Showing posts with label jazz fusion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jazz fusion. Show all posts

April 24, 2008

But for the Grace of an Old, Army Jeep


A few Sundays ago I had the opportunity to take our new car out for a spin. As I accelerated down one of the main highways just outside of town, I felt good, happy actually, and I hadn’t felt that way in a while. With a cup of steamy 7-11 Coffee in my hand and some jazz playing on the car stereo, I hastened past a crude, cardboard sign which simply read “Car Show.” An arrow drawn in magic marker led the way.

I thought to myself that this would be a good place to take the kids later on in the morning. My wife wasn’t feeling well and I felt that the little ones shouldn't hang around the house and waste the day. Then, I caught a peek at some of the cars pulling in the lot where the event was to take place.

Funky notes from the tune “Sponge” by Randy Brecker got my foot tapping and I sped on past the ancient, re-born vehicles filing into the car show’s venue which was a church parking lot. My new Malibu ran smoothly, quiet, and I savored my artificial world crafted by General Motors and my imagination. Everything beyond the windshield was a movie. Pedestrians and automobiles alike were mere extras to be seen and not interacted with. I pressed the accelerator and trusted that the police were not on the alert for speeders so early in the morning.

An older jalopy which caught my eye in the queue of car show vehicles stayed with me in my mind. More of a horse carriage with a motor than a family car, I mused that the scenery surrounding such a machine in the year it was likely manufactured was starkly different than in today’s world. My dad was an eighteen year old kid fighting in Italy when this thing originally cruised around the highways. Detroit in early 1940’s had shut down auto production to produce tanks, jeeps, and other vehicles for the war effort. My guess at the actual age of the car was based on instinct and a wish that I could peek backward in time to that era; maybe visiting my father before I was "born".

To see my dad in person wearing his uniform as he was about to be shipped off to North Africa in August of 1943 would have been spectacular, to say the least. There’s a photo of my youthful father clad in his army trousers and button down shirt, as he posed on the rooftop of his Brooklyn home before being shipped overseas. His face hinted at an innocent enthusiasm as he was only vaguely aware of the horror and death he’d witness in the fighting due east. I often wondered what it would have been like if I encountered him before his departure. These fantasies occurred to me often over the years as I gazed into his confident eyes portrayed in that image. Would I be able to interact with him? Would he understand that he’d survive this conflict and marry a beautiful woman have six children and stay married for fifty two years? Would it be necessary to warn him to keep his head down and to ignore the agony of multiple bullet wounds?

My daydream almost got the best of me and I slowed down to keep pace with traffic. I ejected the CD and tuned in to the local talk radio station. “Religion on the Line,” a local radio program, has been on the air for ages and I listened in out of a sense of nostalgia for the days when going to church was a big event in my family. I am more spiritual now than religious. My mind harkens to God and then my cynicism foils the attempts organized religion makes to subdue me. Though I am a sinner, I lead a moral existence and teach my children to be good people. The show’s hosts, a rabbi and a deacon, both spoke of the Pope’s visit to New York City. It’s hard to fend off my Catholic guilt and not sit up straight and think pure thoughts when the pope is mentioned.

Again, my mind turned to that antique car and my dad. Indoctrinated by Dominican nuns in Catholic school, my father’s loyalty to the Franciscans was fostered when a young priest from that order administered Last Rites to him on the battlefield after he was severely wounded. Coincidently, the priest was once assigned to a church my father attended in Manhattan when he was a boy.

After a fierce battle in the Italian town of Velletri, this priest came to my dad’s side shortly following a pair of POWs from the German Wehrmacht who almost tossed my unconscious father into a mass, temporary grave. They thought he was dead; and, when these two soldiers (older men who were conscripts from Poland) lifted him on a stretcher they fashioned from a door, my dad awoke, frightening them, and they dropped the door and left him where they found him. He’d have been buried moments later by the bulldozer covering the trench with mountains of soil had they actually dumped his body into the pit.

It was fluke, perhaps divine intervention, that two men from the same town, a soldier and a priest, met during wartime thousands of miles away in Europe. Yet the young cleric’s compassion inspired my dad, made him hold on, and ultimately led him home.

Later in the day, I took my son to that car show. My wife was still ailing and my daughter felt a bit under the weather too. Inside, there were some vintage military vehicles; some Willys Jeeps and an old Army truck from World War II.

Did Grandpa ride in one of these when he was in the army?” my son asked.

Yeah, he did, actually.” I answered.

In fact, the only time he time did get a lift in a jeep was when he was heading home. After two months in an army field hospital in Rome, he was ordered back to the states for discharge from the service. His wounds were extensive and he couldn’t handle a rifle. The young soldier argued that he wanted to stay and fight along side his buddies; but, he was no longer fit for duty. All of his friends were eventually killed in action among the hedge rows in France; and, my dad weeps for them to this day.

He is more than sixty years older than when he fought in battle and the pain of war persists. His hearing is deteriorating due to a German bullet which spliced his left ear canal, a fragment of that round remains in the base of his skull today, his arm and hand became arthritic from a another bullet wound, and horrific memories haunt his dreams and waking moments.

Using my camera phone, I snapped a photo of my nine year old son who wore the slight grin of a child who was proud of a secret; that his grandpa rode in an army Jeep just like the one he was posing in front of. For a kid, that's awesome.

In the back of the lot were the older autos, including the one I noticed earlier which caused me to fall into this semi-Somnambulistic state. Dark in color, very long with side running boards, this model was actually built in the 1930s. Still, I was accurate in guessing its age. Nevertheless, I was grateful that the mere sight of this restored motor vehicle got me reminiscing. There but for the grace of God, and a kindly parish priest turned Army chaplain, that I was able to enjoy this event with my son. My father could have been buried alive and this fine day with me strolling in the sunlight with my boy at my side never would have happened.

My entire life was owed to a gentle priest who reached down for a soldier’s weakened, bloodied hand and coaxed him to find God and survive.

After an afternoon of reflection, I no longer felt the urge to sneak back in time to caution my soldier-father about the impending danger of battle anymore. Things turned out well in spite of the war and his close brush with death. That young Franciscan priest became his lifelong inspiration, influencing many decisions which brought him to this point in his life where he frequently calls and asks "When am I going to see my grandchildren?"

On that glorious Sunday I stepped closer to God in the parking lot of a Roman Catholic Church, with my young boy holding my hand, thinking about my dad’s first ride in the back of a jeep, and about how gently the Lord guides our lives.

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November 14, 2007

Tagged: "Double Meme-ing"

Two blogging pals of mine tagged me with me memes this week. Whenever I’m tagged, I consider it a compliment, and I take a bit of time to respond so I can do the meme justice. First, Eng Foo Tiam over at Beautiful World tagged me with a “Double Meme” asking “What are your three things to die for, and what are your top musical picks?” Mike French over at The View from Here tagged me with “All About Me.” If you visit’s Mike’s blog, you will see that he posted a really cool video response to the meme. Today, I will post my response to footiam’s (as he calls himself in the blogging world) meme. Then, later in the week I will post Mike French’s meme.

The “Double Meme” is: “Three things to die for” and “My Top Musical Picks.”

So, what are three things Mr. Grudge would die for? First and foremost, I’d die for family. My wife and two children come before anything else, then my father, siblings, and down the line to friends. I have several acquaintances who I see every day, those at work, or folks I see in the community where I live who I wouldn’t die for; yet, I might take a few bruises or scrapes for if they were in trouble. However, as far as the guy behind the counter at the 7-11 I chat with every morning about sports, you’re on your own, buddy.

The next thing I would die for is an ideal. I’m not exactly sure which ideal it is I would hold so dearly that I’d sacrifice my life to defend it, but it sounds very noble to announce that one would die for his principles and beliefs. So, let’s just say that conceptually, for the sake of fulfilling this meme, I’d die for my ideals. In real life, if the firing squad is lined up for all of the dissidents, I’ll most likely scale over the back fence with a sack full of cash, phony identity papers, and my “good” baseball cards.

The last thing I’d die for is to be published by a reputable, honest, traditional publisher. Yes, my dream, and the focus of this blog, is for folks everywhere to be able to read the wonderful, amazing, and truly great things I write and become enamored with me, a future, famous author. “But why, Mr. Grudge, would you die for that? Wouldn’t you want to stick around and enjoy the fruits of your fame and fortune after finally realizing your dream?” My answer? Of course I would. But, with my luck, the day I sign a lucrative contract for a multi-book deal with a top publishing house, I’ll step off a curb and in front of a moving bus. So, I could very easily die for a publishing contract so my wife and kids would benefit from my life insurance, the money from the book sale, the subsequent settlement with the bus company for my wrongful death, and years of royalties as a result of my novel being on the New York Times Best Seller List for a record number of years. It’s all about my family, you know. I’d die to make a better life for my wife, my daughter, my son, and my wife’s current boyfriend. Well, maybe not her boyfriend. He can keep his job at 7-11.

Now, my top musical picks? I can’t actually point to my top musical picks per se, but I can tell you about my musical tastes. This is a fun tag as very few folks can say that they don’t like music. In fact, I am going to write a post next week on how music helps shape ones memories and keeps one connected to past events. Who doesn’t remember what song was playing when you had your first kiss, or when you first made love, or when you maybe when someone close to you died. Perhaps the song was not playing at that moment, but certainly, you had a strong, emotional reaction to whatever was playing on the radio that day, depending on your mood or the power of your experience. You’ve heard folks say things like “Oh, this song reminds me of junior high school when me and my buddies went to the movies and saw Godzilla.” You get the idea.

The reason I bring this up is because I have two musical genres I enjoy. In my high school days, I was into the music which was prevalent among my peers. We were into Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Aerosmith, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and David Bowie (I graduated high school in 1981). I’ll always have a connection to these bands because whenever I hear “Stairway to Heaven” I feel young again. I’ll always be passionate about my hard rock/art rock/ southern rock tastes.

Then, there’s the “fusion jazz” Mr. Grudge who surprises everyone. Nobody believes that I love jazz. The older fusion works of bands like The Mahavishnu Orchestra, Return to Forever and Weather Report led the way to a harder, more modern jazz, with Weather Report leading the way with the heavy use of synthesizers in their long, extended jams.

Though these bands have long since disbanded, many of their band members have gone on to have solo careers, with Al DiMeola, Jaco Pastorius, Billy Cobham, John McLaughlin, and Chick Corea going on their own to create great music. There’s nothing like cruising the Northern State Parkway with the moon roof open in my Earth un-friendly, extended Chevy Trailblazer with “Gibraltar” by Weather report blasting on my stereo. The world is a great place then.

Thanks footiam. I appreciate being tagged. Like I said, I am going to write Mike French’s tag next. I suppose now I must pass along the favor and tag someone else. I believe I’d like to know more about a certain guy named Andrew over at Andrew Ruth the blog. So, I’m tagging you, Andrew, if you’d like to participate. Andrew’s a terrific, vibrant writer who does not nearly get the amount of exposure he deserves. Check out his blog, as well as footiam’s and Mike French’s blogs. These guys are terrific writers, good blogging pals, and they all have my respect and gratitude for their kinship with this blog.



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