The only time the natural light of the sun appears is through the large glass window in front and the skylight in back. Beyond that, it’s all soft light baby, with low lit bar lamps and candles at the tables. You may not have come to Mother’s to eat, but you certainly come to drink.
For years now, Mother’s has been the trendy little restaurant on near Allentown that everybody went to. People liked going to Mother’s to be sure, but it was more of that grand pronouncement, “I’m going to Mother’s,” that was the phrase of self-superiority and snobbishness. People wanted to be seen at Mother’s to let everybody else know that they were important. It was like a secret handshake to get into the club, especially if you couldn’t afford the membership rates at the Buffalo Club a block away.
It sounds amazing that a “trendy” social spot would stay that way for years, but really, the crowds just changed when the young professionals moved on to other trendy places (or that trendy institution family that gets all the play these days), while the politicians and asskissing elite moved in.
After a self-imposed sabbatical of several years, Julie and I returned to Mother’s Friday night for a few cocktails with friends. When I regularly went to Mother’s years ago, it didn’t get that crowded until 7 or 8 p.m., usually when people came in for dinner. Now, the prime real estate at the bar is occupied by 5 p.m. The bar opens at 4, for Pete’s sake.
While we were waiting for our other friends to come, the tendency to eavesdrop was extraordinarily difficult to resist. So we didn’t. Our prey that day was a group of older, well-coifed city workers that would namedrop like they were tossing little anvils around to make a point.
“Byron!” KLANG. “Rocco’s son-in-law!” KLANG. “Do I need to talk to Frank Clark about you?” THREATENING KLANG! “Peter Cutler!” KLANG … ow, my foot!
It’s so nice to see all these city workers on a first-name basis with the leadership, but apparently not so friendly that the same leaders would hang out with them.
The really creepy part of this whole scene was how vaguely incestuous all this was. When we got there, two older men were talking to two women who appeared to be in their late 30s, maybe early 40s. Besides awful ice breakers these guys were lobbing their way, like “So is it difficult to deal with sexual harassment?” (Hello, Sonny Crocket!), the strange moment came when one of the ladies gave her phone number to one of the guys, who was married with a ring. Not only did this tall brunette give her number, she gave her business card and wrote on the back her home and cell phone numbers. This woman clearly wants a call back.
Minutes later, her assumed boyfriend walks in the door after a round of golf, and the brunette is all over him now. This is not a situation that was limited to her … as more men and women from the city came in, they were all hugging and touching each other. Most were flirting with each other. Hey, something for the water cooler on Monday morning, right?
Of course, it wasn’t that long ago when I was one of these wanna-be pretentious douchebags that would talk about how influential they are at the office while talking to members of the opposite sex (or in some cases, the same sex). Oh, don’t get me wrong, there are still some of those traits remaining in me at times, but I’ve downgraded my “wanna-be” status to “like to be.”
Back in those days, I was 25, and the whole world was in front of me. My little crew would meet up at Mother’s every Friday afternoon for drinks. The use of afternoon is key in this case, as we’d frequently open the place up at 4 p.m. A few drinks were poured, (or in my one friend’s case, opened), and we’d talk about the week’s events … commenting on how naïve people can be, trash whatever trend was going on at that point, live up to our anti-authoritative stance. Not unlike the people we were watching Friday, we were this tight little group of cynics that occasionally grew incestuous, adding to the drama. We’re still hanging out with most of the same crew, but now there’s 30 percent less incestuous drama. At 25, we saw all the angles. We were young, we were smart, and we sure as hell we’re going to let anybody tell us what to do.
We were drunk. We were dicks.
It seems ridiculous to think that life can change so much in five years, but here I am at 30, and everybody I know looks at things in a different way now. At 25, you’re invincible and ready to change the world. At 30, you more than likely dealt with some, if not all, of these things: Marriage. Divorce. Birth. Death. Layoffs. Illness. Fidelity. Infidelity. The Mortgage. Plumbing. The decision to buy beer for a night, or fruits and vegetables for the week. Debt (or, at least, the realization you won’t be out of debt for a while). Life Insurance. Accountants. 401Ks. “If I increase my weekly deposit by $5, I should retire with $1.5 million, based on the current rate of return!” Pampered Chef parties.
All of these things change your perspective on life and how you live your life. It’s not to say that we were suddenly endowed with magnificent culmination of all wisdom, but I’d like to think that we’re a little bit smarter than we were before. We also have a little more compassion for the struggles we all go through.
There’s still some of the 25-year-old in me, the one that is cynical, untrusting of anybody over 30 and ready to change the world. Well, I’m going to be 31 in a few months, so a third of that plan is already out the window. But while I’ve adjusted my motivations, I would still like to change the world in some fashion, so that’s when I bring out the 25-year-old in me, to remind me of where I came from and where I would like to go. This time, I’ll manage that young punk better.
That’s why I still like going to my old haunts like Mother’s every once in a while. These moments will not only bring back memories, but also serve as a reminder of why you moved on. When my friends got to Mother’s, we went over to Prespa on Delaware, and I can’t wait until that becomes the new place to be seen.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
For my Dad
For those of you who keep our family in your prayers, please remember to also pray that when we do see each other again, no offering will be required and the formal wear will be optional.
During extraordinary times, I often turn to music, and these words from the Beatles feel particularly appropriate to express how I’ve felt these past two weeks. “Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box; they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind, possessing and caressing me.”
For those who did not know him, Henry Ciemcioch was a friend, a colleague, a partner, a Godfather, a uncle, a son, a brother, a father, a husband. No matter what relationship he had with another person, he not only met expectations, he exceeded them in every way possible.
Henry was a man of patience and pride; patience to help others in times of need, patience to not react negatively when something bothered him, patience to let the ones he loved find their way in the world. He was a proud man as well; proud to have served in the United States army, proud of the fact he taught himself how to do new things; proud of the work he did at the Post Office and the record he established there. Even yesterday, he was awarded a shirt from the Post Office for his achievements, and it now lies with him. Henry was proud of the job he did, and from all accounts, they were proud of him.
But for Henry, there was nothing in his life he was prouder of than his family. From my mother Krystyna to myself to my new bride Julie, whom he happily referred to on our wedding day as, “Mrs. Ciemcioch.”
He was also a man of great humor. When I was a child, I found a book in the house he presumably authored entitled, “All I Know About Sex.” When I opened the book, all the pages were blank. It took me a long time to get that one.
Even in sickness, his humor remained intact. After surviving esophageal cancer and losing 70 pounds, he often remarked about how excited he was to write a new diet book for the masses.
For me personally, I could not ask for a better father. From the day I was born, he not only looked out for me, he took a personal interest in what I did. Beginning with Star Wars and Superman, my father introduced me to a lifelong fascination about movies. He would occasionally pull me out of school for what he termed “quality time,” which meant a hot dog lunch at Ted’s and an afternoon at the theater. It was a tradition we continued to this day, and thankfully, I married a woman that enjoys those days herself.
Henry also opened the door to a world of heroes when he started buying me comic books when I was younger. As I followed the adventures of these larger than life heroes, wondering how Batman would solve the case or how the Fantastic Four would escape the clutches of the dreaded Dr. Doom, he would read them along with me. His favorite of this colorful bunch was Superman, and he always lit up whenever I brought him over a new batch of books. But for me, my father was always the real Man of Steel. In a world of war and violence, poverty and famine, my father taught me that the fight for a better way is always worth fighting. He made me believe in heroes, because he was one himself.
Although I was not present at my father’s passing, I have no regrets. In these times of pain, you always wish for one last conversation, but I now remember my wedding day, when I went to his bedside. We said everything we needed to say.
Instead, I was in Italy, the center of the Catholic universe. And no matter how you personally feel about talking to higher beings and various methods you may go about it, one thing is very clear; if there’s any place on this planet that had a broadband connection to the big guy in charge, it’s the Vatican.
On Monday, I took a few hours that afternoon to go to the Vatican by myself to think about the twists and turns life has shown me. As I walked around the majestic St. Peter’s Basilica, reflecting upon my father’s life, the strain began to ease. The burden began to lift. And I couldn’t help but be filled with one simple feeling, “It’s going to be OK.”
How appropriate that I was reminded two days later by my mother that my father always said in times of trouble, “Don’t worry, it’s OK.”
It is my father’s sentiment that I express to you all now, don’t worry about us; we’re going to be OK. For those of you who curse the timing of such matters, remember there is no good time for death. Remember during the sorrow and tears, there is also great joy and respect for a life fully lived. Remember that while we lost one family member, we have gained another. Remember that for all the struggles Henry has endured in recent years, he is now at peace. In the ebb and flow of fate, our family has endured much, but we continue to stand tall, together, for remember that if this is indeed our darkest hour, the light will come soon if we just hold on. As the Beatles also noted, “there will be an answer … let it be.”
So while we pause to mourn my father, let us also remember the wonderful memories we shared with him and the impact he had on our lives. My father and me often annoyed my mother by repeatedly saying “Hi Dad” “Hi Mark” endlessly, but now is the time to say, “Bye Dad.” You will be missed, but you will always be loved.
During extraordinary times, I often turn to music, and these words from the Beatles feel particularly appropriate to express how I’ve felt these past two weeks. “Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box; they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind, possessing and caressing me.”
For those who did not know him, Henry Ciemcioch was a friend, a colleague, a partner, a Godfather, a uncle, a son, a brother, a father, a husband. No matter what relationship he had with another person, he not only met expectations, he exceeded them in every way possible.
Henry was a man of patience and pride; patience to help others in times of need, patience to not react negatively when something bothered him, patience to let the ones he loved find their way in the world. He was a proud man as well; proud to have served in the United States army, proud of the fact he taught himself how to do new things; proud of the work he did at the Post Office and the record he established there. Even yesterday, he was awarded a shirt from the Post Office for his achievements, and it now lies with him. Henry was proud of the job he did, and from all accounts, they were proud of him.
But for Henry, there was nothing in his life he was prouder of than his family. From my mother Krystyna to myself to my new bride Julie, whom he happily referred to on our wedding day as, “Mrs. Ciemcioch.”
He was also a man of great humor. When I was a child, I found a book in the house he presumably authored entitled, “All I Know About Sex.” When I opened the book, all the pages were blank. It took me a long time to get that one.
Even in sickness, his humor remained intact. After surviving esophageal cancer and losing 70 pounds, he often remarked about how excited he was to write a new diet book for the masses.
For me personally, I could not ask for a better father. From the day I was born, he not only looked out for me, he took a personal interest in what I did. Beginning with Star Wars and Superman, my father introduced me to a lifelong fascination about movies. He would occasionally pull me out of school for what he termed “quality time,” which meant a hot dog lunch at Ted’s and an afternoon at the theater. It was a tradition we continued to this day, and thankfully, I married a woman that enjoys those days herself.
Henry also opened the door to a world of heroes when he started buying me comic books when I was younger. As I followed the adventures of these larger than life heroes, wondering how Batman would solve the case or how the Fantastic Four would escape the clutches of the dreaded Dr. Doom, he would read them along with me. His favorite of this colorful bunch was Superman, and he always lit up whenever I brought him over a new batch of books. But for me, my father was always the real Man of Steel. In a world of war and violence, poverty and famine, my father taught me that the fight for a better way is always worth fighting. He made me believe in heroes, because he was one himself.
Although I was not present at my father’s passing, I have no regrets. In these times of pain, you always wish for one last conversation, but I now remember my wedding day, when I went to his bedside. We said everything we needed to say.
Instead, I was in Italy, the center of the Catholic universe. And no matter how you personally feel about talking to higher beings and various methods you may go about it, one thing is very clear; if there’s any place on this planet that had a broadband connection to the big guy in charge, it’s the Vatican.
On Monday, I took a few hours that afternoon to go to the Vatican by myself to think about the twists and turns life has shown me. As I walked around the majestic St. Peter’s Basilica, reflecting upon my father’s life, the strain began to ease. The burden began to lift. And I couldn’t help but be filled with one simple feeling, “It’s going to be OK.”
How appropriate that I was reminded two days later by my mother that my father always said in times of trouble, “Don’t worry, it’s OK.”
It is my father’s sentiment that I express to you all now, don’t worry about us; we’re going to be OK. For those of you who curse the timing of such matters, remember there is no good time for death. Remember during the sorrow and tears, there is also great joy and respect for a life fully lived. Remember that while we lost one family member, we have gained another. Remember that for all the struggles Henry has endured in recent years, he is now at peace. In the ebb and flow of fate, our family has endured much, but we continue to stand tall, together, for remember that if this is indeed our darkest hour, the light will come soon if we just hold on. As the Beatles also noted, “there will be an answer … let it be.”
So while we pause to mourn my father, let us also remember the wonderful memories we shared with him and the impact he had on our lives. My father and me often annoyed my mother by repeatedly saying “Hi Dad” “Hi Mark” endlessly, but now is the time to say, “Bye Dad.” You will be missed, but you will always be loved.
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