Barcade = Geeking Out

In Philadelphia, there is a small, nondescript building in Fishtown on Frankford Avenue.  The brick frontage doesn't give away what lies inside, only a small neon sign indicates what you're walking into - Barcade.  It is a modern day mecca for every child of the 80s: a vast assortment of really good beers and a long line of old school video games.  Geeking out is not optional here.  

You will geek out. Hard.

Every child born in the 1970s and early 1980s holds a special place in their heart for the old arcade games.  We spent countless hours and nearly every cent of our allowances geeking out in dimly lit arcades. Remember the classics: PacMan, Mrs. PacMan, Donkey Kong, Arkanoid, Rampage, Frogger, Paper Boy, Punch Out, Galaga, Burger Time, Tetris, Final Fight, Double Dragon, and on and on.  There were never enough quarters and there was never enough time.  It was exhilarating and exasperating: just one more level, just one more minute, just one more checkpoint... just one more!

The ups and downs of geeking out is a lesson we all learned young.

When my sister, Kristen, told me about this place, I demanded that she take me on my next trip to see her.  She and her husband live just north of Philly; I stayed down on the Eastern Shore of Maryland where we were born and raised.  Kristen is now as fluent in city life as I am in the nuances of living on the coast.  (My heart will always belong to the ocean.)  But on my last visit to see my sister, she was true to her word and we made Barcade a stop on our run through Philly.

We walked in and I was immediately drawn to the old meets new interior: exposed bricks, wooden beams, metal duct work set against the pulse of neon lights and the shine of the multitude of taps at the bar.  Of course, we made our way to the bar first where I promptly ordered my favorite - a pint of hard cider.  We clinked our glasses to friendship and getting our game on.  I saw that little look in my sister's eye and we broke for the back room where old truly met new again: the arcade games.

As soon as I saw the rows of arcade games, I started taking a little road trip down memory lane.  Back to when I was just a kid.  My sister and I were regulars at Skateland, the local skating rink in Salisbury, Maryland.  The rink was the place to be - every kid, regardless if you were cool or not, was there.  Acid washed jeans, teased hair, jelly bracelets... skating along to Michael Jackson, Madonna, Phil Collins, Def Leppard, Tears for Fears, and on and on.  But, during breaks from the rink, we hit up the snack bar for pizza and sodas or we'd get lost in the back arcade.  Playing Skeeball on skates can be a difficult endeavor!  There were several racing games and I remember how awkward it was to use a roller skate on the accelerator pedal.  How I loved Pole Position and Out Run!

"You got any small bills?" Kristen yelled to me, yanking me out of 1989.

I handed her a five and she fed it through the slot.  Ah, yes, that lovely sound of a quarters falling out of the cash machine!  We scooped up the quarters and made our way towards the Rampage machine followed closely by Arkanoid.  These were two of our all-time favorites.  I wonder how much of our allowance was deposited into these games, probably enough to cover my mortgage for a month or two!  But this is how adults think, not kids.  No, kids just want to be happy... a lesson that I'd do well to remember more.  Kristen and I marveled at how bad we were at these old games now.  Weren't these games easier then?  We just smiled and kept plunking quarters in.

And then there was DigDug. Asteroid. Super Mario Brothers.  A hard cider in my hand.  A pocket full of quarters.  My sister's laugh.  Memories.  Wait, no Q*bert machine?  How sad.  More quarters - I found a $1.25 on the floor!  High-fives and smiles.  New memories. 

Oh, Donkey Kong!  How you have eluded me all these years!  It took me fifty cents to just remember how to reach the princess on the first level, but it was money well spent.  As I played and struggled to get my timing on jumping each barrel, I thought about the old arcades on the boardwalk in Ocean City and how much time I've spent in there, both as a kid with my little sister and as an adult.  No matter how old I get, I will always hold a special place in my heart for the pinball machines and Skeeball and air hockey games and how those sounds of the bells and dings and whistles mix in the salty ocean air.  And deep in my heart, I know that I will always love geeking out.

We killed our drinks and we spent all of our quarters.  It was time to head out and make our way to our next venture: The Blind Pig for dinner and then Union Transfer for a concert.  I took one last long look at the banks of old arcade machines and I embraced a little connection to something that felt long gone.  I was glad to be reminded of that.  We made our way passed the bar and headed towards the door. As the cold January air hit my face, I laced my arm through my sister's and looked up at the dark night sky... and I was happy.

On A Pirate Ship

I fell in love when I first laid eyes on her.  

The Bounty was a beautiful ship, a wooden two-mast schooner, and she was anchored just off the coast of Curacao.  We had made reservations for an afternoon aboard for sailing and snorkeling in the reefs surrounding the island.  As we boarded, I couldn't help but turn my gaze upward.  My eyes got lost in the tangle of thick ropes and in the folds of tanned, canvas sails.  The wooden banisters were worn smooth and I couldn't help but run my hands over those edges again and again.  I barely knew what to look at next: the blue sky, the bluer sea, the green and brown railings, the multitude of metal reels and pulleys, the rugged captain, the boyishly handsome deck hands...

We hadn't even set off on our voyage and I was already lamenting our return.

In my mind, I expected Captain Jack Sparrow to emerge from the lower level, shouting orders and swigging on a bottle of rum.  Or maybe Davey Jones with those slippery tentacles and that lobster claw would appear at the large wheel and terrify us with that maniacal laugh.  But this is just how my mind works... an overactive imagination combined with an affectionate soft spot for the "Pirates of the Caribbean" series.

We set sail for the Spanish Waters out of Jan Thiel.  This was only the second time I'd been on a ship with sails and I was enamored with the crispness of them, the way they puffed and pulled as the wind pushed up against them.  Everything around me felt more intense.  The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and I could feel both simultaneously on my skin.  The strangest sensation grew within me: I was calm... I was happy.  

The blue water crashed against the wooden hull.  I listened.  It sounded like Mother Ocean was playfully shushing us.  My sister and I talked and laughed, exchanging grins and happy glances. We looked over at our mother and she was smiling back at us.  I knew I was living in a moment that I would remember forever.  We were sailing and I swear I felt as free as the wide open sky above me.  

We passed by the rock quarry. The abandoned quarantine house on the cliff.  An old fort. The captain recounted the various histories.  I was spellbound.

Lunch was amazing: chicken satay with a divine peanut sauce, fresh fruit, sweet rolls, and as much rum and beer as we could put away.  Not too long after our bellies groaned from the feast, the captain announced we were headed for the sunken tugboat for snorkeling.  I remember passing on that last round of Amstel Brights for fear I'd drown from too much beer and chicken and sheer delight.

When the captain dropped anchor, I grabbed my snorkeling gear and headed towards the side of the boat.  The choice was to use a little rope ladder or jump.  Well, that wasn't much of a choice, really.  I leapt.  Down, down, down... in!  As I popped my head back above water, I looked up at the newest love of my life, The Bounty, with her tall wooden masts, brown against a blue sky, those crisp sails, and her green and gray-white sides gleaming brightly in the island sunshine.  Stunning and beautiful.  

She stole my heart.  And, given the opportunity, I would have gladly left my entire life behind to become a pirate. 

I imagined life aboard a ship, overly romanticized, of course.  A life at sea.  Vast open spaces.  Watching the sun emerge from the ocean in the morning only to sink below again at the end of the day. Starry nights.  A brilliant full moon, reflections breaking over the waves.  Storms in which thunder rattles the wooden deck while lightning cracks and sizzles overhead.  Hard work.  Calluses.  Salt.  Sunburn.  Sea legs.  And, what the Bounty represented most, freedom.

Once we were all in the water, we swam towards the sunken tugboat.  As I peered through my mask, my heart literally stopped as I heard the "Jaws" theme play in my head.  The vast blue sea was endless in front of me.  The long line of the anchor and the wide hull of the Bounty looked small against the big backdrop of the ocean... and I just knew it was a matter of time before something wild emerged from the depths.  (Again, too many movies.)

I turned my attention towards the sunken tugboat.  Thousands and thousands of tropical fish of every possible shape, size, and color emerged into my field of vision.  Slowly and carefully, we floated among them.  I dove down and admired the rainbow of an ecosystem unfolding in front of me - coral formations, sea anemones, urchins, and fish set against a cyan sea.  Instead of being a pirate, I temporarily considered growing gills and a tail like a mermaid.  

Inevitably, we had to return to the ship.  This time, I had to use the rope ladder to return to the deck.  We toweled off and grabbed a round of cold beers.  The wind pushed into the sails and the would-be pirate ship began another graceful journey.  I leaned back against the smooth wooden railing, taking in that warm, Caribbean sun.  The journey was breathtaking and I cannot remember many other moments in my life that felt so absolutely perfect. 

Like a fish in the sea or a bird in the sky, I was sailing and I was free.

Our Notie Girl

A year ago today, I lost a lady that I adored as much as my natural grandmothers. Notie Bunch lived to the tender age of 97 and she was one of the most amazing women I've ever met.  A preacher's wife with a penchant for wine and dirty jokes: she was exactly who I want to be if and when I find my silver days.  She loved with a heart as wide as the open spaces between her heaven and this world. The very last time I saw her, she gave me an incredible gift, one of my young life's greatest lessons.

Notie was born in South Carolina and lived in Virginia and on the Eastern Shore of Maryland so naturally, she retained that sweet, southern accent to prove her roots.  Her voice was unmistakable.  When she called your name, you couldn't help but go running.  I loved to listen to her tell stories about growing up.  She was one of the only people I ever knew who actually used a Ford Model T car as a primary means of transportation and I was enamored with the story she used to tell about going out with her father to crank it up.  Literally.  Crank the car engine.  (As a child of the technology generation, this intrigues and baffles my electronically-inclined brain.)

She grew up, married a handsome young preacher named Harry Bunch, and had four children.  Photos of Harry and Notie from the 40s and 50s reveal a young couple that could have played in any number of Hollywood movies.  Harry's square jaw, dark hair, and deep eyes to Notie's coy smile, fashionable dresses, and slender figure.  When I said to her that I thought he was a good looking fellow, she grinned and quickly replied, "You bet he was!"  More than life itself, she adored that preacher man.

Together, they had two boys and two girls.  Their youngest daughter, Ginger, is my mother's best friend.  I have known Ginger for years and years, but it feels like she and her family have been in my life since the very beginning.  Maybe that's just how old souls work.  We felt like family (still do) and now I realize that's because we chose to be family.  

I have always known that we can learn a great deal from the older folks around us if we just stop and listen to them.  Notie was no different.  Once, out of sheer curiosity, I asked her who was the first President that she could remember.  Her answer: "Well," in that adorable drawl, "I think it was Coolidge!"  (Side note: Calvin Coolidge was our 30th President who served from 1923-1929.)  But her age was always just a number because I have never met a young person with half the zest for life that she held.  Even at 94, my Notie girl, as I affectionately called her, did shots of tequila with me on my 28th birthday.  The idea was jokingly suggested, but Notie piped up and said that for me, she'd do anything.  Stunned, I asked her if she really wanted to do that - I mean, tequila? At her age?  But she never batted an eye.  We poured the salt, shot the Cuervo, and bit the limes. I never took my eyes off of her. And, when we were done, she tossed her head back and laughed as everyone at my birthday party was caught up in an absolute state of shock, disbelief, awe, and hysterics.  She was like a little kid at Christmas.  She was bigger than life.

And there a thousand more stories just like it.  That was our Notie.  We adored her but not as much as she adored us.

She lived for years with Ginger and her husband, Gary.  But as Notie started to worsen and decline physically over the year, she was moved to a nursing home.  It was a decision that everyone dreaded but ultimately knew was coming.

Make no mistake: Notie continued to be the life of the party even there.  She always took the seat at the head of the table in the dining room so she could keep tabs on all her friends.  Her friends included a woman who chewed on a cell phone, another lady who constantly cradled a baby doll, a woman with part-time dementia, and a lady who was never without a tiara. Notie was the most lucid and so naturally she was their leader.  And after dinner, she would sneak a sip or two of wine that Ginger brought for her... with a doctor's prescription, of course.  She loved visitors and took great delight in regaling us with stories, which were usually a mash up of something old, something new, something a little smutty, and always something funny.

But each visit, our Notie got a little more frail, a little weaker.  Then, one afternoon in January of last year, I got a call from my mother.  Notie was in the hospital.  This was mostly likely her time and, if I wanted, I could come say good-bye.  I swallowed hard against the lump that was forming in the back of my throat.  I said I was on my way.

In the hospital bed, surrounded by blankets and beeping machines, my Notie girl looked so small.  I hugged and kissed Ginger, Gary, and my mother.  Go see her, they said.  They were smiling and crying.  I walked over to the bed and bent down to her so we could be as close as possible.  She was wide awake and as soon as we came eye to eye, the biggest smile broadened across her face. I reached down and found her hand.  And she said, in the strongest of whispers, "I love, love, love, love you."

"I love you too, Notie."

"I'm going home."

I pushed my forehead to hers so she couldn't see me cry, "I know."

And from there, we exchanged our whispered good-bye.  I stroked her forehead and ran my fingers through her snow white hair.  She never stopped smiling and I was so completely awe struck by her calm nature.  She wasn't afraid.  No, she was happy.  When I looked down at her again, all I could see was that my Notie was filled with serenity and peace.  How could I want anything else for her?

So, I gently squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead.  "Good-bye, Notie girl." And with that, I let go.  She passed a few days later.

But in my very last moment with her, Notie taught me something valuable - a lesson I will cherish.  I always knew I had a lot to learn from her, and at the end, I had to listen extra carefully, but I got it.  She was giving us the gift of letting go.  Notie understood where we were and she gave us the only thing she had left - peace.  I will never forget what it was like to see her that way: smiling, serene, and happy while living through the minutes of her last hours.  She wanted us to have the very best parts of her and we do... alive and well in our hearts and in our minds.

There is a great deal that the living can learn from the dying.  This is what I know now.  For Notie, it wasn't about the end or the sadness or the grief.  No, none of those parts.  It wasn't about the dying.  

It was about the living.

Lessons From Sky Buzzin'

Yesterday afternoon, I parked at the end of Runway 1-4 and opened the sunroof.  Even though it's January, the temperature was nearly 55 degrees.  My old yellow dog was curled up in the passenger seat.  I fiddled with the radio until I found something good.  I laid back in my seat and gazed up.  A small plane buzzed by and I watched it descend and land with a slight skip. I turned my eyes towards the circling skies just above and smiled. 

* * * 

My father was endlessly fascinated with aviation and always itched for the open skies.  At our house, on a clear night, you could see the alternating green and white directional light from the local airport flashing over the treetops in our backyard.  He talked about learning to fly often and my mother encouraged him to go take lessons.  When I was six, he finally got his private pilot's license - one of his proudest moments.

Within a few months, once he built up his confidence and experience, he started taking me up.  He said he needed a co-pilot.  He flew a modified Cessna 172: it was white with gray and blue stripes and lettering.  The call numbers on the tail contained "zero nine three echo" - I remember this because of the way we had to call into the tower when we were in motion.  The inside was snug and made of a sand-colored canvas and cloth.  I was small so I couldn't see over the instrument panel in front of me, leaving me to strain to see out of my small side window.  I remember twisting against the seatbelts every time in an effort to widen my view.

Every single time, my father performed an impeccably responsible and thorough pre-flight check and balance. My father, under normal circumstances was a bit of a silly, gregarious man, but as a pilot, he was intensely focused and serious. He taught me how to check the fuel, which quickly became my favorite thing to do.  I was not incredibly mechanically inclined, but crawling up under that wing and using the sample tool made me feel competent and important.  He told me to make sure the fuel was clear and without any odd coloring or particles and so I would hold the vial up to the sun, checking it from every angle like a chemist working on an important discovery.  I walked around the body of the plane, sliding my hands along the metal sides and bumpy rivets.  If I saw any ding or scratch, I was sure to call out to him so he could give it a good double-check. 

Flying is part math and part poetry.  In the air, he explained to me what each single instrument did: altitude, air speed, attitude, directional indicator, and on and on.  I was always annoyed by the calculations but quickly realized that, despite my overall disdain for math, it was the numbers and equations and rules that were keeping us aloft and thereby keeping us alive.  I learned to appreciate math, albeit temporarily.  The poetry comes when you look out the window and see the world below look as differently as it ever has before.  I especially loved the flights over the ocean.  There was something magical about watching the brown and green earth below me dissolve into a blue hue... and looking out to see the blue sky and the blue ocean terminating in a thin, perfect line.  As we flew along the coast, I could make out the familiar landmarks: the inlet, Trimper's Amusement park, the boardwalk, the fishing pier, and the assortment of big hotels.  His fascination became my own: it's a wondrous and thrilling perspective.  And it makes you see everything with reborn eyes.

Once, he took my sister and I on a night flight over the ocean.  When the lights of the beach town faded behind us, the black abyss stretched out like the universe.  As he tipped the wings into the darkness, my belly dropped and it simply delighted me. My sister had trouble with the air pressure on her ears and spent the entire trip laying in my lap in the backseat of the plane.  But I was enamored with it.  I stared out and up... I always wanted to be an astronaut. I mean, how daring and adventurous it would be to leave the planet and be weightless among the stars! What could that feel like?  Would your belly ever stop flip-flopping?  Wouldn't your brain be permanently drenched in adrenaline?  It seemed like a glorious, wild ride!  But once I learned that my nemesis and its sidekick - math and science - were required in copious amounts, I left that preoccupation behind. But, I had these moments... sky buzzin' (as he called it) with my father and that was close enough for me.

And so, in those early years of my life, I learned to turn my eyes up.  I watched planes.  Wide open skies.  Circling above.  I even made up a game of choosing destinations for the planes I saw in the sky.  Try it: the next time you find yourself outside... on the beach, in a park, in your front yard, watching a meteor shower... just kick back, look up, and wait. When you see a plane cross overhead, imagine where it's going and always go with your first instinct. (Oddly, a lot of my planes are headed for Miami, Florida or Bangor, Maine.)

If we couldn’t go up, then he would take me to the airport anyway. Inside the small building at Bayland Aviation, there was an old Coke vending machine in the back where only the pilots could go and he’d buy us a couple of Cherry Cokes or Mello Yellows and we ride out to the end of Runway 5 and sit.  There was a particular spot, right off Fooks Road, where the fields and forests gave way to an expanse of asphalt.  He’d kill the engine and we’d listen for that familiar mechanical hum overhead.  In those moments, he’d ramble on about the workings of a Dash-8 or the differences between this jet and that one or about how a plane from Easton crashed at this airport  on the night before he did his first solo. I gazed out the windows and let my imagination run: who were the passengers?  Where had they been?  More importantly, where were they going?  I made up little stories about business men coming in to sell alarm systems or medical equipment or an old lady headed to North Carolina to visit her sister one last time.  The pilot  who was going to propose to his lovely girlfriend as soon as he got back from this trip.  The blonde flight attendant who dreamed of being an actress on a soap opera.  My mind ran on and on.  So, I never minded the quiet or the chatter, the mechanical hum or the buzz of the insects in the field grasses around us.  And in those moments, I appreciated the ability to sit still. Listen. Daydream. 

No matter how old I get, I always find comfort at the airport or at the end of a runway. I remember those old days with my father. I remember learning to embrace new horizons and perspectives, to appreciate the things I understood easily and the things I could not, to listen and let my mind wander a bit.  I remember that I learned to not be afraid.  

And those are lessons I should remember a little more often...

Free

I stole this idea from my friend, Ashley, a reporter for the AP and fellow word nerd.  Each year, she chooses a word to represent what she wants and needs, what she hopes for in the coming months. It's part mantra, part prayer, and part touchstone. On Christmas Eve, over cookies and ginger tea, she invited me to think it over.  A new year in a single word.

The whole idea intrigued me: I've never been good at following any of the countless and pointless resolutions I've made.  They are a series of broken or forgotten promises made to myself or the universe or to no one in particular.  By the dawn of spring, I'd barely even remember them.  So, her idea stuck with me: instead of a resolution, maybe I could just pick a defining word and see how it goes. After careful thought, I have chosen my word.

Free.

2011 was a monster and it nearly ate me alive. I escaped, somehow, but my wounds have barely healed.  My heart was broken; my skin was burned.  My mind was stretched and torn in a manner that I haven't felt in recent history.  (But, then again, show me a writer that wasn't a bit tattered around the edges.  Sometimes, I think writers are destined for these sorts of bouts of agony... lest we forget how to bleed on the page.)  But, all of the hurt is a thick chain wound around me.  And I know that I am the only one who can undo the binding.  I have to choose to set myself free in the months ahead.  

Free.

Where I once longed for the blue horizon, I am now walking towards it and I can feel my body breaking into a run.  I cannot allow my fears and my worries to keep me rooted in quicksand any longer.  Life is much too short for that.  I have to believe anything is possible now - I have to believe I can find a quiet peace within myself.  Maybe, as long as I can embrace this second chance, just maybe I will finally become the best version of myself.

Free.

These days and months ahead, my eyes will be clearer.  My heart will mend.  I will walk in the sun.  Alone or in a crowd, I will not get lost anymore.  Stronger, faster, happier, and centered: this year, I will be free to be me.