A Family Secret

I am not a child. At least not chronologically. I was born during the JFK administration. You do the math. And, just recently, I found out that I am not the person I thought I was my entire life. You see, I found out that the man listed on my Birth Certificate may not actually be my father.

This discovery came about during an investigation into a different family mystery. I had grown my entire childhood under the impression that I had only one surviving grandparent, my Me mere. It wasn't until two years ago I learned her husband, my pep ere, didn't pass until I was six.

Six was a strange year for me. It was the first time I met my father. I'll call him "E" in this blog. It was the last time I saw the man who was around our house while I was growing up. I'll call him "F". My Mom brought me to my Me mere's house, where my dad lived. My six year-old brain couldn't grasp this concept. Anyhow, I digress.

Upon the discovery that Pep ere was alive until I was six, I wondered why I wasn't allowed to know him. By this time, everyone I could think of to ask was gone...except my older brother. And he wasn't saying. Fast forward.

It was during a conversation with another relative I had not seen in a long time that I was told the reason I was never introduced to my pep ere. He would have told me that "E', his son, was not my father. My father was "F".

I was stunned. So was the relative. They were under the impression I had known already. This gave me many questions to answer.

I did some research on the internet. "F" had passed away in 2006. 76 Years-old...the same age as my mom when she passed. "F" had two daughters...whoa! I have two half-sisters? And then it hit me...my big brother is just my half-brother! I was overwhelmed at this thought. You see, in my eyes my big brother (13 years older) was my father figure. He was the one who bought me my first glove. He was the one who bought me my first ten-speed bike. He was the one who took me deep-sea fishing. He took me everywhere, and treated me like gold. I've always said I hit the brother Jackpot with him. And now I find he might only be my half-brother? I had an OMG moment....did he KNOW?

I finally got the nerve to ask him. He said he didn't know anything about it. He asked me what I thought. I said its "E"'s name on my birth certificate. I'll go with that. Then a couple days ago I found an old picture of "F". It is more than obvious that "F" was my dad, not "E". I started thinking about things that might change because of this knowledge. There are many questions:

• Did my brother really know?
• Did "F"'s daughters know about me?
• Why didn't my mom ever tell me the truth?
• Did "F" have medical history I should know about?
• What nationality am I?
• Are my sisters alive?
• If so, where are they?
• Would they want to meet me?

Then I asked myself one last question.

Does this change my relationship with my big brother?

One of my Facebook friends posted a picture. The timing couldn't have been better.

"Family is not about blood. It's about who is willing to hold your hand when you need it most." The words struck me like a sledgehammer in my chest. You see, it doesn't matter if "E" or "F" is my father...neither one was there for me at anytime in my life. Sure one of them is my biological dad, but the man who has gone above and beyond the call for over and over again, the man who cheered me on when I performed onstage, who brought to and from the hospitals when I had no one, the man who has always, and I mean ALWAYS been the stabilizing influence in my life, the one person was, and still is, "...willing to hold your hand when you need it most" is my brother. I am tremendously blessed to have him in my life. To have him...in my family.

Take care my friends.

The Experiment

When I was a very young child, I was surrounded by music. My Mom would listen incessantly to her album collection. Her choice of music was clearly delineated: Elvis and Country Western. The pictures on the album covers always stuck in my mind. Men wore bedazzled suits and often had decorated guitars, women wore frilly dresses and had big hair. The music had that whiny country twang, and even the instruments sounded like they were crying.

My babysitters would bring their 45 record collections to the house when sitting me. It was on these occasions I would hear The Beatles, Chuck Berry, and all the bands of the British Invasion period. My babysitter and her sister would dance frantically while I cowered in horror under the coffee table. Ah, the memories.

I had a teen-aged cousin who had an electric guitar...you had to say it that way so people knew you were cool. He would sit in my living room and play for hours. It was then I decided that one day, I too would play electric guitar, and be cool.

I probably started my songwriting at this point also. Because I didn't play any instruments yet, I would find instrumental versions of popular songs, or even just instrumental songs, like "Green Onion" by Booker T and the MGs, and write lyrics for them. As I got a little older, I would make up a melody in my head. Sometimes I would commit them to cassette, other times I'd just write them down. Most of the time, they were just forgotten.

As I got older I learned to play instruments. First was bass guitar, then piano and then guitar. Now I could create a whole song from scratch, and I did. Eventually, I decided to record my own 45, which I did in 1984. The two songs can be heard and/or purchased for download on several sites. I spent most of the next thirty years playing in clubs and at functions. And now, I am moving on to the next phase of my music life.

Now, so many years later, I have pretty much retired from playing live onstage, and have gotten back to my roots as a songwriter. On a whim, I decided to enter one of my songs into a songwriting competition. Let me say this...in Nashville, the mecca for songwriters, there are specific rules for writing hit songs. Knowing this, I submitted a song that broke many of the traditional rules. Why? I had heard that most songwriting contests are scams of one type or another. Oh sure, the prizes they promised were often legitimate, but the premise of the contest was usually fraudulent. I wanted to experience it on my own. So I intentionally sent in a song I knew shouldn't win.

Shortly after my entry, I got a letter with a ribbon in it...I had won the "Director's Award", which is only given to those who show the ability to be professional songwriters. Oh boy! I put the ribbon on my refrigerator. A week or so later, I got another letter offering me a "Songwriter Contract". Before I read the contract, I decided I would would try to anticipate what it would say. I figured there would be a length of time involved...maybe a year or two. I thought they would promise me to promote my songs to record companies and artists, in return for granting them exclusive license to my songs, of course with a percentage of earnings going directly to them. This is what I anticipated. Here is what I got, paraphrased: We will send you a newsletter every month for a year, and allow you to have us record your song for only $xxx for a guitar/vocal demo.

So this whole songwriting contest was just a ploy to get aspiring songwriters to use the sponsor's recording services. Oh, and the special price? Well nearly EVERY studio in Nashville charges the same price. The bottom line is this company will do nothing for me I can't do on my own. Except for the cool ribbon...

Caveat emptor, and Take care my friends.

What does it take to be a man?

After all of these years wandering around this vast planet, I have finally learned what it means to be a man. Let me tell you folks, it ain't easy.

Like many males, I grew up thinking that being a man meant you could run faster, jump higher, hit a ball farther, or climb a tree higher than all of my friends. But that was just being athletic, not being a man.

As I reached my teen and young adult years I thought being a man meant being able to drink more beers, stay up later, drive faster, or "score more chicks" than my friends. But that was just having immature fun, not being a man.

I came real close when I became a husband and father. I thought being a man meant working hard at a job I might not like, or selling a prized possession so I could pay a bill, or functioning every day although I was racked with pain in various areas of my body. And while some would call that being a man, I think that's just meeting one's responsibilities.

So, if none of these things is being a man, what is? I just figured it out within the last week. But first, a quick back-story.

Many of my friends and some readers of this blog know I have had some health issues in the last couple years. Last Thursday my primary care doctor told me flat out I have to lose weight now or I will die. Period. End of discussion. Her suggestion for dieting? If it tastes good, spit it out. So for the last week I have been substituting bland, healthy foods for the salty, sweet, fatty, tasty foods I love and crave. The other day, I faced a test the magnitude of which I have never experienced...a friend asked me to a Chinese Buffet.

Oh, the Chinese buffet. The attraction is undeniable. First, there is Chinese food. So many kinds of yummy goodness just waiting to cast its hazy satisfaction over you. Secondly, it's a buffet. All you can eat. For one low price. Even lower on Mondays. My ability to literally work up a sweat at a good buffet is legendary.

But this time, I heard someone speaking in my voice utter the word no. Who said that? Then I realized it was I who declined an invitation to the Holy Grail of overeaters everywhere. Could it be that finally, after years of threats and browbeating from multiple doctors, that the message had finally sunk in?

I know this. There are very few things in life I like more than the Chinese Buffet. And to say no because I am trying to save my health, well, that's the toughest thing I've ever done.

I guess now I know what being a man is. It's having the strength to deny yourself of one of life's greatest pleasures for the sake of the greater good. Self-sacrifice, as it were. Maybe I can't run as fast as I used to. Or throw a ball as far. Climbing trees? Surely you jest. I can't drink as much, need lots more sleep and can't get the young ladies like before either. But I can say no when push comes to shove. Welcome to Manhood.

Thanks for reading. Take care my friends.

Mother's Day Reflections-2012

Well friends, another Mother's day is upon us. Are you taking Mom out to dinner? Maybe you plan on bringing her flowers or some other gift. Perhaps a family activity is at the top of your list. Whatever it is, I'm sure Mom will love it. When I was little, I was raised by a single Mom. Granted, we never had much money, but I did what I could to give my Mom a happy Mother's Day. I had to use my ingenuity to come up with creative ideas for gifts I could make...cheaply. Mom had a collection of home-made cards from me. My cards were always unique. I would draw (poorly) some little scene on the front, and on the inside would be a little poem expressing a sentimental thought, just like the real cards you bought in the store. Mom always loved them. Of course, as a child, you don't know that you could give Mom a lint ball and she'd love that too. That's what Moms do. And that's why they are so special to us. I think those cards may have been the genesis for my songwriting. In my youth, before I could play any instruments, I would take an established melody and put my own lyrics to it. Today they call that R&B/Hip Hop. Who knew I was a trend setter? As I got older and learned to play some instruments, I started writing complete songs. When I went into a studio and recorded two of my original tunes my Mom was the most proud of me since I gave a discourse at our church when I was nine. That's another story. I told my Mom I would write a song for her one day. I'm great at procrastination. I should have done it a long time ago. Mom passed away in 1998. Many of you readers might know how I feel this weekend. Your friends are talking about the plans they have with their Moms, and you don't have any. You see a street vendor with flowers, and there is nobody to receive them. The local diner Mom loved is taking reservations for Mother's Day, but they won't seat just one. We all cope with our losses in different ways. But Mother's Day is especially tough. As for me, I'll find a quiet little spot, think about my Mom, and strum my guitar. Who knows. Maybe I'll finally write her song. Happy Mother's Day. Take care my friends.

Thanks for the memories...RIP Chief Jay Strongbow

Last week, a legend in the world of professional wrestling passed away. Chief Jay Strongbow was 83.

I grew up watching wrestling and stared in amazement as these magicians worked their craft in the squared circle. It represented the classic struggle of good vs. evil, and the characters were often larger than life.

I learned when I was about six that I am part Indian (Native American for the PC crowd). Once I knew that, I was filled with pride every time Chief would do his war dance. Like most kids watching, I wanted to be a wrestler one day.

Fast forward forty years. The scene: the 2011 Induction ceremony of the New England Pro Wrestling Hall of Fame. I was asked by my mentor in the wrestling business to give his introduction speech. As I stepped up to the podium, I looked down at the main table. Seated there was Rick Martel, Tito Santana, and my childhood hero, the Chief himself, Jay Strongbow. I have the video of my speech. I mentioned the impact Chief had on me as a young child. At one point, the camara angle changes and you see me standing at the podium, less than five feet from my hero. It is an image I will forever cherish.

Next year will be a very special year for me. You see, I have been informed that I am being inducted into the same Hall of Fame as my mentor, many of my friends, and my childhood idol. The honor is one that I never expected, or even thought was a possibility. I am humbled and oh so ever grateful.

Thanks for reading while I reminisce.
Take care my friends.

In Memory...

I was just cleaning up some old Facebook statuses when I came across one from this week last year. It simply read "RIP Lee, your time came too soon". I can't believe it has been a year already.

Lee and I met as we were growing up as members of a fundamentalist religion. When you're a young child, you are whatever religion your parents say you are. We attended meetings, bible studies and theocratic school together. Lee was always good for a laugh, and had a kind streak in him as wide as all outdoors. Like me, when he was old enough to decide for himself, he left the religion.

Lee took a job working in a VA hospital. This was typical of Lee to want to help others. The amazing thing was that Lee was not in favor of war. But his love of his fellow beings was more important than his dislike for what these people were part of. In the end, it was his caring for these soldiers that cost Lee his life. I can't say more for fear of violating some type of privacy statute.

I went to Lee's service, which was kind of surreal. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that someone so damn caring and good, let alone younger than me, was gone so soon. In the year since, I have lost a couple more close friends who were younger. It makes me think about my course of action in my life. Hopefully I'll learn how to be a better person.

Thanks for reading. And I hope that you all have someone in your life like Lee. If you do, cherish them. People like Lee are a treasure. It's a shame that too often we don't recognize it till it's too late.

Take care my friends.

My Latest Endeavor

When I first started playing a musical instrument back in high school, the road to fame and fortune was a long, arduous adventure to say the least. Hanging out at music stores hoping to find players to put a band together was cheaper than taking out a classified ad in the local paper, and you hoped someone had a garage or basement you could play in, hopefully with very patient parents.

Today, we have Craigslist which provides free classifieds, and reaches many more people. Social media has made it so much easier to promote bands. The countless hours passing out flyers has all but disappeared. Even I, an analog guy in a digital world, have jumped on board the social media bandwagon.

I am proud to introduce my own music fan page which you can visit here. You can access status updates, and purchase downloads from my store if you like. There are links to other informative sites as well. I hope you stop by, take a look, and maybe click the "Like" button. Better yet, share it with your friends. I appreciate it. I will keep you informed as to how it's going from time to time.

As always, take care my friends.