even?

Did he see the man in the moon?

Did we share that?

Did he care?

I’ll never know any of these answers. And the thought of this, me as a confused and sad child not knowing who she really is or whether or not it even matters to anyone, who she really is, makes me so sad.

So now as an adult, now that I have control over my life, and a loose handle on my emotions, I take these same moments when looking up at the evening sky and think of old friends, relatives who make me happy and confident and secure, people who made me laugh, smile, dance. People who love me and make me feel love. And those who may be far away, but still close in my heart and I think- what are they looking at right now? Are they seeing what I am seeing? Do they see the face of the man in the full, bright moon? Are they giving old Neil a wink?

I know, I am.

What do you think of when you look up at the evening sky? Do you see the man in the moon?

Please share thoughts, comments, likes or dislikes, click “follow” and share.

See you next week. 🙂