A Memory of Dan

We’re lucky enough to have a pool where we live, and lately I’ve been swimming daily. I’m embarrassed to say it’s the first time in many years I’ve been in the water. It’s a great pool, and I’m usually the only one there. In fact, I’m starting to think of it as my personal pool. I’m thinking of changing the locks and selling memberships.

You have a lot of time to think while you’re floating on your back staring at the sky. And there’s nothing like plunging your whole head underwater in a shimmery blue pool to bring the sense memories flooding back, if you’ll pardon the expression.

As I swim each day, new memories of all my years of swimming lessons come back to me. Early morning pools, every summer from around age five through high school, rain or shine, cold or sweltering, were my home base. My mom believed if you got that certificate that said you knew how to save a drowning person, being a lifeguard was something to fall back on. Plus it got us out of bed and kept us busy while she was working.

I wasn’t alone on these shiver-inducing outings. My brother Dan, one year older, was beside me for all of them, in the beginning anyway.

The first place I remember having a lesson was at a pool in a family friend’s backyard. It was the only backyard pool I knew of in our small town. It was a great one too. They treated it as a place to relax and have fun, so there were lounge chairs and tables with umbrellas around, just like at a Howard Johnsons. As you walked through the breezeway to the pool, there was a sign that said, “We don’t swim in your toilet, so please don’t pee in our pool.” This made sense to me, even at age five.

The daughter of the family who owned the pool was our first teacher. She was patient, funny and beautiful and we loved her. I remember being released into this pool like a minnow that’d been in captivity: I was home.

I barely noticed my brother standing on the side, holding my mom’s hand and crying. He wasn’t quite so enthralled.

Each day as I jumped off the diving board and rescued coins from the bottom of the pool, my mom and our teacher quietly and gently tried to persuade Dan to put his face in the water. He made them promise to keep a towel handy as soon as he emerged. Over and over, he ran to the towel and buried his face in it as soon as he came out of the water.

This really wasn’t that uncharacteristic for him. Of the two of us, I was always the one who tried everything first. He thought things over; I did that later, usually after the damage was done. He must've thought I was crazy. I know I was aware of him being more sensitive than me, even as kids.

The next progression in our swimming education: lessons at the public pool in our town. Everyone called this pool “The Legion”, since it was originally an American Legion veteran’s organization project.

This pool was enormous compared to our former backyard pool classroom. We took lessons from another close family friend, who also happened to be a bombshell lifeguard later crowned Miss Iowa. And as much I loved and adored her, Dan was complete putty in her hands. My mom thought this would be the key to getting him to enjoy swimming.

We had to be at the pool at the ungodly hour of 7:30 am. I remember thinking I shouldn’t have to be anywhere this early on a summer day, even as a 3rd grader. Especially as a 3rd grader, really. The sun was barely up, and sometimes it was raining. Dan was silent all the way there in the car every day.

My mom always tried to be encouraging. She knew there was a daily goal. “Today’s the day you’re going off the low board, right?” I knew she wasn’t talking to me. I was already jumping from the high tower, flinging myself out as far as I could, trying to reach the middle of the pool in a single bound.

“Maybe,” he’d say. Then he’d check to make sure his towel was still under his arm.

He was pretty silent all through these lessons, doing almost anything asked of him, but not doing it with enthusiasm. It was clear he’d never be a long distance swimmer, and certainly not a high diving champion.

When the day came that we’d been working toward for the whole summer, the day we had to swim all the way across the pool and back, even I was unsure if I was going to be able to do it. It seemed so far.

Dan had to go first. I sat on the side of the pool, cheering for him along with everyone else. My mom even came that day to witness this milestone. She stood at the side of the pool he was swimming to, bent over, shouting encouragement to him as he plowed his way through the water. “You’re almost halfway! You’re more than halfway! You’re going to make it! Keep going! Don’t stop now!”

When he reached her side, he barely stopped, he just touched the wall and turned back to finish the job. He seemed to be picking up speed as he made his way to the end. I took heart in this; it was a sign that maybe he was going to make it. If he could make it, surely I could. I’d already moved on to thinking about that.

When he reached the wall, a huge cheer erupted and our teacher reached in and pulled him out of the pool by his arms and hugged him. He didn’t even look for his towel, he just stood there basking in the glory.

I have to follow that? I thought. As I jumped in, I noted that my mom was still giving him all this praise, and she barely noticed that I’d started. She certainly wasn’t at the halfway point waiting for me. I stopped, touched my feet on the bottom and yelled, “HEY!” Everyone looked, and I continued.

Of course, I made it across and back. But I was conscious that I wasn’t picking up speed towards the end, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. It must've had to do with intrinsic motivation.

Our next few summers were spent taking lessons at the country club pool. This had always been our home away from home all day, all summer, by virtue of the fact that my dad spent all his free time on the golf course. So it was a family hangout.

My mom dropped us off there every day at 8:00 on her way to work, and picked us up at 4:30 on her way home. Evidently the lifeguard was our babysitter. I doubt she was paid accordingly.

This was a much more pleasant place to learn than The Legion, as it was so familiar. By the time I took senior life saving lessons there, Dan was excused from swimming.

He’d discovered the golf course, and that’s where he wanted to be. For one summer, on the days he couldn’t be golfing because of tournaments or such, he ran the pool snack bar. But he never got in the water. It just wasn’t his thing, ever.

The day we learned to water ski at Lake Okoboji, he tried it once and was done. I skied all day long that day, soon bouncing over and skiing outside the wake like a superstar. Dan stayed in the boat watching my shenanigans without saying anything.

As years went by, he found peace and everything else he needed on the golf course. He was fearless there. Just as I was unafraid to deep dive over and over, he was relentless about scoring a birdie on hole 18, trying to beat his best friend.

Yesterday as I floated across the pool, it occurred to me that his early fear of water and his lack of enthusiasm for it were reflective of his approach to life.

Once he made up his mind about something, that’s how it was. He knew what he wanted, and he stuck with it. He didn’t really need to experiment, he was sure of himself most of the time. He watched me jump into trouble over and over, and he often bailed me out with a silent smile. When he didn’t bail me out, it was usually because I’d done something so stupid it was out of even his jurisdiction.

He died of cancer, on this date, when he was 22 and I was 21. I wish he’d lived longer so I could have known him as an adult. I think he’d be fun to be around, like my mom and dad both were.

And I’d love to race him across the pool.

Here's a tribute to Dan,

with some photos and remarks from a few of his friends.

Somewhere in the Swamps of Jersey

My first-ever visit to New Jersey began rather auspiciously.

As we crossed the Jersey state line, we saw that it apparently had been raining in the Garden State since Easter of 2007.

We had tickets to see Craig Ferguson in Atlantic City. We got a late start due to what we'll just call a traffic snafu. So by the time we did enter the state, we were running quite a bit behind schedule. The GPS told us it was quicker to take some back roads, so we did.

As were driving through one small town, we saw flashing lights ahead, roads closed because of flooding, and stranded cars on the side of the road.

Normally, these would all be seen as signals to proceed with caution. But we'd somehow lost our ability to read normal signals a couple hours ago.

Before we knew what was happening, we were driving through water that must've been a foot higher than the bottom of the doors on the car. Suffice it to say we were tossed around by the wake from the SUV in front of us.

Silence took over in the car as we floated to the end of the deep water, at which time husband/driver burst into maniacal laughter. I said, "Now I understand those morons you see on the news who drive through flood water and can't figure out how they ended up in the creek."

All I'm going to tell you about the next 50 miles is that we drove through some more water -- stop judging -- but reached our seats at Craig's show in the Tropicana casino showroom five minutes before show time.

We had fantastic seats in the 4th row. Craig was his usual hilarious self. We enjoyed the show immensely. Though it was completely bizarre to have arrived on an ark after a multi-hour drive from hell. Craig almost made us forget all that.

We ran out of the Tropicana like our pants were on fire. Nothing more to see there. Come to think of it, our pants might've been on fire. Our butts were so numb from driving through a monsoon and sitting in the car and the theatre, we'd never have known.

Our next destination before sleep was Freehold, New Jersey.

We arrived at 1 am and checked into the delightful American Hotel. It was still raining. We fell into instant comas.

The birthplace of Bruce Springsteen was a fitting starting point for the Springsteen landmark tour I'd dreamed about for years.

Join me.

Thanks for thinking of me, Bruce.

With a plan for an early start in the morning, we regrettably spent a short time at this lovely hotel. The sunshine made it even prettier. It's right on Main Street. I recommend it.

Freehold is a beautiful town! Residents obviously take great pride in homes, lawns, and the city in general. We were surprised of course, because Jersey gets such a bad rap. I must admit the state did look much more appealing to us after we'd escaped both Atlantic City and the rain.

A few blocks from our hotel, our Springsteen pilgrimage began. If you really aren't a fan of Bruce, you may want to just sign off now and head to the gym or some other fun place like that.

First stop, 39 1/2 Institute St: Bruce's family moved here around 1955. They lived on the left side of the duplex for about eight years. I like knowing Bruce watched Elvis on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1956 right here in this house. A photo of Bruce leaning next to this tree from the Born in the U.S.A. album liner notes inspires fans to take the same photo out front. The appearance of the house numbers makes me think the residents don't mind.

Next, a few blocks over is 68 South St: Bruce's home while in high school in 1963. The family lived on the left side of this one, too. According to local legend -- and who doesn't love a local legend -- a fan bought the screen door from the homeowner in the early '80s, thinking it was the screen door made famous in Thunder Road. Duh. Hey, is that Bruce on the porch?

St. Rose of Lima Church and school, 51 Lincoln Place: Bruce attended kindergarten to eighth grade here, from 1954 to 1963. He came back to play a benefit acoustic show in the gym in November of 1996, for Freehold residents only.

Next we drove the 20 miles to Asbury Park, along Hwy 18S, which the helpful desk clerk at the American told us was the way to go. She was right.

As if it hadn't been enough to see Bruce standing on the porch of that house...here was his hand, right on the side of the Stone Pony!

Now I truly did feel like I was on sacred ground.

The club was closed, so I kind of wandered around, checking things out in the light of day. As I turned the corner, I came upon the remains of the shrine to Clarence Clemons left by fans. I don't know know why this took me by surprise, but it did. The rain had washed much of it away, which somehow made it even more poignant.

Tears immediately sprung from my eyes, messing up my sunglasses and my vision. As I took photos, another woman was doing the same thing beside me. We talked for a moment; she'd come from Michigan. It was her first time too. We sort of straightened out some of the items, brushing them off and setting them back up.

So much love for the Big Man.

I found an open door and went inside. This seems to be expected behavior. You know, like how churches are always open.

The Stone Pony is everything you'd expect, and more. The huge number of guitars on the wall surprised me more than anything. It was fantastic to be there on a quiet morning-after. One guy was sweeping the floor, and he never looked up as we wandered freely. Since it was so quiet, my brain bounced unencumbered Springsteen lyrics around madly.

Needless to say, I loved every minute of being there, and can't wait to go back to see a show there.

I'll be quiet now and let you have a look around.

After a good long while, we headed back out into the sunshine and sea air, straight out the front door and across the street to the boardwalk.

Again, the boardwalk was everything I'd hoped it would be, only better, cleaner, and emptier, since it was still early in the morning.

And the boys from the casino dance with their shirts open like Latin lovers on the shore/
Chasin' all them silly New York virgins by the score...

Yeah, that casino. Where casino stuff used to go down. Where the Tunnel of Love video was filmed. Where the scene in The Fighter when Mickey Rourke's daughter tells him goodbye forever was filmed.

Currently, the casino's an empty shell that serves as an entrance to the boardwalk. It's beautiful and perfect. I'm just glad it's still there. So much of the park is gone now.

The casino's at one end of the boardwalk, and the Convention Hall the other. C'mon.

Oh yeah.

Evidently telling fortunes better than the cops allows one to put in an air conditioner.

I can think of worse places to work.

The Convention Hall is undergoing a wonderful restoration, and it's a completely pleasant place to hang out for people-watching and relaxing.

Google the Convention Hall for some history if you care. There's a lot of interesting and surprising history in New Jersey, by the way, aside from Bruce even. The New Jersey Hall of Fame is on the boardwalk, and it's great.

One of the shops inside the hall is a delightful little place called Greetings from Geralyn, owned by a local family. Geralyn makes scrapbooks, journals, lovely cards from vintage postcards, and vinyl mementos. She also has a great selection of letterpress cards, which is always a win in my book.

I bought the most perfect journal ever, don't you think?

Some other famous Jersey boy, I guess.

From the deck of the Convention Hall, a glimpse of the Wonder Bar to the right shows how close all these legendary Springsteen haunts really are to each other. The colorful, vibrant worlds created in Bruce's songs seem even more accessible somehow.

It's almost impossible to describe what it's like to see a place you've painted pictures of in your mind for decades; a place that seemed so real yet so imaginary then. Pardon the cliche, but it's a bit like seeing a ghost. A really boisterous, friendly ghost, but still a ghost.

This might have been my favorite sight of the whole day.

We headed north along the shore through Long Branch and Sea Bright. Impressive McMansions and Mafia wives out front along the way. Quite scenic.

We were on our way to Rumson. That's right, I was going to "climb the gates of Graceland" as my Blood Brother Bob Stuewe so aptly put it on Facebook.

We made it to Rumson, which by the way, is a stunningly beautiful town. I mean stunning. The green lushness rivals upstate New York. Minus a mountain or two. But it's gorgeous.

We decided to find an eating spot before the serious stalking began.

It was at this time we realized our GPS was on crack. It took us all the way to Red Bank without passing one restaurant.

Several ugly quarrels ensued. We became less enamored of Jersey, not to mention each other.

We finally found a spot to grab a bite, and headed back to New York. No climbing of gates this time.

But don't worry, Jersey, we'll be back. We kind of love you.