Parting is nothing but...

Sorrow.

Recently I attended a memorial for Joe Scanlan. A buddy I’ve known for thirty years. It was three decades of great times and guffaws. In early May, our friendship was suddenly terminated by freakin’ cancer.

You may recall I once wrote a blog about Joe and his brother Pat. (AKA Team Trauma). 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2014/08/team-trauma.html?m=1

The memorial was at Denver’s Washington Park Boathouse. After checking into a nearby hotel, I ambled to the park knowing I was a mental mess over Joe’s passing. Upon arrival, I exchanged a little awkward small talk and sad sighs with brother Pat. He took me over to a table which held old photos, ticket stubs and a framed article I wrote about the Dynamic Duo for the Denver Post. 

Pat handed me a dozen photos, “Here! These are from our Team Bar2Bar days on Ride the Rockies. You are in a few.” 

Sure enough, the photos held memories,  “Oh! I remember THAT crazy day!” I started to smile despite not feeling very happy. I then spoke to a scattering of Scanlans whom I’ve met through the years. (There’s a lot of Irish Catholic Scanlans!) Our conversations were brief as if we were all thinking the same thing. “What is there to say? This sucks!”

 As the crowd grew, I retreated to my position of comfort. I went and stood in a quiet corner of the Boathouse. 

While nursing an IPA. I looked out upon the reflections on the lake while noticing squadrons of barn swallows flittering nearby. I thought about Joe and the finality of never being able to share a joke, a Rockies game or to click pint glasses with him at a Happy Hour. I sighed a lot. 

Every now and then, I glanced at the gathering of Joe’s greatest fans. Many were regaling those around them with comical antidotes of episodes with Joe. Of course, they were complete with imitations of his raspy voice and emphatic hand gestures. Everyone had a story to tell and memories to share. “Oo! There was that time when Joe and I...” 

Then again, I saw some gushing of tears too. 

As the keg of beer began to drain, a few strangers approached me. “Weren’t you the guy who wrote that article about Joe? He spoke about you often. I had to come by and meet you.” 

With an introduction like that, I went into my greatest hits with Joe stories. They laughed and nodded as they envisioned the hilarious yet believable scenes. 

As Joe’s celebration of life was coming to a close, Rosie (a mutual friend and honorary Scanlan) came by for a teary hug. When we regained our composures, she pointed out the urn which contained Joe’s remains. Rosie looked at me and said, “Joe loved you!” 

I know. The feeling was mutual. This was a hard loss. I’m sure going to miss him. 

On an upbeat note: Don’t be surprised when there’s an announcement for the “Joe Scanlan Cancer Sucks Memorial” tentatively set for June, 2020. Yes, it’ll more than likely be held at a Rockies game at Coor’s Field. Somehow we will spin a fund raiser for a cancer charity chosen by the Scanlan family. I’ll buy a ticket for Joe and place a can of Coors on the empty seat. He’ll be there in spirit. Plan on attending. Joe wouldn’t want you to miss this one. 

Our dream became a reality. The Joe Scanlan Memorial Cancer Sucks fundraiser is now live. Please donate whatever amount you can. Let’s strike out cancer.

https://www.joescanlanmemorial.com/

Cheers to Joe.

A belated Arbor Day...

Post and an early Father’s Day one. 

Here’s an Oldie but Goodie on this sunless, cool Sunday morning in Colorado. (Great day to plant a tree!)

 Planting a Tree...

My father, a survivor of Hitler’s insane concept of human genetics, planted a tree at our house in the Bronx. The sapling was a two-foot white pine that my father appropriated from the Catskill Mountains, AKA in the “Big Apple” as the Jewish Alps. “Jeffy, watch! This tree will one day be taller than our house,” he proclaimed. Like a faithful son, I believed him.

One winter, a Nor’easter blizzard blew down along the eastern seaboard. The heart-attack-heavy snow broke the tiny, white pine in half. My dad, a tailor by profession, but whom Uncle Sam trained to be a medical assistant in WWII, sprang into action. He fashioned a splint made of a few sticks, a side order of rags and a lot of twine. With these meager tools and devices, he made the wounded tree whole again. He reasoned, “It works for people, why not trees?”

In 1978, I escaped the hassle and hustle of the Big Apple and moved out West. Now I, a son of a son of a tailor and graduate from the Syracuse College of Forestry, nurture trees at my home in Fort Collins, Colorado.

I can’t take all the credit; I get a lot of help from Mother Nature. Neighborhood squirrels burrow acorns into the mulch and forget where they placed them. A white-oak sapling will arise a season later. My furry friends do the same with apple cores and cherry and peach pits. I have a virtual fruit stand growing in my yard. We haven’t had much luck with avocado pits yet. When the oaks, peaches, apples, cherries and ashes grow too close together, I’ll go in and do a “thinning operation,” and rearrange some saplings. Once in awhile, I have to place a few up for adoption.

Letting go of my green children is always a difficult process. First I have to find a suitable “parent.” Then the lengthy application process begins. With questions such as, “Are you aware that Colorado is now in a drought?” Then a follow-up query, “Will you be able to provide an adequate supply of water for this young plant?” After that, I quiz the applicant about his or her general knowledge on such diverse topics as soil conditions, fertilizers and peat moss. Only when I am satisfied with their answers will we venture out in the yard with a shovel in tow. As we dig up the adopted seedling, I make sure the new owner understands that I get visitation rights. It’s never easy to let go.

In the fall of 2000, I went back east to visit family and friends. I borrowed a car and drove out to see my childhood home in the Bronx. I was glad that I had faith in my Dad. He was right; that white pine tree is now taller than the house.

Do yourself a favor; plant a tree. It’s good for the soul.

Lessons my Mom taught...

me.

“You can observe a lot by just watching.” 

Yogi Berra

Clara Sambur was called back to Heaven when she was just 52. I was a distraught seventeen year old when she was taken in 1972. I always felt cheated in losing her at such an impressionable age. 

Yet my diminutive Mom made a major impact of me in her subtle understated ways. I learned a lot by watching her. Her classes were mostly visual instead of tutorial. 

Here’s a few examples of Mom’s lessons:

Begin each and every human encounter with a smile. (Unless it’s a totally inappropriate situation. IE. A funeral.) 

Always offer food/drink to anyone who enters or approaches your home (or Van.)

Hugs are an acceptable form of greeting with family and friends.

Public displays of affection are fine too.

Be polite.

Value Education.

Savor silence.

To check a child for fever, tenderly place your cheek against their forehead. 

Read a book in quiet times.

Keep smiling.

Thanks Mom for all that you taught me. I wish the lessons didn’t end when I just a teenager. 

I still miss you.

Last photo: Deep down inside I’m really a Jewish Mother in a short man’s body.

Happy Mom’s Day to all you Motherly Mentors.

Cheers!

Jeff