Rick

Growing up, your aunts tend to date the darnest guys. This was no exception in my family. When I was about 9, my Aunt Rachel dated a guy named Rick. File Rick under what parents don’t want their daughter to come home with.

Days before my Pop Pop met Rick for real, Rachel showed up to our house with her newest flame. The reason for her visit was because Aunt Rachel had just been fired from another job. It wasn’t her fault. Most employers don’t understand vacation at will. It was a flower shop, and apparently she wanted to hang out with Rick and didn’t show up. Now she needed a few bucks to get through the week and she knew my mom’s door was always open.

Rick was a sight for sore eyes. He had dirty blonde hair, an AIDS era mustache, and a wife beater shirt. While he told us he usually styled his hair in a mullet, an admission that no one anywhere should make at any time, the Navy made him dawn his current do.

When Aunt Rachel brought Rick, I still remember the roaring of his pick up truck waking our quiet suburban block. Rachel, my mom’s kid sister, walked in with her conquest on her arm. His too tight jeans made him look more like the LGBTQ comic book star Tom Finland than the tough man he aspired to be, but why tell Rick.

Aunt Rachel wore a low cut shirt, a short skirt, and had terrible posture. All made my gym teacher mother gasp. Yes, her kid sister who struggled in school with severe dyslexia before it was understood. This same kid sister who had low self-worth. This same kid sister that my mom always had to keep an eye on. And this same kid sister who was now shortening her lifespan.

“This is Rick. The dream boat I have been telling you about.” She informed us as he walked in.

“Dream boat I am, so dreamy the United States Navy can’t even certify me.” Rick chimed back in his Southern accent.

My mom told Rachel she wanted to speak to her privately, probably to exchange twenty dollars and to confront her about her latest in a string of bad decisions. Our mother instructed us to show Rick our backyard gym. Our dad had installed a chin up bar and a rope because he felt it would be good for our upper body strength the previous summer. Wendell, who dreamed of playing football, was on their faithfully day in and day out trying to tone his muscles and get fit for the upcoming season.

 “They make us do chin ups in the Navy.” Rick said to Wendell, “And a man has to know how to do chin ups.”

“I can do 5.” My brother Wendell said. While he was strong, his body was still pudgy and growing. Wendell jumped up on our backyard chin up bar and did 5.

“Well in the Navy they make us do 20 or more.” Rick said. And then he jumped up and did several. Skipper and I stood in awe of Rick and his strength.

Just as this was happening, my dad pulled in the driveway from a long day of work. Rather than enter his garage, he stopped his car. It wasn’t to watch. No, like a hungry Great White he was lurking and wanted his prey to know he was there.

Stopping his car engine, he exited his Buick and walked down to the jungle gym. Sure, he was a lawyer off the clock but was ready to kill if need be. The look in his eyes indicated that he already disliked Rick, possibly because he knew my mom was going to give Rachel a few bucks and these two would have not stopped by had he been present.

Wendell also made the proverbial kill list. He was tardy with his room cleaning and the deadline was today.

Skipper and I ran over to hug our dad and Wendell stood in shock. Sensing the silence as we were no longer cheering, Rick jumped down from the chin up bar.

“Why aren’t you cleaning your room?” My dad snapped as he saw Wendell standing there.

Instead of butting out, Rick obliviously chimed in. Gosh, he was dumber than the grass under our feet.  “Hi, are you the man of the house?”

“Yes, I own this home, my wife is inside and those are my children.” My dad said putting his arms around us. His glance never left Rick.

“And where have you been?” Rick was now proving to be the brain trust he was. I wanted to tell the dumb ass to shut up now but it would be of no usage.

“Working.” My dad replied. His eyes not moving. I could tell he was freaking Rick out on purpose.

“Do you ever use the chin up bar?” Rick was now curious as my dad was in excellent shape. Meanwhile, I was curious as to how Rick was still alive.

“No. I don’t have time. I have a job.” In not so many words, my dad called Rick an idiot and a loser. At that moment, Rick got it. He gulped. And that’s when he found my aunt to make his exit.

My Aunt Rachel departed along with Rick in the roaring pick up. Actually, fled was more like it. While Rick seemed too stupid to be evil it was funny to see him sweat like that. But my mom was not holding her tongue over dinner.

Aunt Rachel said Nuni had seen him in McDonalds looking all handsome in his Navy Uniform. Nuni, my mom’s mother, was a character. Friendly and outgoing, she made friends everywhere she went and talked to everyone. She had fixed my parents up initially, and thought she could do the same with Rachel. This was a fail.

“Wendelin, what was she thinking!” My mom demanded. “This guy is a loser!”

“Gracie, your mom never thinks. That’s the damn problem.” My dad said shaking his head.

“She wants to move to Alabama and live in his trailer after he’s discharged!” My mom bemoaned. “Two years ago, when Rachel dropped out of college my dad called me crying. I said let her work. Let her get it together. Now she is dating THIS LOSER!!”

“Let it go Gracie, it’s not our problem.”

“But he could do a ton of chin ups.” Skipper said.

“That’s what unemployment looks like.” My dad informed her.

“In all fairness unemployment was kind of good looking.” I told my dad.

“It won’t be when he makes you a single parent.” My dad cautioned me.

Wendell laughed. “He was seriously jacked Dad. I could only do 5 chin ups…..”

“And so that’s why your room wasn’t cleaned! You were screwing around with that redneck!” Wendell gulped. The table went silent. My mom changed the subject to the fact Wendell’s science project was a finalist in the contest at school. The uneasy transition proved to work as my dad quickly forgot about Wendell’s room.

That evening, I had a dream. Rick came to our house, except his pick up truck was roaring and jumping over fences and people’s houses. The dream was pretty cool actually. And Aunt Rachel was yelling with joy the entire time as Skipper and I were in the truck bed. So what they were risking our welfare and breaking several laws? It was awesome.

The next morning my mom woke us up. As it was late spring we still had school as summer had not quite come. My dad was getting ready for work. Seeing him I said, “Dad, I had a dream. Rick came with his pick up and was jumping over houses and fences. Aunt Rachel was in the truck, and Skipper and I were in the back of the pick up.”

“That wasn’t a dream.” My dad said shaking his head.

“What he is saying is, your aunt made a terrible decision.” My mom shared.

Two days later, my grandparents had a party in their backyard. My dad was unable to come as he had a huge case he was working, and there was a filing date with federal court that Monday. The party began as usual, my Nuni telling colorful stories as she flitted in and out like a butterfly looking for a new flower. With white hair and a plethora of pastels, she stood barely five feet tall and was akin to a tropical creature each time you saw her.

“Mom, what were you thinking?” My mother said confronting my grandmother as people came in. “Rachel is dating a guy who has probably been voted most likely to go to prison!”

 “He’s handsome and Rachel needs to meet men.” Nuni said.

“She would be better meeting men at the food stamp office.” My mom was now livid.

“They aren’t getting married. Relax Gracie.” My Nuni said. “I never thought you would marry yours. Besides, he’s in the service. He has a job of some sort. It could be worse. He could be like Phyllis and Rob.”

My mom rolled her eyes. Phyllis was my mom’s other sister who was dating Rob, a man who fearlessly lived off of women. He had a glue on rug, glue on chest hair, gold chains, and announced that he was training to be a porn star. Phyllis and Rob would have been there, but Rob had been beaten up in a street fight and was currently in the hospital.

“Anything is better than Rob.” My mother seethed.

Just then, the rest of the cousins entered and we found ourselves in the backyard. My Pop Pop, a quiet, gentle man, put out bread crumbs to feed to his pet squirrel Jinx. Well it wasn’t really his pet, Jinx was sort of a pest my grandfather adopted. In many ways, my Pop Pop was the antithesis of my dad because he would have just killed Jinx.

Pop Pop was an the type everyone loved. Because my father had lost his own dad young, Pop Pop adopted him at times. My Pop Pop had been a college man and then World War II broke out. After graduating from The University of Pittsburgh, he enlisted in The Navy. Because of his engineering degree, he went through officer training and at the time of his discharge was a second lieutenant. My Pop Pop never spoke of the war or his Navy days but always remained friends with his shipmates. The war ended and life went on.

He coached my mom as well as the rest of her siblings in swimming, owned his own life insurance business and played tennis religiously. Of course as my mom bemoaned my Nuni’s bad decision making ability to her sister Magdelene, who’s children were dancers, Rachel entered with Rick.

I knew they were coming from the Duke’s of Hazzard roar of his pick up truck. Rick entered carrying Rachel. As soon as they saw my Pop Pop he set her down. Some of us laughed. Some of us gasped in horror.

 “I bet she’s pregnant.” My cousin Starboard said.

Starboard was Magdelene’s younger daughter. Mindy, a dancer, was in New York for the summer hoping to become a professional ballerina and Starboard hoped to join. She had a head of dark, springy curls and always dressed like Blossom. Like Skipper, she had been named for my Pop Pop’s love of ships and the water. While he said nothing else about his time in the service, he taught his kids all about boats because he felt it was important.

“Hello Mr. Wallace, pleased to meet you.” Rick said extending his hand. My grandfather, gray hair and Mr. Rogers sweater, looked confused. He looked very scrambled. My Pop Pop was sharp, this was a whole new thing. Seemingly disinterested, he continued to throw crumbs hoping Jinx would catch them. Was he getting dementia? My friend’s grandmother had that and it was nasty.

“Good to meet you too.” Pop Pop said, seemingly not focused as his big task was feeding Jinx.

“Rick’s in the Navy.” Aunt Rachel explained. “Just like you, Dad.”

“Oh yes, that was a very long time ago.” My Pop Pop said looking up laughing.

“Mr. Wallace, you would be pleased to know young men like me are making the US Navy strong!” Rick declared.

My mother marched over. Ever ready to micromanage a shit show, the oldest child in the family had to let Rick know what time it was. “Dad wasn’t just any Navy man. He was an officer, weren’t you, Dad?”

“Yes, Second Lieutenant. I was aboard a military aircraft carrier.” Pop Pop said. “We were in the Okinawa for much for the war and near Japan. But it’s over and I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I didn’t realize I was in the presence of an officer.” Rick said. He stood up and saluted my grandfather.

“Please, sit down. That wasn’t necessary. I haven’t been a member of the military since 1946.” My Pop Pop assured him gently. But Rick was standing there with complete salute.

“I hope she isn’t knocked up.” Starboard said again.

“What does knocked up mean?” Skipper, age 6, asked.

“Shhhhh……” I said as Rick continued to stand with a complete salute. At first it seemed he was mocking my grandfather, but he was tragically such a simpleton it was no longer even funny.

“At ease.” Pop Pop said. Rick relaxed his salute and sat down. He yammered on and on about something stupid and his thick drawl didn’t help. As Rick talked and Rachel chimed in, my grandfather’s eyes closed.

“He always falls asleep at parties.” I observed as Starboard stood near me.

“It’s because he’s old.” Skipper said. “Old people always sleep.”

“Maybe he’s dead.” Starboard offered. “My neighbor died like that.” Yes, Starboard, age 8, had all the answers.

“He’s not dead. His hand is moving.” Skipper observed. Her sunkissed strawberry blonde hair sporting ringlet curls from a perm my dad suggested she get to give her hair more volume.

“Also, if he was deceased his color would change.” Skipper educated us. “When there is still some red, you know there is blood moving.” Skipper had been reading a medical book she got for Christmas and announced her plans of becoming a doctor.

After my grandfather had been out for sometime my Nuni entered the backyard. Carrying a tray of something that resembled shish kabobs, she called to my Pop Pop, “Wake up Mike and stop being an old man. The kids inside think you are dead.” Yes, she never had the filter.

“Shut up Loretta. You are going to kill me one day.” Pop Pop replied.

“I would have done it already but I spent all your money.” Now we were all roaring. Yes, my grandparents were literally a comedy duo at times and today was one. Rachel laughed as Rick now looked confused. The two braincells he had were doing an awful lot of thinking.

“Being married to you is like life in prison. Except with life in prison I would have a chance at parole.” Pop Pop said now giving the zinger that finished the routine. We all applauded. How could we not?

Rick and Rachel than said they had an errand to run. We didn’t want to ask, and we prayed they weren’t going to get eloped. As they exited, Pop Pop perked up and went back to feeding Jinx. Murmuring to himself he lamented, “Enlisted men, they never change.”

Pop Pop had not been asleep. He had been tuning out an idiot in the most effective way possible. In the days before the block button this innovation was genius. For his bravery in the line of stupidity he was to be commended.

Rachel would later break up with Rick after he was sent to sea on a submarine, had a nervous breakdown, and spent time in a psych hospital. It wasn’t the time in the psych hospital that drove her away, but the fact she fell in love with his best friend, Josh. She figured Josh was more soft spoken, better looking, and had a better double wide I suppose. I dunno, that story is for another blog……

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Basic Needs

When I was about 8 or 9, I forget which, I was in the third grade. My dad's mother, Mema Ralph, was babysitting us. She was a character to say the least. Mema Ralph was probably not the best parent to my dad let alone any of her children. She was terrifying in her own way with a brutally honest streak. In between she was also a tad of a shit stirrer, but it added to her charm. As a babysitter, she was a combination of every child's worst nightmare and every comedian's greatest wet dream.

Her greatest charm was she didn't give a flying fuck.

Looking back, she was a Great Depression and War era kid. Her husband worked long, strange hours so she was essentially left to raise a house of kids on her own. He died when my dad was 19, and she still had four young kids at home after her oldest three flew the nest. She worked and was a single mom even though most days she was overwhelmed.

My Mema Ralph was a survivor with her clip on earrings, fire engine red hair, caked on makeup, nails with multiple coats on, perfume so strong she could kill an animal, faith in God, and most of all her foul mouth. Yes, she was a survivor, as in she would knock you out and would ask no questions. As she hit her 70s, her eyesight was bad too, so she might actually knock you out if you were walking on the sidewalk because she was starting to drive there......OOPS.

Mema was babysitting. My parents were somewhere, I think my mom's father, my Pop Pop, was in the hospital for some reason. Probably prostrate or skin cancer, he had both quite a bit unfortunately for some time there. This would have meant my Nuni, his wife, would have been with him. Either way, Mema Ralph was always last on the list to babysit and with good reason.

Much of it had to do with the circumstances around my brother Wendell's birth. At the hospital, my Mema Ralph told my dad to get some food as my mom was in labor. My mother told my father he was not going anywhere. And then when Wendell was finally born after 24 hours of rough labor and C-section, my parents carried her first grandchild out. Mema responded by informing my parents, "Don't expect me to watch that kid."

She caved in and watched us a few times. Each being a bigger disaster than the next. Once, my brother broke a box lid and she made him tape it together and kneel in the corner until my parents came home. Needless to say my mom was beyond pissed and said to my dad, "Wendelin, I do not care if she is your mother. She is not watching my kids ever again!"

My dad tried to defend my grandma of course, but it fell flat. He knew she was crazy. He never tried to hide it. But on this particular night, my folks were desperate for a babysitter and Mema Ralph was called. My brother hid in his room, and my sister was no where to be found. It was just me and Mema.

So here we were in my parent's kitchen. It was a Thursday and I had social studies homework. The only crinkle was I forgot my book and that's where the answers were. So I figured I would rely on my grandmother's knowledge, age, and expertise. After all, she was near 70 years old. She had to know a few things. Whenever I forgot my book my mom knew most of the answers. My Mema Ralph had to work the same way.

This is how the conversation went:

Me: Mema Ralph, can you help me with my homework?

Mema: Yes Dear.

Me: What are the three basic needs?

Mema: Air, water, and God.

Me: That doesn't sound right.

Mema: Nonsense without air you suffocate and die! Now back to your homework and let me help you.

Faithfully, I scribbled the answer down. My grandmother went on to help me with the rest of my homework and without question I continued. Mema gave information with authority, and I didn't argue. She was my grandmother. She had to know.

That is, until I got my paper back the next day.

It didn't have any wrong. It just had SEE ME PLEASE in big, red, nicely written teacher handwriting. The woman I had for class had been teaching a long time and was nothing short of an angel. With a bemused look on her face, she wondered what happened to me, perhaps the best social studies student in the class, because this was not typical.

I explained frankly, "My grandmother helped me with my homework."

She laughed and agreed to let me do it again. The second time around not only were all my Mema's answers wrong, they werent even close. Turns out the basic needs are food, clothing and shelter.

Moral of the story, never forget your book. Never ask grandma to help you with your homework. And maybe grandma's do know something because without air you suffocate.

All that aside, I know she would have mixed feelings about this photo but she would agree some hot guy with money might want to extract my digits. Miss you, Mema.

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Grandpa The Street Fighter

Today would have been my Pop Pop's 96th birthday. A gentle soul, he coached all six of his kids in swimming and worked as a meet official as well. My Pop Pop always told outlandish stories, too. It was hard not to love the man, and even harder not to take his passing personally.

A World War II Navy man, he served as a 2nd Lieutenant in his platoon of squids. I never knew much about his war adventures, but he mentioned in passing he was there when the atomic bomb was dropped. My Pop Pop would mention he was in the war, but the other details of his mission remained a mystery. Once, my brother Wendell interviewed him for a school project where he spoke more in detail than he ever had. Pop Pop felt the war was over, life went on I suppose.

Before the war, my Pop Pop had attended the University of Pittsburgh. While a student there, he had been an engineering major and quite a boxer. Once, when I was in high school my parents were away on a college visitation trip with my brother, and Pop Pop babysat. While he was watching us, I left my math book on the kitchen table. When I woke up, my Pop Pop was doing math problems. I was stunned. "Pop Pop, we have a television." I said gently. Later, my mom explained that as someone who was originally an engineer, my Pop Pop was not only good at math, but loved it.

I hate math with every fibre of my being and still do. My brother Wendell tolerates it, like the drug addict relative out of rehab and needing money yet again. As for my sister Skipper, she is good at it but they only have a casual relationship. Pop Pop, while originally an engineer, ended up taking over the family insurance business. It was because the war was over, he was recently married, and had a child on the way. This was the ready job he needed.

My Pop Pop was the type who never spoke about himself, but rather spoke about the accomplishments of his grandchildren instead. Whether it was Mindy and Meara and their success as dancers,one with City Baller and the other at the university as a dance professor respectively. Or my cousin Martin and his art. Then there was my other cousin Timmy who almost went to the Olympics as a skiier. Lest we not forget Skipper and Wendell and their success in the science and medical fields. Cody and Blaze, my younger cousins, excelled in baseball and soccer. And then there's my newest cousin Valery.

My Pop Pop was the first person to buy my book, and read it in a single night. I offered to give it to him as a gift, but he insisted on paying for it. His last outing before he passed Thanksgiving Day was my book signing.

What I did not know was that my Pop Pop was so skilled as an athlete. I had seen him swim, and he played tennis well into his 80s. However, I never knew he was a boxer. This is the video my mom and I took of my 95 year old grandfather demonstrating his moves.

RIP Pop Pop, you were da man.


Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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Everyone's Gone to the Moon (Jonathan King)

My parents were kids of the 1960s. It was when space exploration began. It was when Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon. Years later, in his work as a lawyer my father would meet John Glenn. Actually, it was Senator Glenn. Like everyone else in the whole world it seemed he was friends with my Uncle Mack. Well, he wasn't really my uncle but he was a near and dear friend of my dad's we called Uncle Mack.

 Uncle Mack lived with his common law wife Felicia, who invented earrings. The earrings she invented were designs that covered one's whole ears. Ballroom dancers and women of that variety typically sported my aunt's creations. Felicia had a son who was gay. Her explanation for this was that when he was sixteen years old, he was abducted by aliens. It had all begun in a supermarket parking lot. He had gone to return the cart to it's rightful place and disappeared. Her son Donny turned up six months later. Apparently Donny was wandering the street with his head shaved speaking in tongues. The once proud cassanova was now after men. He came out to his parents and they were shocked. The father disowned him. Felicia shrugged and blamed it on the UFOs.

Donny and Felicia became notorious on the party circuit. Felicia would tell the story about the UFO abduction, and Donny would show off the scars in the back of his head where he claimed they put on brain plugs. Felicia would say this was the exact moment Donny became gay. Donny would talk about how a huge alien came up to him and this is where it happened. Conversion Therapy was a constant course of action but always failing. My father's theory was that Donny wasn't abducted by aliens. Instead he was just doing a lot of drugs as a result of being raised by his mother. This is why he went along with the alien story so willingly.

When my dad would talk about Felicia, he would grimace. He put up with her because he loved my Uncle Mack like the surrogate father he never had. Uncle Mack would respond by changing the subject to an exciting story about his days as a Teamster, like the time he dodged a car bomb Jimmy Hoffa planted in his car. Everyone would be entranced and the conversation would not be so strange.

Once my sister Skipper made the mistake of asking what planet the aliens were from. She was seven and didn't realize Felicia was cukoo for coca puffs. My brother Wendell elbowed her and that was the end of that. It was an excellent question, so excellent that I think it's better even to this day that the answer remains a mystery.

Felicia went so far as to take this theory to my Pop Pop. Yes, my dearly departed grandfather. He was a Navy Vet from World War II that served in the Pacific Theatre. After the war, he married my Nunni and served as a swim coach for his six children and meet ref. A mild mannered guy who loved to laugh, my grandfather was generally easy going and accepted everyone. Felicia found herself speaking to my Pop Pop. She got to the place in the story where her son got abducted by aliens and turned gay. My Pop Pop had enough and walked away. He said to my mother, "What is wrong with that woman? On second thought I don't want to know. Keep her away from me."

"Oh you mean Felicia. She's crazy." My mom replied apologetically. She and my Pop Pop were quite close.

My Pop Pop just took a breath and said to my mom, "Annie, she says her son got abducted by aliens."

"I know." My mom said.

Pop Pop then told her, "She says that's why he's gay."

"I know Dad. I know." My mom repeated. She had heard the story a million times like we all had. It got more bizarre every time.

"You know, her kid's gay. He isn't hurting anyone. Why can't she just deal with her gay son and stop making up some stupid story? It makes the kid's life worse and it makes her sound like an idiot." My grandfather observed. He was right.

Felicia's son might or might not have been abducted by aliens, but accepting that he was gay was difficult for her. This was still the 90s, the age of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. My grandfather despite his advanced age had more insight than anyone at the party. He could cut through the crazy story to see the truth, and wouldn't stick around to hear any of the bullshit.

This week my grandparents would have been married for sixty something odd years had they both lived. For the record, I have a cousin who has been struck by lightening three times and survived. So we are good at knowing which crazies are real and which aren't.

RIP Pop Pop.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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Grandmother's House

It is around Easter again. When I was a kid, it was one of my favorite holidays. Christmas seemed over hyped and drained everyone. Halloween was neat but it was right before Thanksgiving which everyone passe over and then Santa came. Easter was it's own animal, that's why we had the bunny. Maybe it was Jesus's pet rabbit. Either way, Easter for Christians was the Resurrection of Christ. It meant the end of meatless Friday. It meant perhaps the weather would warm up. It also meant a trip to my grandparent's house.

Nunni and Pop Pop more often than not had Easter. We would always go, white or powder pink dresses and Easter bonnets. Sometimes my sister and I would decorate them in front of the television. Being the product of two teachers, television was a no no in our home on school nights. We didn't have cable anyway. So on weekends it was The War Channel, old movies on PBS, In Living Color, and Married... With Children if we were good. Then my sister and I would make our entrance. My grandparents Nunni and Pop Pop would be waiting.

My cousins and I would exchange notes on what the Easter Bunny bought, and we kind of knew it was our parents but we were okay with that. The ham was cooking along with either chicken or turkey, and for the record I smell both as I am talking to you. But what stole the show was the desserts my Aunt Mary made. Our Uncle Kent always had an Easter craft. Sometimes we would dye Easter Eggs or we would make them Russian Orthodox style. The colors on these eggs looked like a mixture of fashion disaster and hippie on acid driving a peace van. We would write our names on them with clear, wax crayon and you could see them when you dipped them into the tray. Yeah, they looked ridiculous but they were our ridiculous eggs.

Our most fun was the Easter Egg Hunt. Our aunts and uncles would hide the eggs in our grandparents backyard and we would have to find them. Sometimes the eggs were completely obvious, and sometimes they weren't. We would dive into the bushes and get grass stains on our dresses. We didn't care. It was Easter. Spring was finally here. School was like a bad movie almost over. Summer and pools were just a nod and a care away.

Of course my grandparents would enter as the ultimate comedy team. Nunni would open with some outlandish remark, and my Pop Pop would either be silent or he would have a retort of his own. Or sometimes my grandfather would tell us a silly story. Sometimes he turned into a gorilla, and one time he swore he met the Easter Bunny. My Nunni's pride and joy were the dolls she collected. She had inherited them from a grumpy old great aunt of mine. These were dolls from all reaches of the globe and they were kept in a glass case. My sister Skipper and I joked they could come to life. However, I think this is where I got the idea to play with dolls.

I have been thinking of my grandparents lately. My grandmother passed around Easter last year. I was lucky to have them as long as I did though. Nunni was 88 when she passed, and Pop Pop 95. In New York the dogwood trees are starting to bloom. They are white and powder pink like the dresses my sister and I used to wear on Easter. And they also remind me that summer is not far off.

Life has been kind of chaotic lately. I have a lot of things on the burner, and everything seems to be crashing off the rails. This next Tuesday, I am doing a headliner set where I film my DVD. It's a long set with four puppets, not just May Wilson. To say I wasn't nervous would be a freaking lie. I am nervous my fans won't show, I will tank, and I will get heckled at my own taping. I am nervous about everything, especially since the middle is not where I want and getting people to come is like pulling teeth. On top of that, I did a video call for a sports broadcasting gig today where my computer's sound kept fritzing out. I was like the Lamar Oden of the call, coming in and out as I pleased. Because my computer sucked I looked like a woman talking about sports. When I was done, the mods said they got a good sense of my voice. What? Opinionated basketcase. If that is the voice you got, you are correct. And then earlier this week something big for another project was lost in the mix and I had to scramble to find it. It would have been the end of the world if I didn't. Have a video call for that one Monday and I hope I have SOUND!!!!! And telegram deliveries were uber-busy. I am not complaining. I needed the money. Still though, I felt like I was accidentally going to run into a wall.

Tonight I went to give my friend postcards for my show. Steve Ryan, who is the Legendary Pot Roast next Tuesday, told me to stay and watch the puppet show he was stage managing. It was magical. It was mystical. The marionettes reminded me of my Nunni's doll collection. As my brain had been melting down all day, I felt a sense of peace. I could hear my grandfather's voice laughing and telling me it was going to be okay. He had been a war veteran and raised six kids. He had a good sense of humor about things.

Then I remembered how proud they were of me when I came to New York. How proud they were when they saw me on television. How proud they were when I wrote my book. I remember the Reader's Digest cut outs of jokes to use in my act. I remember my grandmother's inappropriate letters to me about family members and how she was a good sport about being fodder in my act.

Easter is about Resurrection. My grandparents went to church every first Saturday. It is a German Catholic tradition to ensure a peaceful passing. They lived long lives and were surrounded by those they loved. I also know somewhere, they are having a great time wherever the next stop on the journey is. Perhaps there they will meet my recently deceased friend Otto Petersen. They would get a kick out of him. My mother would be appalled, but my Nunni might make a new friend. Who knows, he is probably having dinner with them right now. Nunni probably saw Otto at McDonalds with George and brought him home. My Pop Pop as usual will just have to deal, especially when George starts talking and my Nunni gets a kick out of him.

My grandparents were wonderful, compassionate, and funny people. I was lucky to have them as long as I did. I know next Tuesday when my self-important self tapes my DVD they will be in my audience. And whatever happens with the next opportunity in my life, they will be there with me too. I can just see them on the other side saying, "That's my granddaughter. She's in New York and she's a big time comedian."

Miss you Nunni and Pop Pop. Happy Easter.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com


Come see me April 22nd @ 7pm
Metropolitan Room
34 W. 22nd st.

Pop Pop Story

When I started doing comedy in New York City, it was a big reach. I had screwed up just about everything else that year of my life. Everyone told me I should do it. I didn't know what I was doing. Somehow I was there though, behind the mic doing my thing. I was just a kid too. While it feels sometimes like I have a long way to go, I have come a long way.

My grandfather, whom I called Pop Pop, loved three things: tennis, cowboy movies, and comedy. The man always loved to laugh. He told jokes and even until the end was awesome. Pop Pop had a sweet, gentle personality and he laughed often. I think after surviving World War II and raising six kids, you would need a sense of humor. He beat cancer Lord know how many times and escaped that blood clot too. Anyone who met my grandfather enjoyed his company. Pop Pop gave all people an equal shake regardless of what they were. I was blessed to have the grandfather I did.

Around the time I began doing comedy, not everyone around me was overjoyed about this. Some tried to discourage me. Comedy can be scary, because when you fail it is personal. My Pop Pop was perhaps the first to encourage me though. As a motivation, he mailed me jokes cut out from the Reader's Digest so I would have something to work off of. Anytime there was an article somewhere about comedy, he would cut it out and mail it to me. Or if Pop Pop was unable to use scissors like he was later on, he would give my mother the heads up. Anytime there was a comedy special on, Pop Pop alerted me too.

My grandparents, Nunni and Pop Pop, were a comedy team a lot of the time it seemed. My grandmother would be dressed in loud colors and enter with her shock of white hair. A mercurial little woman, she would begin the exchange. It would go like this:
Nunni: I would have gotten here sooner but the old man took forever.

Pop Pop: Shut up, Pat.

Nunni: I am moving to Spain. That way I don't have to pay taxes.

Enter my dad

Dad: Actually, you would have to pay a set to live in Spain and a set to maintain US Citizenship.

Pop Pop: Being married to you is worse than life in prison. Because at least with life in prison I get paroled.

Nunni: Shut up old man.

When my book was published my Pop Pop insisted no one else could get a copy until he read it. My mom insisted on just giving him a copy, but he insisted on paying for it. With his eyes fixed, my Pop Pop spent two days straight finishing my book. My grandmother died around Easter and his health went downhill. I had a book signing in Pittsburgh in October. Despite his ill health my grandfather made it. Fragile and ill, he came to support me. This meant a lot because this would be his last trip out of the house alive.

I lost a hero in my life. A man who loved to laugh. It would be an understatement to say I lost a great fan, because he had been there from the beginning. So I will say I lost my greatest and first original fan.

Love you Pop Pop

April

Dancing In the Dark (Bruce Springsteen)

This has been a surreal week for me. Last night I got news my grandfather, Pop Pop, had emerged from death's door. The man was amazing. Twenty years ago he had a blood clot and was gonna die. He beat that. After that he had skin cancer and prostrate cancer. He beat that too. In that mix he also had some heart stuff. He beat that too. I think he survived World War II in Japan. A lot had happened. Then this morning I got news my grandfather passed away in his sleep. My grandmother, Nunni, a mercurial white haired woman who passed this spring, probably greeted him when he woke up in heaven. I got a call from my mother that things got so bad she begged my grandmother to come fetch my grandfather. Nunni answered.

The night before had been crazy. I had a mini meltdown when I received some disappointing news about a project pertaining to my book. I tried to tell myself that these weren't the people to help me. All week things had been hard. Another project had difficulties. Two weeks before were spent prepping for a network audition. I was sick and thought at one point I had some form of whatever. And then there is the usual he said she said bullshit of my line of work. I thought maybe I would get a break.

On the flipside, my Pop Pop is no longer in pain. He is happy and playing tennis. He is with his brothers and sisters who love him. He went out of this world knowing he was cared for and loved. He was ninety-five when he made his great exit. Fred Wallisch had six kids who grew up to be champion swimmers, coaches, teachers, lawyers, dentists, actors, and artists. His grandchildren were artists who had their work shown internationally, ballet dancers who danced with city ballet, professors, athletes currently prepping for Olympic trials, doctors, writers, and comedians. My Pop Pop lived to see me be on national TV and was the first to buy my book. He was so jealous when I got to go to the US Open because he was a huge tennis fan.

All day I have been in a weird limbo. While I know my Pop Pop is at peace I feel a weird sensation like it has been hard as hell to focus. This morning I delivered a singing chicken to the son of a Saudi Royal in Trump Towers. In a strange LSD like trip I ran across Sixth Avenue to get there and all along the way were these floats. Huge balloon floats. My beloved Pop Pop is dead and I am seeing huge balloon floats. Then I figured I would take some photos. People were pretty okay. Not bad. Plus my Pop Pop was someone who always looked at the bright side. The bright side was I found myself smack dab in the middle of the Macy's Day Parade. Who can be sad when you see an inflatable Papa Smurf?

The son of the Saudi Royal was not happy about seeing me, but his cousin tipped me $100. Makes up for having a death in the family I suppose. My brain felt like it was unraveling at a furious speed.

My second delivery was to Long Island. This was also kind of surreal. The family saw me as the cab was dropping me off and invited me in. I said I was a friend of Judy's, the contact. Anyway Judy wasnt there. I thought this was her house. It was almost two. Apparently people arrive late. I was supposed to call Judy first. Anyway I changed and the mother was nice but she wanted me the fuck out of her house. The rest of the family was warm and talked to me in the turkey costume, waiting for everyone else to show up. As I was waiting to sing, Judy arrived with some kids. The mother pulled Judy in the kitchen. There was something wrong. There was some yelling. WTF...Okay.

I sang and the family seemed to enjoy it, but there was this feeling in the room that was odd, and there was dead silence after I read the message. Finally I read the message. The mother angrily said, "Let me see it." She looked at it and ripped it up. "This is nonsense! Their nerve!" She screamed and stormed into the kitchen

The grandmother asked me kindly to pick it up as she reassembled the message. Clearly I had missed something. I apologized several times to the family who all assured me I was just doing my job and I had no way of knowing I walked into a land mine. They were quite nice, especially when they helped me out the back quietly as the mother was swearing her head off. What the hell had happened? This was a stunning strange dream. Grandpa was dead. I had run across the Macy's parade where a giant elf had greeted me. A Saudi Royal hates me forever for waking him, and his family tipped me generously. Oh and I accidentally poured salt on a festering wound for a bunch of strangers. All is costume.

The train ride home had me reevaluating my day as well as my life. What would be next? Did I know where I was going? Maybe it was time to move home. This had been a hellacious month that was just not getting any better. Just then I remembered when my grandfather found out I was performing comedy. He cut out a bunch of jokes from Reader's Digest and sent them to me. He also cut out his favorite Bob Hope jokes. A lot of family members tried to steer me away from the stage but Pop Pop always supported me and believed in me. The man was always telling funny stories. Always encouraging me.Always making someone laugh.

I found myself hoping maybe I could heal the familial pain these strangers felt. Because when you lose someone, it's too late.

I also found myself in a dark hole. Then I remembered the words of a veteran comedian who gave me a pep talk during another dark time in my life. A big black man, he said in a booming voice, "Sweetheart, when times get tough and you think you might never laugh again, you reach for God and you reach for the punchline."

So I did what I have always done during hard times. I took out a piece of paper and began to write. My Pop Pop lived as long as he did and conquered cancer all the times in a row for a reason. The man never let anything get him down. So as the jokes poured out of my veins, some may be gold some may be mold, I knew one thing was for sure. I wasn't just gonna be fine. When I was done climbing out of this dark hole there might be a new half hour set at the end.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.aprilbrucker.com

Full Moon Gorilla

This is my favorite Pop Pop story

When I was a kid, Pop Pop, my mom’s dad, was sort of a mercurial character. A little man, standing a little over five feet six, he always managed to spin tales and make us laugh. Even into his early nineties, my Pop Pop continued to swim and play tennis daily. When he could, he always told an old Henny Youngman joke, and then as a bonus would make up a story that would make us all go crazy. We loved Pop Pop, even when he failed to turn his hearing aid on. Yes, he did that which could make conversations interesting, but nonetheless, his stories were always the best.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was my brother’s ninth birthday. Being that it was a slumber party, he and his friends wanted to watch scary movies. My brother’s friend Ricky Rose, an asthmatic child with all sorts of health problems, suggested Ghost. Apparently, Ricky’s sister’s and her boyfriend had watched it during a babysitting adventure when they were left to mind the youngster. Yes, it was one of the many times the film had to be stopped because Ricky had an asthma attack. My mom previewed the film, attempting to be a good parent; instilling boundaries as well as wanting to know if it was appropriate. When my mom saw the love making scene with the pottery, she gave the film the axe. No wonder Ricky had the asthma attack.

On the eve of this particular birthday party, my father was out of town. He was in California doing a casino deal for one of the many mountain tribes. As a result, my mother was left with a basement full of rowdy nine year old boys high on sugar and video games. My sister and I of course were the barely tolerated party crashers. That’s when my mom, being extra close with my grandfather, called him to come over. She wanted some company, there was extra pizza, and the boys were quickly getting bored of the video games.

“Girl’s drool.” Bobby Taylor said to me as he snatched the piece of candy from my hand.

“Well boys are from Jupiter because they are stupider.” I retorted, trying my best to be mean and nasty to this boy who had been tormenting me all night. Bobby Taylor was the meanest of my brother’s friends. A lad who liked to burn ants with a magnifying glass, he had a mean streak like no other.

“Give the candy back to the lady butt brain. She beat you in the video game.” Josh Groves snapped. Josh was a nice lad, hailing from a broken home where Mom had prison pen pals as a result of a biological dad who couldn’t get it together. Since then, Josh’s Mom had remarried to a fireman and they seemed happy, but she was still as crazy as ever taking child rearing advice from the horoscope column.

“Like hell she did.” Bobby Taylor countered.

“That’s a bad word.” My sister Skipper reminded him gently.

“Wendell, your sister’s suck.” Bobby hollered.

“Leave my sister’s alone. I know they are like annoying fungus but they are my annoying fungus.” Wendell reminded the idiot.

Just then, my mom, seeing the natives were restless, announced, “Hey everyone, Wendell’s grandfather has a story.”

My Pop Pop made his way down the stairs. “Oh great, the old man is going to tell a tale about the war.” Bobby Taylor mused.

“Do you ever shut up?” Nick Marx asked him. Nick was a quiet kid who moved from one town over. Nick’s parent’s, former hippies, made him do self-help nature walks in order to find inner-peace. Raised on a diet of granola and natural food, he always indulged when he saw things one could buy in the supermarket.

“My grandfather’s story’s are always good.” My brother Wendell informed everyone.

My grandfather, unphased by the Bobby Taylor’s of the world, sat down. He began, in a deep but hushed voice, “When I was in Nagasaki, we were a part of the troops Harry Truman sent to drop the atomic bomb. I was on the plane dropping the bomb. The blast would devastate the country of Japan and America would later win the war. However, it was a tense evening. There was a full moon. On board, there was also a gorilla rescued from the jungles of Africa after Rommel was defeated. He was a flesh eating gorilla. I was in charge of looking after him as the troops were dropping the bomb. They said when they drop the bomb, don’t look.

Well, they dropped the bomb. The blast was so powerful that it not only destroyed the city of Nagasaki, but it drove everyone in the plane back towards the gorilla cage. As the bomb was blasting, my best friend Jeff was knocked so far back, he bumped into me. Because he bumped into me, I turned my head mistakenly looking at the atomic bomb exploding. Next thing I know, the rays from the atomic bomb are coming my way. The gorilla, angry his cage had been rattled, lunged to attack and eat me. But the waves from the bomb and the gorilla coming at me emerged, and I became one with the gorilla.

So every full moon night, on nights like this. I turn into a gorilla.” My grandfather explained.

“You are lying.” Bobby Taylor informed him.

“Yeah, I am with Bobby for once. There are no such thing as flesh eating gorillas.” Josh explained.

“My big sister says Santa isn’t real and neither is this story.” Ricky Rose snapped.

“It is a good story though.” Nick Marx said, trying to be supportive.

“It’s true. He turned into a gorilla frequently when I was a little girl.” My mom said leaving the room.

“Believe what you like.” My Pop Pop said as he left.

When he left Bobby Taylor said, “That was the lamest story ever, back to video games.”

“Shut up, your lame and I will trump you in Super Mario Brothers.” Wendell informed him.

“April, what if it was real?” My sister Skipper asked scared.

“Look, it’s a story. Just like the Hook Man and everything else.” I said trying to comfort this obviously trembling five year old child.

Just then, there was a rattling at the window. “It’s the gorilla!” Skipper screamed.

“No, it’s not the gorilla. Calm down.” Wendell assured my sister.

The rattling continued for another minute. Suddenly, Aaron Smith, a quiet, fat kid who was helping himself too much to the M and Ms spoke up, “Guys, it is a full moon. It could happen.”

That’s when I suddenly had my doubts too. Seconds later, there was a loud banging. “Wendell, do you think a tree branch fell? You better check.” Nick Marx said.

“Nah. I think it’s nothing. If it happens again, I will get my mom to check.” Wendell told him.

“Or are you scared?” Bobby Taylor asked.

“Look, shut up Bobby.” I snapped.

“Shut up fatty, and stay away from my M and Ms.” Bobby told me.

Just as I was about to take an entire handful of candy and throw it at this boy, yes this Bobby Taylor, who had ripped the head off of my favorite Barbie Doll, there was a loud growling sound. “Ahhh!” Ricky Rose shrieked.

“Stop overreacting.” Josh Groves told him.

That’s when the door burst open and appearing there was a giant, black gorilla. Growling angrily, it lunged at us. There was no time to be paralyzed by fear. Fight or flight took over. Despite the fact she moved quite slow and was a sickly little thing who needed iron shots, I grabbed my sister Skipper and forcefully yanked her. We all ran to the laundry room, taking refuge against this beast creature who had apparently come to devour us.

Bobby Taylor was not about to be eaten. Sprinting to the door, he pushed Skipper aside and was the first to get into the laundry room. Josh Groves, being the stepson of a firefighter, made sure everyone was safe and instructed us to hit the floor so the beast could not detect us. Ricky Rose, the sensitive lad who had asthma, didn’t give into needing his inhaler but made a funny smelling, yellow, fear induced puddle. Aaron Smith, accidentally stepping in it, hit Ricky. Wendell, trying to be the peacekeeper admonished his insensitive friend. Nick Marx assisted Wendell in breaking the two boys up. Skipper cried. I held her the entire time.

“We are going to die!” She yelped.

Just then, we heard the growling stop and the sound that replaced it was laughter. When we looked out into the game room it was our Pop Pop, mask off and in a gorilla suit, laughing. As we looked out he said, “Gotchya, or as you kids say, psych!”

We all expected Ricky Taylor to say something nasty, but instead, to our surprise he admitted defeat. “That was pretty good.” Ricky said.

We all agreed. My grandfather got a bunch of high fives from his new group of young fans, and he gave both my sister and the aggrieved Ricky Rose hugs for their pain and suffering.

When the school bell sounded that Monday we all knew it was the start of a new week. However, now the whole school knew how cool my Pop Pop was. As a matter of fact it was the only thing people could talk about for the next few days. There are somethings a math book cannot teach you and somethings we all just know innately.

One lesson is that, no matter what, every full moon, April’s Pop Pop turns into an angry, flesh eating gorilla.