Week ending 23FEB2025

Today was in the 60s.  Earlier in the week we went days without it breaking above the teens.  

The cold hampered motivation to get out.  I leaned into work, did a dental appointment (I did walk to it though), and attended a funeral for a guy who passed at 57.  Cancer.  Probably 200 people at his service, mid day, mid week - a lot of young folks who he interacted with when they were Scouts.   Heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.  

I managed 26 miles plus of walking over the week, and got in about 19 miles of running.  

Obituary

My father's obit post last weekend.  A few people reached out to me about it, including some people I had not heard from in a very long time.   That was nice. 

Initially with his passing, there were a lot of things I wanted to write about.  But I have been slowly concluding there are likely many things better left alone.  Is unearthing this event or that one from 35 years ago going to change anything?  I mean, it is a bit true that the time for that has passed.  Is my writing about such topics and trying inevitably to steer them to some positive perspective or some lesson, some silver lining from a difficultly, actually going to drive a growth in me?  Or is a self gratuitous grinding to reinforce viewpoints I already hold?  Can I be really honest?  I mean I know I am biased, but can I think past the stories and look at this history objectively?  

He had nearly 20 years after my Mom passed.  In that house.  By himself.  His health on the long slow inevitable decline that comes with age.  The house dying in its own way mirroring a decrepit path.  The world kept marching on.   He marched with it in some ways - engaging with the Masons, and friends he had, but living mostly alone.  

It is a lot to contemplate what that time was to him.  All those days.  

I know he wasn't wholly happy with it.  He wanted a life with his grandkids.  But they were in CO and he was not going to come here unless I made him go and made it just "happen."  Somehow that was a responsibility I was to fulfill.  

I didn't.  I chose to let him make his own choices with their own consequences and told him as such.  I told him that if he moved to CO our relationship would be different and he didn't like that either.  So he stayed in CT.  It is where he, my mother and my brother, will all be interned to rest in death.  

So, there are questions, shadows of guilt, and a natural wondering if it could have been different.  I don't know and that door has shut.   The silver lining I guess is contemplating how I treat the relationships I have now and how I wish to steer those while I am here.  

And that, what we do with the time we got, that is pretty much it - ain't it?

Guitar

When I was 12 or 13, I was in the kitchen drying dishes.  I was listening 106.9 WCCC.  It was a rock and roll radio station, playing the songs of Led Zep, Rush, Van Halen along with groups long forgotten like Zebra and White Lion.  My father saw me playing guitar.  Or actually he saw me playing air guitar. 

A few weeks later he got me a cheap electric guitar, an amp and got me plugged me into some lessons in Vernon CT.  My teacher there for a bit was Jamie Sherwood.  I can't remember the name of the place but I want to say it was Morley Music.   Jamie was great and had the ear to transcribe a few tunes for me - like Red Barchetta and Stairway.  

I also took a class at my junior high as a freshman (we did junior high as 7, 8, 9) then with Johnny Prytko.  I got the basics of cowboy and bar chords, major and pentatonic scales, and picked up a few tunes from friends, Guitar Player magazine and the little "paper" records in the centerfold.  

As a young teen it was easy for me to blow off homework and practice for an hour a day.  I think I had lessons for about a year with my father driving me over to them.  He wanted me to play like BB King.  I wanted to play like Jimmy Page.  I try to play like both of them (and others) now.  

So, in some way, I have been playing guitar now for 40 plus years.  He set me up to do that.  It was quite a gift that he gave me.  

I played guitar at his bedside on the last day of his life.  I wanted him to hear how I could play now and what he gave to me.  I am not sure if he heard it or not.  I think he did as his eyes fluttered a bit with the playing but I can't absolutely say.  

So, again, thanks Dad.

Outdoors

Somewhere I developed an appreciation and a love for the outdoors.  

With the passing of my father and this fumbling accounting of my memories of him, I have wondered what things he passed to me - the age old nature versus nurture question.  As I unpack what scripting he had on my life versus the choices I made, I have been contemplating what wheels he put into motion that may have set this desire to be in outdoor spaces.  

I recall early family camping experiences at Hidden Acres in Preston CT along the Quinnebaug River.  We never did that in a tent, but instead we stayed in one of the cabins, and for a short period there was even a pop-up trailer.  Those experiences included time around a campfire, feeding ducks by the river, and enjoying in the woods.  

He told me as a kid he went to summer camp for one week as a child.  He never went again but he loved it so much he wanted to have me go.  I was at any number of day camps; ones like Camp Holiday Hill and started going to the "sleep away" camp, Camp Woodstock, for at least a couple weeks every summer.  Woodstock in particular became an indelible finger print on my life.  In addition to experiencing the outdoors and basic skills with that, I'd spend hours swimming (eventually becoming a certified Red Cross Guard).  It was critical in my father's view that I'd be a good swimmer.  He was deeply concerned about his children drowning and he mitigated the heck out of that (we even had an outdoor above ground pool at our house in South Windsor).  I'd eventually be a program director at Woodstock, and live at the camp year round during my time at UCONN.  

Some of that he set into motion for sure.  Some of it was the path that I chose once the doors were opened.  

We never backpacked or fished or did any winter camping.  We dabbled in Scouts but that didn't work out for us (different story, post).   But this guy who was an inner city firefighter had some love for the outside that he passed on to me that I have taken my own way with.  

Thanks for that Pop.  

Voicemail

I am sure there is are a large number of rabbit holes that the internet has already followed with this ... 

Voicemails of those who have passed away.  

This voice of a person who you know will never speak again.  That you can't speak to again.  There is no longer a conversation here.  It is a digital collection of their voice and their thoughts at that time, captured but like a photo, it is just a moment.  

My father would leave them until the voice mail time limit was reached.  He'd get cutoff, call back and leave another one.  Rambling on about what he was thinking, what he was concerned about, reflecting on a topic.  

They are simultaneously an interesting treasure and a source of sadness.  I wonder how long I will keep them.  Unlike physical objects in the world, they are weightless and easily portable.  Will I listen to these until I have memorized them like a song I have listened to over and over again?

In one from November, he apologizes to me and says, "God Bless You and whatever way you think of me."  

Yeah, so there is that.  Shakes me on the insides.  That voice that was there from prior to me knowing whose voice it was.  That voice that was there for those decades in raising me.  

And now a voice that is gone except in these voicemails.

Week ending 16FEB2025

40 miles of walking.  10 miles of running over three runs.  

Knee sucks but the low mileage and lesser impact from running seems to keep most of the crap with that at bay.  

Early disagreements

I can look back now and see when and where some deep seeds of difference were planted between my father and me.  Some were his perspectives on life versus mine.  Some were were deeper - usually about his expectations of me.  As I aged from child to teenager to young man, these seeds had taken to deeper root.  Honestly, some were never resolved.  With his passing, arguably they never will be ... or they are?

An example of perspectives ... as I entered my second decade of life, my father wanted to know what my "calling" was.  He knew from the time he was a young child that he wanted to be a firefighter.  Everything about it was compelling to him:  the trucks, the firehouse, the insanity of running into a burning building when everyone was running out, the heroism of saving people, the risk ... It was what he wanted to do more than anything else.  

I had no such calling.  Even today in adult life, I regularly explore my purpose - what I want to do, what I am capable of doing, what pays the bills and what will have impact.  I certainly didn't have a great idea as to what this was when I was 10.  I mostly wanted to hang out in the woods or listen to music.  I had no idea what I wanted to do and I certainly didn't have a deep calling. 

This was incomprehensible to him.  Of course you have to have a calling - what is it.  Asking me over and over only created tension, often with me falling apart emotionally.  And that didn't help either. 

An example of expectations ... well, which example?  So many ... so many places where I didn't meet his expectations.  As a student, as an athlete, the girls I dated, my moving to Colorado, and my not being there for him to name a few

And he let me know it.   This is not to say he never said he was proud of me or that he loved me.  He did do that.  But he also let me know clearly, and often, and usually with emotion, where I was failing to meet expectations.  

I have tried to box these in a positive:  perhaps by not knowing my calling, I do continue to seek what it is and enjoy that process.  Perhaps by having a parent whose expectations I didn't meet, set me up to consider what my expectations were for myself.  

Is that putting too much lipstick on a pig for the sake of being positive?

It has over the last near three decades have me deeply consider what sort of parent I have wanted to be.  I have certainly had my own short comings there too but I can see where I took some hard right turns in how I took on this role compared to him.  

Which, of course, leaves me wondering if the gift was having those experiences after all.  

"Son of Dad"

Ok. Slightly different take on the series of posts related to my father.  

Stephen Wilson Jr released an album "Son of Dad" in 2023.  I have had it on "heavy rotation" for over a year.  Stephen Wilson Jr straight up goes at the relationship with his father in this album.  Oh yeah, 30 plus songs.  And it is straight up amazing.  

Check 'em out.  

Origins

My parents shared with me that I was adopted at the age of 12.   I had no clue of this prior.  They also shared that my younger brother was adopted.  They had no intention of sharing this information, but as my brother was facing various difficulties they took on professional counseling.  That counseling led to questions to my parents about how my mother's / brother's pregnancy had been:  was there alcohol, drug, other complications.  That of course which opened a box that it was not my mother's pregnancy with him.  

The details of our adoptions are stories unto themselves.  Adoptions out of Florida through Helen Tanos Hope in the late 60s and 70s, what they meant at that time in the US versus other options, how they were managed ... it is thousands of stories actually for those people.  

I never took the knowledge of my adoption as something that fundamentally changed me.  Even at the age of 12, I felt I knew who my parents were:  George and Libby as they were the people who were raising me.  I also decided at that young age that I held no animosity towards those in my biological lineage:  I didn't know their circumstances and if anything, perhaps I held some gratitude in that they believed a life could be better for infant me elsewhere.  I also felt no desire to seek those people out.  I recognized that it could be better if my adoption was left in the past.  I preferred to focus on where I was and where I'd go versus dwell on that past.  And I also felt that any sort of searching I could do would be insulting to my parents.

My father however felt that my knowledge of this somehow changed our relationship.  In retrospect, I think some of the natural changes that come with becoming a teen - where I would challenge or disregard him - he interpreted that as a reaction to me being adopted.  He told me this, and despite my telling him that was not true, he'd hold onto it ("if it is not that, then why do act that way / did you do such and such?").

It would become a wrinkle - one of many - in our relationship.  It was one that I'd give no credibility to, but as I moved away from my family and often kept distance as I grew - he'd mention that he'd see that as some root cause.  He regretted ever telling me, in part because he felt it broke my mother's heart.  

I still have no desire to seek that past, even though it is apparently easier than ever with genetic testing, search angels, etc.  George and Libby were my parents.  

Do a square job

With my father's passing, there has been a mix of reflections of ... well everything.  The good, the bad, the early years, the later years, the lack of connection, things I forgot, things that I have drummed into deep truth in my mind that I am now questioning.

Our last real conversation came was on January 8.  We talked after that, but only for short snippets.  On that day in January I called him from Sunnyvale CA while taking an extended dawn walk into my work.  

He had become aware that I had made a shift in my work from my own consulting business to working for a a corporation.  We talked about that, and I shared how I was "the old guy" at work now.  I reflected to him some of the lessons I learned from him regarding work as a child and their applicability still.  

In the 70s, he started a side hustle:  "South Windsor Maintenance."  I think it started with him doing large window cleanings for the front of the local pharmacy, but then extended to general maintenance, cleaning and land scaping for various local businesses.  He had a small crew of guys that would do the work for him.  I remember weekends as a kid where he'd be doing a job at a place of Rte 5 in South Windsor.  He'd be cutting their large lawn and I'd be in the parking lot riding my bike around.  I'd be in tow with him at several of these jobs, sometimes doing some of the work too.  

On this January 8 call, he shared with me how he did marketing of South Windsor Maintenance by having matchbooks at the pharmacy with his logo, contact info on the book.  How about that for an advert scheme gone by?  

He also shared how if he bid a job for 3 hours, he tell his crew that is what he was going to pay them for.  If they got it done (and done right) in 2, he'd still pay them for the 3.  If they screwed it up and it took longer, they still would get paid for three.  He was proud of how his guys loved that - and almost always got done early and were happy to be paid well.  

He also shared that the company logo was "We do a square job."  It came from the windows - where it was really apparent to him that to complete clean a window, you had to get all the way into the corners - and to work the entirety of the square without streaks.  "Do a square job."  It meant do all the things you need to do to complete the work, and don't ... well, cut corners.  

I actually think of that every time I clean a window or a mirror or even a computer screen.  It is deeply encoded into my firmware.  

Do a square job.  

Time

 

My best guess is that this is a picture from the winter of 96-97.  I would have recently moved to CO after grad school at UCONN the May before.  My father would have been 55-56.  My mother 53-54.  My brother would have been 23-24.

In my mind's eye, this is how I remember them mostly.  

My brother would be dead by the 98 - taking his own life violently after holding up a gas station - at the age of 25, most likely drug related.   My mother's health was starting to fail should would live to 63 with cause of death listed as pneumonia - but there were any number of other morbidities as well.  My father, despite being overweight, having high blood pressure, likely being diabetic - would live for another 28 years.  

It is hard for me to comprehend this photo.  In it, my brother is the same age as our son (who shares his name).  I am older now than my mother in that photo.  I am the same age as my father.  It is like one of those size of the universe statements ... they can tell you something and you understand the words but you can't quite comprehend it.  I can't comprehend that their ages in this picture.   Really - I am the same age as my father in that picture?

I also simultaneously can't fathom that I will live to nearly 84 but then think if he did of course I will.  I know that is as much chance as anything of course, but those voices bounce around in my pea brain.  

While I spoke to my family after leaving for the Rocky Mountain, I never saw my brother alive in person after I headed west.  I only saw my mother one more time in person -  at his funeral.  I saw my father a handful of times.  He never came to CO, and decided to live out his days in CT.  

The three of them will be committed together to a Veteran's (my brother was also in the Army) Cemetery in March.  

Week ending 09FEB2025

44 miles of walking on the week.  Lots of 2 hour days with that.

Ran for 3 miles on both Saturday and Sunday.  On Sunday I did that with KZ.  I can feel the soreness / weakness in the knee.  I have also lost a good amount of basic aerobic fitness - feeling a bit winded at 9 min / mile pace.  It is what it is.  

Really enjoying practicing with The Pinebox Sleepers (we are on FB/IG).  Should be landed some gigs soon.  In particular, I am enjoying writing music with these guys.  

Oh, 82 days abstaining from alcohol.  Admittedly this last week there were a few more stretches where I felt the call for beer.  Again, I am very much thinking this is not a forever thing but more a not now thing.  And I can clearly see how none is easier than one for me.  Not much more to say about it other than that.  

My father's funeral will be March 15, back in CT.  Might be the last time I go back there.  

Big weekend in distance running for USA with four men running under prior world records, 2 taking new ones and 2 taking second place.  The times are a bit unbelievable,  and I am trying to reckon if that is just because of my age and the times I grew up with or something else.   Undeniably, US men are part of the forefront of middle distance running - but noticeably off that pack in the marathon.  

Hang Nine

In 1973, at the age of three, I was involved in a lawn mower accident.  

Arguably, the incident is just that - an incident.  Life moved on and it is just a small part of my history, a footnote (ha?) mentioned on occasion.  

As the accident left me with one less toe, at some point in the 70s, my father came up with the moniker "Hang Nine."  I recall we were laughing at how I couldn't effectively wear flip flops because of the gap between my large toe and the next toe.  He noted I couldn't ever "hang ten" with the surfers, and the joke was made.  I hung onto the name and I use it still today (Hang Nine on IG is where I post most of my musical stuff).  The name seemed to fit:  surf this life with what you got, regardless of circumstance, and ride it well.  

I recall a conversation with my father somewhere in the past decade where I referenced the nickname.  He expressed some dismay, some hurt and some shame regarding the incident.   The nickname seemed to him as a way where I was parading it.  I didn't feel that way about it, but I could understand how he was in that space.  I didn't stop using it.  

It was obviously a traumatic event.  Frankly, I am feeling the circumstances of it here 50 plus years later with the decline in my running. leg strength discrepancies and a knee cap that has moved into a position that it should not be in.  It is a small price in light of what could have been:  as a young child I could have been killed (1970s lawn mowers are not what they are today), I may have lost my whole foot, I could have been impaired in walking for life.  Instead, I recovered and ... well, my bipedal motion has been pretty solid.  

I don't know if I really recall the event.  I think I do - but I don't know if that is memories that I made and imprinted on my head given how I heard about it at as a very young age.  I count it as the first memory I have.  I feel I remember it because I remember aspects of it that seem to be more than the mechanics I would have from just a story:  how I ran up behind the lawn mower my mother was riding  in an attempt to surprise her, her hearing my scream over the roar of the mower, her carrying me to my father who was pushing a mower in the front yard and the complete shock on his face. 

I was lucky.  I ended up with a doc, who as I understand it was fresh back from Vietnam.  I imagine he saw much worse injuries than mine.  He mended the foot, was unable to keep one toe.  A decade later I'd win a conference championship in track - an incident that had more impact on my development as a human than that damn lawnmower.   Despite the abnormality, I was able to enlist in the Air Force with a simple waiver.  

How it all came to that ... ah, who knows.  It was an accident.  Mistakes were made, and I was part of that.  But my parents felt they failed.  I get it - I'd feel the same.  I never held it against them and told them so and even pointed to my accomplishments on my two feet as evidence.    It was one of those messy things in life, complicated by perspectives, circumstance, and lost to the haze of history and the stories we tell ourselves and each other.  

Hang Nine then, Hang Nine still.  

He loved dogs

I've been working through my father's obituary.  I pulled items from the Resolutions that the Masons shared and made some modifications.  I shared it with my father's neighbor who provided me some feedback.  He doesn't really have internet, so I sent it to him via text and he sent me back a picture of some things he asked to be considered included.  

It was a good reminder for me in a few ways.  

The neighbor, Mike, was his neighbor for the last 35 years.  That is longer than I have been in CO.  They shared a life of experiences.   The reminder was I am not the only one mourning my father's passing and the hole his death has left is pretty large for some people.

And yeah.  Dogs.  I can't ever recall as a kid not having a dog.  We always had at least one dog.  My father loved them but in that way that was with the a "what the heck is that dog doing now" sort of growl but with a grin behind it.  

Dogs, cats, squirrels.  It was a something I think he and my mother bonded over a lot.  The cuteness and craziness that comes with animals.  And that lawnmower.  And the weird hats.  Yeah.  Lots of that in the soup mix tide.  

I managed to talk it all through over the phone with my neighbor this AM without breaking down.  Can't say that is the case as I type this.  Thankfully work will give me a bit of a reprieve from that.  

Thursday 06FEB2025

Walking.  Nothing else.  Walking around 40 miles a week.  Friday night while in CT at a Fairfield Inn, I took to doing 1/3 of a mile laps around the parking lot for 2 hours while I talked to TZ, JZ, KZ and contemplated everything.  It was raining.  Seemed appropriate.  

I get stuff done on the walks.  Listen to recorded work meetings.  Make phone calls.  Listen to podcasts or music.  Contemplate how I should be in the gym but I ain't.  Think a lot.  Appreciate the air, sun.  Knee feels ok.  I can still feel that it is shitty underneath it all but it is not getting the crap beat out of it that would come with running.  I miss running, but I sort of don't.

Headed up to Dillon for a few days.  Walked on the frozen lake.  It is pretty cool - until that moment when you hear the ice creak below you.  That is worth a bit of a HR spike.  

Tuesday was 77 days alcohol free (11 weeks).  It is sort of a thing now to see if I can get to 100.  It is more about showing myself that I can exercise that level of discipline if I want it.  TZ and I went out for pizza last night and admittedly, the IPA taps looked just divine.  I passed but then I had a dream that I sipped a beer and I was pissed.  

It is all good.  Obviously, there is a lot going on with my shift in running and the passing of my father.  But there is a lot of great going on too.  The Pinebox Sleepers - the band I am now a part of it - is an incredible music outlet for me and we are writing music.  It is, in fact, forcing me to write music.  It is like having to show up for that 5AM run with a buddy.  You'd probably not do it on your own but because there are people there expecting you - you do. 

Resolutions

In his later years my father became a Mason.  I am not sure if this is true, but it seemed to give him an outlet of hope, community, shared purpose, and charity that I think he needed post the suicide of my brother and as my mother's health declined.   Post her passing it became most of his social self.   He was deeply proud of the organization and his involvement.   

When we'd converse on the phone, he'd almost always share something about his involvement:  doing CHIPS programs, singing with the Shriners, going on a trip to a show with his brothers, serving as a tiler at a meeting.  He encouraged me to join, showed me his lodge during a trip to CT in 2006, talked about the various sects he had joined, the study and commitment he had to show to achieve degrees he had as a Mason.  

This all came after I had left CT in 1996 so I never really saw it.  In 2022, the Masons reached out to me to help with a write up for him for a lifetime achievement award.  After he received it, and he saw his name enshrined on a wall with other recipients on a wall in the lodge.  A friend of his from the lodge shared how my father at 82 looked up with child like wonder and swelled with pride that his name would be up there "forever."

His lodge contacted me yesterday to share they would read "resolutions" at their meeting last night.  Much of the resolutions come from the same write up when he received the award a couple years back, and I expect much of this to be part of his obituary.

Columbia Lodge No. 25 A.F. & A.M.

Columbia Lodge No. 25 Chartered May 18, 1793

Orient Lodge No. 62 Chartered September 18, 1822

Daskam Lodge No. 86 Chartered May 11, 1859

RESOLUTIONS ON THE LIFE OF BROTHER GEORGE R. ZACK

On February 1, 2025 the Grand Master of the Universe called Brother George R. Zack to

His home in the Grand Lodge on High. Brother George has finished his task, laid down

the working tools of his earthly life and left for the Land of Eternal Sunshine.

George was born February 11, 1941, in Pottsville, PA. He joined the United States Army

in 1960, and completed Basic Training at Fort Dix.  As a Private First Class, he served

overseas as an Armored Tank Crew Man on M-48A1 Patton Tanks.  George was

deployed to Vietnam as part of the Armed Forces Expeditionary in 1963-1964. 

Returning to Fort Dix towards the end of his term in the Army, he served as a drill

instructor and also worked in the fire department on base. 

George married Liboria (Libby) Zack in 1963.  After working in the New York Fire

Patrol, George took a position with the Hartford Fire Department at Engine 8 in 1968. 

George served as a firefighter for Engine 8 through 1978. In 1974, George became one

of the first half dozen Emergency Medical Technicians (EMT) in the state of Connecticut

who was also a firefighter (he notably and proudly "maxed" the practical exam for this). 

 George proudly points to much of his success as a firefighter coming from the

unwavering support from his wife Libby.  An unexpected work injury brought an earlier

than expected retirement.  

 George and Libby had two sons, George and John. Their son, John, passed away in

1998.  His son George, Jr. lives in Colorado with his wife Tracy and George’s two

grandchildren, Kali and John.  

George was a Connecticut Transit bus driver from 1979 to 2003, when he then retired

from the workforce.  George's love of his life, and wife of 43 years, Libby, passed away

in 2006. 

George was raised to the sublime degree of a Master Mason on October 9, 2000 in Silas

Deane Lodge #147. He became a member of Columbia #25 in 2010 when Silas Deane

Lodge went dark. George served in the offices of Marshall, Junior Deacon, and Senior

Deacon at Silas Deane, and served for many years as Tiler at Columbia #25. In 2022,

Columbia Lodge honored George’s years of service by presenting to him the Emerson C.

Reed at the lodge’s annual Awards Night. George was a member of the craft for almost

25 years.

George was a 32 nd Degree Mason at the Scottish Rite Valley of Hartford, and also a

member of the York Rite Bodies – Pythagoras Chapter #17 of Royal Arch Masons,

Wolcott Council #1 of Royal and Select Masters, and Washington Commandery #1 of

Knights Templar. He served in the office of Sentinel for many years in both the Chapter

and the Commandery.

Brother George was a believer in the Tenets and Principles of Masonry and carried his

beliefs into his various activities. To his son George, Jr., his daughter-in-law, and

grandchildren, we offer our sincere sympathy, but trust that they are comforted by our

faith that:

God saw the road was getting rough,

The hills were hard to climb,

So gently He closed the weary eyes,

And whispered, “Peace be thine”.

Therefore, Be It Resolved: That we, the members of Columbia Lodge No. 25, A.F. &

A.M., express our appreciation for the contributions that were made to our Order by

Brother George R. Zack.

Be It Further Resolved: That we mourn his passing in the knowledge that his service was

in the name of Brotherhood. The sadness in the hearts of his friends is the sincerest token

of respect that those who mourn his passing can offer.

Therefore, Be It Further Resolved: That these resolutions be spread upon the records of

Columbia Lodge No. 25, A.F. & A.M. and a copy sent to the family of our departed

Brother.

Respectively submitted,

Walter Grube, Secretary 

Stuff

I don't really have a plan as to how this plays out.  I recognize that my father's passing has ... "thrown me off balance" and I have a desire to reconcile that.  I have some thought that writing about it will help move towards that reckoning.  I don't know if that is true.  And as I sat at the keys this AM and looked in this very messy closet of my head, I don't know what to pick up next.  There is no real order to this, no plan.  I'm not sure I will do this every day to some conclusion or if it will just peter out or if it just goes on indefinitely.

I feel like I am managing well.  I walk.  I go to work.  I interact.  I am working through planning his funeral.  I have the swells of sadness and tears that I have learned come with the passing of a loved one.  Hell, I still get choked up about that dog we lost on July 2, 2022 even though I am "over it."  I even smile at how when I see that wave come with the lip quiver, I think for a moment that I can control it - and it is as if that thought forces some deep operating system level override to show I can't.  

Nothing brings on these tides more than "stuff."  Going through stuff I have not seen in years, some I haven't seen in three decades.  Stuff that I had complete forgot about, buried somewhere in the recesses of my mind.  Like a movie I saw as a kid - it is never there in my day to day but it is buried in my firmware and can be accessed.  And now opening that file brings opens a lot of other ones.  The tide comes in.  I'd say the dam breaks, but one was not even built there in as much things were just buried.  

And, wheee ... go for that ride.  

Yeah, stuff.  Meaningless stuff.  Stuff that no one else would put any value to.  Stuff that will be thrown out.  Stuff that somehow I now recall as part of the scenery.  Maybe once or maybe as part of a backdrop for decades.   His passing and going through this stuff ... pictures of course, but trinkets, license plates, clocks, books and ... stuff.  

And he wrote his name on everything.  I mean this man felt the need to label everything with a black magic marker.  ZACK.  Made me feel a bit stupid when he did that with all my underwear when I went to summer camp.  

It is stuff that tells pieces of a story of him, his wife, my brother, his family, his life and me.  And as the stuff goes to the trash, to Goodwill, to others who want it, or becomes part of my stuff, the story fades.  

It ain't all sad and bad.  Even the ones that come with mourning or regret are lined with recognizing that having these are a gift unto themselves.  It creates a moment of pause, recognition, reflection and that is its own workout.  

Beginnings

Where to begin?  The cliche is the beginning of course, but which one?  His birth?  Mine?  When our lives took different paths as I became an adult?  Or where this is now?

(sigh and just start typing GZ)

My dad, George Ronald, was born in February 11, 1941 as George Galenda in Pottsville PA.  Within 2 years his parents would be dead, killed in an automobile accident.  He would be adopted and become George Zahorchek.  Within a few years, his father, George Edward would change and shorten the family name to Zack.  

His youth and upbringing is lost to history and my only knowledge of it is what he shared with me over the course of innumerable quarter conversations.  His father was physically abusive.  His mother had significant health issues and would pass at a young age.  He was aware of his adoption and didn't understand why other members of his biological family didn't take him and with the adoptions separated him from his older sister.  He'd confront his biological uncles later with this question and get no satisfaction in their responses.  He'd grow up in New York City.

He met my mother Libby (Liboria Giovelli) when he was 17 and she was 15 when on a date at movie theatre - they were both on a date with other respective friends and shortly thereafter they started dating.  From an incredibly young age, he was fascinating and deeply called to the fire department and everything about it:  the trucks, the sirens, the heroism, the fire house, the uniform, the camaraderie.  Just before turning 20, he joined the Army.  He'd go to Japan, Korea, Vietnam and serve in various roles, including as a tankman.  He'd marry Libby on June 27, 1963.   They married in a court house - there are no pictures from a wedding with the family. She had just turned 20 (June 19) and he was 22.  They started their married life.  

There are pockets of other stories in there.  Run ins with the law as youth. Various jobs he had as a kid. Interactions with his father.  Serving as an alter boy.   Challenges he had in the neighborhood he was in as an outsider to the predominant culture.  Libby's challenges with her own family and the hell she had gone through. His interaction with her family and her three Italian brothers who were initially not impressed with a "Polack."  How Libby's mother welcomed him in.  How he was a bigger kid and made fun of for being fat.  How they took steps to get away from it, particularly his father, but remain connected to her family.

Growing up, I'd hear these stories.  In retrospect, I heard them but I didn't have the skills or the character to listen to them.  They were a background music that I had an awareness to, but I never deeply unraveled them or what they meant.  

I knew however that my parents had a start that had faced challenges and they had made choices to work to overcome them.  They had faltered in places, but had a start that was built on a foundation of their marriage for each other.  They did not get out of it unscathed - no, looking back I can say their scars would run deep and impact their physical and mental health for the rest of their lives.  

George Ronald Zack 2/11/1941-2/1/2025

My father, George Ronald Zack, passed away on Saturday night.  He was 83.  

As you'd expect, this has brought swirls of emotions with the recollections of good and bad times, and realizing I'll never talk to him again.  He lived a full life, mixed with great triumphs, joys, losses and tragedies.  His life, like most of ours, was complicated, easy and difficult and hard to describe in a simple obituary or eulogy.  My relationship with him, also unsurprisingly, was similar.  

I'll look to write here in several entries as a way to collect my thoughts, what I learned from him, and come to terms with his passing.  

Rest easy now Pop,