Lou
was on fire, flames on his trousers, his shirt melting into his skin.
He did what a lot of people do. He ran. His co-workers
ran as well, grabbed him and tossed him into the sand, rolled him
like dough, and doused the flames. The ambulance was called, and Lou
went to Ellis Hospital.
 |
| That's what they did |
I do
not know those guys' names, except Stanley, the Polish guy from
Cohoes. Lou would pick up three of his fellow workers on the
ride from Lansingburgh, to Schenectady, and then home after their
shift with a six pack of Schaefer beer along for the ride. Lou
would many times have two cans left, one for him, and one for his
wife. I'd be in bed (going to school and college), but could
usually hear some conversations, even the arguments. A lot of
arguing, or my mother would be in one her rants
My
father could face molten steel 5 nights a week, but he had few
responses for his wife as she went on about how terrible her life
was. When the rants began from the kitchen, I'd pull up the
covers up over my head and wait for them to stop.
I
never knew that families could enjoy each others company, and that
it could be done without booze until two in morning every single
Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays . I have working class
roots, as you can see, and the dysfunctionalism I was watching every
day was being repeated in a lot of houses all around me. And
it started to sink in that this was not right. I had some friends
who had the all American family, though maybe they hid their
challenges better. Why couldn't we be like the Partridge Family,
instead of All in the Family?
This
question just became larger in 1976 when summer came. I had just
completed my sophmore season at Siena, and spent most of my time,
when not doing yard work, playing ball on a local field. When the
game was done, I'd go back to my house, grab a cold drink, and read
on the back porch. My dog would come out to join me. She was 11
years old and slowing down a bit. She'd scratch at my bedroom door
late at night if she needed to go outside. Sometimes she made it,
sometimes not, but she always (in her way) asked for assistance if
she needed it. The stairs were harder for her to climb, even
stepping up on to a storage box on the back porch for her favorite
view to be able to look down on three yards (we lived on the second
floor) and see where the cats and birds were. I was worried, and the
time was coming for annual vacation to Cape Cod. The dog never went
with us, a neighbor would spend time with her, make sure she had
water and food. One of the happiest moments of each year for me was
to pull up to our house and see my dog standing up in the window
barking happily that we had come home.
But
in 1976, she didn't want to do much. I was scared, really scared for
her. So Iasked my mother, because she made the decisions, if we
could A. Take Cookie (the dog) with us or B. I would stay home, be
with her and help her get around. Decisions made – No and No. So
my friend agreed to watch Cookie again.And we went to Cape Cod. My
father couldn't remember how to get there. We had the same vacation
every year, two weeks in Dennisport on the lower Cape. My mother
could not stand giving Lou directions so I quietly guided him as well
as I could, and we arrived at our bungalow. My sibling's families
would join on us for a few days each.
Lou
had his routine on the Cape from the first time we went. He'd get up
early, drive to the local store, get the newspapers and some
pastries, and everything would be ready when the rest of us toddled
in to the kitchen. For a change of pace in '76, Lou would get up,
drive to the local pastry shop, pick up the newspapers, and then be
gone for an hour. He'd drive by the bungalow where we were living.
We'd be in the front yard of the house waving at him. He'd wave back
and keep driving. Eventually he'd pull in and say he was taking a
tour. The rest of us would roll our hours and say nothing. Oddly,
Lou was not very upset about Marge doing the driving home. She did a
good job, though white knuckled on the Massachusetts Turnpike. Who wouldn't be?
We
made the turn on to our street. Butterflies in my stomach. No one,
human or animal, was in the window. I ran to her secret cool spot in
the cellar, behind the washing machine, and she was there curled up,
but the white spot of fur at the edge of her tail waved like a
solitary sad pom-pom after the game was lost. Her kidneys were
failing, fleas infested her. She had no spark. She died two days
later at the vet. But before she left us (me), I rolled down the
window in my sister's car as we drove to the vet, and Cookie stuck
her head out and took in the smells, her tongue lolling out tasting
life a sweet final time.
And
then she was gone. And I cried.
Lou
told me that he had cried after my sister and I took Cookie to the
vet. I believed him. My mother dismissed it. “It
was her time.”
And
then Lou was “retired” by GE a few days later. I think, and I
have no way to back this up, but whatever the Suits had him sign at
the Hospital after the accident allowed them to “Retire”
Lou and others. No party. No watch. Just leave. Oh, he got a GE
pension and Social Security Disability and this allowed me to have a
few dollars as a dependent in college. My mother would drop me off
at Siena in the morning and Lou would pick me up in the afternoon. That was it. That's the only thing he had to do. He wasn't in a foundry, or a Freihofer Delivery Man or in the Pacific in WWII. He'd walk from the back window to the front window, look out on the same scenes, until the news came on.
So
we ignored the approaching storm. To our peril. And my Best Friend
was gone. I was alone.
