I Cried For a Mile 

By John R. Greenwood 

 

It’s June 15, 2026. Today would have been our 52nd wedding anniversary. We came up a couple of months short. It’s 8am and a perfect spring morning, just like it was 52 years ago. 

I’ll visit the cemetery later; at the moment, I need to clear my head. The best way I know to do that is to lace up my ASICS and go for a walk. 

I’m most comfortable walking the one-mile pathway that runs the perimeter of the Wilton Town Park. It’s quiet and a stone’s throw from my back door. I could walk to the park, but the traffic at 8am on a weekday is chaotic at best. Too many cell phone addicts late for work make it more like Russian Roulette. 

When I pulled into the parking lot, the first thing I noticed was the four 53’ trailers filled with amusement rides for Wilton’s upcoming Parkfest. Normally, that would bring a smile to my face, but I wasn’t in a “Parkfestive” mood today. 

I popped my earbuds in and pulled up the music library on my phone. At some point, and I’m not sure how or when, Patricia’s music migrated to my phone. This morning, I decided to simply shuffle all of our songs and start walking. From the first steps, I began to feel someone's presence. The only living thing in sight was a flitting mockingbird. For anyone else, that wouldn’t be story material, but for me, it’s worth sharing. Ever since my mother passed away, any sighting or sound of a mockingbird is followed by a sense that everything will be okay and that I need to pay attention. Something good always shows up in the hours or days ahead, so I have to keep my senses tuned so I don’t miss it. Not twenty yards later, a song I’ve never heard begins to play. It’s Natalie Merchant singing “Maggie and Milly and Molly and May.” Natalie’s voice and the lyrics catch me off guard. I am immediately overcome with emotion, and my eyes fill with tears. I start sobbing uncontrollably. The words, the melody, the sweetness of it all fill me with sorrow and a sense of loss. At the same time, I have the sensation that my wife is there, watching over me and assuring me that those I love are always with me. I replay the song, and I continue bawling like a child. I have to stop and sit on a bench to gather myself. I put my head in my hands, and the music keeps flowing along with the tears. 

The handkerchief in my left rear pocket, a sure sign that I receive a Social Security deposit every month, is about to earn its keep. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and restart my walk. Next song, again one of Pat’s, Loreena McKennitt’s soulful sound oozes out and fills me with something unexplainable. It’s like I’m being escorted around the walking path by angels. More sobbing, I can’t control it. The days and weeks of the past two months have caught up to me, and the floodgates have been opened. I keep walking, wiping, sniffling, gulping for air. Every time I catch my breath, another song hits me like a freight train. I’m almost back to my truck and still trying to pull myself together. There are people around, but none of them see the old man blubbering like a frightened toddler. Finally, I’m back in the driver’s seat, and I begin to focus on what has just happened. All those years together, taking care of each other, caught up to me. The sick kids, the past due bills, the broken cars, the laughs, the projects, the good and the bad, all ganged up on me when that one song played. Now what? 

Familiarity is what I need. I go through the drive-thru and order her go-to order. Large hot hazelnut, just cream. A turkey sausage, egg, and cheese on an English muffin, and 6 nickel-sized hash browns . Even at 89lbs, the poor thing still chose the turkey sausage. I took it home and sat in the backyard. That’s what I’ll do today: I’ll visit our regular spots from the last few years. Later, I’d stop at the Awesome Dogs food wagon on Excelsior Ave. and have Pat’s favorites. A plain hot dog, chips, and a Diet Pepsi. Oh, don’t forget to grab a homemade brownie for later. 

On to the cemetery to water and check the flowers. Mr. Zito and I always seem to visit our wives at the same time. He waters any dry flowers in the nearby rows. We arrive simultaneously again today. It’ll be one year in August for him, month three for me. 

I head back home. I feel better. My sons touch base to wish me a happy anniversary. It’s hard for them. They don’t know what to say. Being there is enough. They will bitch about work and the kids, then make me laugh. They’re good fathers, good providers, and comedians too. Their mother did a good job raising all three of us. We didn’t see it at the time, but we all know she kept us in check, kept us alive, and wasn’t afraid to be the bad guy to make that happen. 

I cried for a mile today, and I’ll probably cry a few more in the weeks and months ahead. More than tears of sorrow, they were tears of gratitude and love. 

*Postscript

When I finally landed at the end of the day, I grabbed my phone and began to look deeper into Natalie Merchant’s rendition of “Maggie and Milly and Molly and May.” I was surprised to learn that the lyrics were from an E. E. Cummings poem of the same name. I was not surprised at the effect the combination of Natalie’s voice and the touching lyrics had on me. It was the last line that will linger in my head forever.

     “For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) 

it’s always ourselves 

that we find in the sea”  

 -e.e. cummings

Waiting For Agnes

Waiting For Agnes 

By John R. Greenwood 

a pound of ground beef she says

I’ll only be a minute

who’s she kidding

its been twenty

in dog minutes

no less 

wag more 

bark less 

she says

naw on a bone

watch the squirrels 

I’ll be right back 

she says

all you do is growl

these days

we never romp anymore

I miss you nipping 

at my ear

she says

the puppies are grown

they’re on their own

the backyard’s empty

we could dig deep holes 

and howl till 

the neighbors 

come home

she says

with all my training 

you’d think 

I would have

 learned by now

she’s right 

I think I’ll go inside

fetch her the biggest 

box of Milk-Bone’s

and a new pink collar

one with sparkles

our puppy-love 

has endured 

fleas

cat scratches

porcupine quills

and kennel cough

forty-nine years in June

human years

doggone good years

pee-on-the-rug-happy years

dog

I love that bitch 

Bury The Skunk
By John R. Greenwood 

Bury the skunk is not a title you’d normally attach to a nostalgic Christmas story, but then again, normal is a word that doesn’t seem to fit anything these days. Using Christmas story to describe it is also a stretch. A better explanation is that I found this little note just a few days before Christmas 2021. I was straightening up my tool bench when I opened an old tobacco tin filled with my father’s memorabilia. The note above was folded in half and tucked in the bottom. As I unfolded it I was reminded of the day I found it under my windshield wiper at work. I had probably just returned from a twelve hour day delivering a tractor trailer full of Stewart’s product somewhere in the far reaches of New York State. I was in my forties and probably looking like they say, “rode hard and put away wet.” Dad’s health was not great at the time. He could still drive and mow the lawn on his John Deere riding mower, but digging a hole to bury a deceased yard-skunk was not something he could manage. By this point in his life he’d  realized some tasks were best left to his dutiful son. By this point in my life, I’d realized it wasn’t worth questioning dad’s requests, you simply nodded and complied. That roof over my head for the first eighteen years didn’t pay for itself. 

I don’t remember the details of the skunks demise or the funeral proceedings, but I do remember why I saved this little scrap of paper. I saved it for moments like this. Those little pauses in life where you reflect on all the tiny scraps that combined to make a life worth living. The simple joys, the tearful losses, the cherished memories that weaved a giant patchwork quilt bursting with good people and laughter. The pauses you hold dear to your heart. The ‘bury the skunk’ notes and the Pharaoh Lake fishing trips. I miss my parents. I even miss the not-so-great times that were mixed in the middle. Those are the ones that help you embrace the isn’t-life-grand moments.

I’ve been a lucky man. My Christmas shows up 24/7/365 in all shapes and sizes. As I placed dad’s little note back in the bottom of the tobacco tin I realized that sometimes burying a skunk can smell like a bed of roses.

Merry Christmas.
May your 2022 be filled with notes of joy!

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

By John R. Greenwood 

I want to share a father/son moment that took place in 1968. I was thirteen and had saved enough money for a new bicycle. I bought my Raleigh Rodeo 3+2 at Globe Supply(presently Soave Faire) on Broadway in Saratoga Springs. It was a stingray bike styled like the muscle cars of that era. It had a Hurst-like, 3-speed shifter on the frame in front of the seat. Next to it was a smaller shift knob, which gave you two more pedaling speeds. It was gold in color and my pride and joy. I parked it on its kickstand every night in the garage. Saturday mornings, while dad washed our International Scout, I would wash my Raleigh next to him.

My father instilled the importance of taking care of your things. The better the care, the longer they will last. I came up short a few times because I remember being on the receiving end of "That Look" after I misplaced or broke one of his tools. Parents hope that if a child buys something with their own money, they will take better care of it. Hope is just that. The chances of your child having the conscientious-trait is a crapshoot. Some get it; some don't. Most kids fall somewhere in between. I probably leaned more to the caring side because I feared "That Look" worse than a kick in the shins. 

In the 1960s, it was popular to ride your friends on the handlebars. They would rest their feet precariously on the small bit of threaded axle sticking out from the front tire. The other option was to let your legs swing free, which was much more difficult for both rider and the one pedaling the bike. It was also an excellent way to get run over by a car. My father was adamant that I do not try this with my bike or with anyone else's. I was a compliant son, and I was also much too afraid of my father to break that rule—that is until Glen came along. Glen was older, bigger, and wanted to get from point A to point B one day. He insisted that I provide a taxi service from the Greenfield General store to his friend Tom's house at the bottom of Cemetery Hill about a quarter-mile away. Glen was the Eddy Haskell of our neighborhood. He was an instigator and possessed a larger than life personality. He was the type of kid that could get you in trouble quicker than a wink, but at the same time, his presence helped you remember those events with overwhelming fondness. On this particular summer day in 1968, everything above fell into place.

Because Glen was too big to ride on my handlebars, he strong-armed me into the role of hood ornament. Boys at thirteen are about as coordinated as a giraffe on skates, and I was no exception. A few hundred feet up the road, my sneakers slipped off the axle bolts, and my toes got caught in the spokes. Glen, the Raleigh Rodeo, and I went ass over tea kettle. When the dust settled, a friendship and a brand new bike were in a bit of a pickle. I remember having to push my bike a mile back to my house, the whole time thinking about how mad my father was going to be. He would be upset about the bike, but even more so because I disobeyed him. The front wheel was a bent mess. The spokes had a pretzel quality to them. 

What do I do? 

You do what any red-blooded thirteen-year-old would do—cover it up! This virtual cover-up included an old blanket. Like a reprieve from the governor, it would buy me time to devise a brilliant scheme. The words "brilliant scheme" and "teenager" mix like oil and water. It did take a couple of days for my father to decipher why I was walking the mile up the road to the village versus riding my brand new $70 bike. Fathers are more observant than we think. My teenage sons learned this factoid about the same time their father did. 

"Why is there a blanket over your bicycle?"

Here's where you begin to weigh your options heavily. I didn't have enough time to concoct a viable lie. Even if I had (my wife will confirm this), I'm a terrible liar—especially if she or my father are involved. It was time to plead for mercy. 

"Um, I, I, well, uh, I messed up." (add tears here) 

Here's where parenthood takes a moment of silence. It's a silence that doesn't pay dividends until your grown children recognize the honesty you instilled in them. In my case, it took a couple of days and an eagle-eyed father to bring it to the surface, but it proved that honesty is the best policy no matter what the outcome. 

The following Saturday, dad loaded my Raleigh Rodeo, with the crumpled front wheel, into the back of our Scout. The two of us took it down to Globe Supply and dropped it off for repair. A week later, after putting several miles on my Converse, we returned to pick it up. I'm not sure who paid the bill, but my parental guts tell me it was the man whose "look" is all I ever needed. It was all that was necessary. 

Stories like this filled my teens and my life. 

Man, I miss my father. 

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch 
By John R. Greenwood

New switch on the lower left

This bandsaw is the first power tool my father taught me how to use. He used a lot of different tools to make a living, but when he was in his own garage/workshop, he enjoyed this *1945 Delta/Milwaukee 14 inch bandsaw. I was around ten when he first let me flip the switch and go solo. My father was firm when teaching me the dos and don'ts of anything with death or injury potential. Whether he was giving me instructions on the handling of a 30/30 Winchester or a 1940s bandsaw, I knew when he meant business. The word 'firm' may not be strong enough to describe dad's safety speeches. 



My first lessons on the Delta consisted of dad reaching over my shoulders and guiding my kid-hands with his heavily callused, blue-collar hands. Two fingers on his left hand held deep scars from a saw accident he'd had before I was born. He admitted that they were the result of carelessness. The apple didn't fall far because, in my early twenties, I earned the nickname, "Nine Fingers." We'll table that story for another episode. At first, I was only allowed to use the saw when dad was in the shop. My first build was probably a birdhouse. Once I proved I could be "fairly" responsible in the shop, I was shown where the key was, and as long as I asked, I could use it without supervision. I really enjoyed those quiet times building things. I loved using the bench vise and all the different hand tools. 

My father owned every tool imaginable. He also built a wall of shelves filled with Gerber Baby Food jars. The ones with the metal half-twist lids. Each jar was neatly marked and filled with every size nut, bolt, or screw ever made. If you needed it, it was there—somewhere. It wasn't a fancy shop, but it was functional.

Made in Milwaukee USA

With a year of retirement under my belt, I now have more time to tackle home improvement projects that have been neglected for years. Having the ability to visit places like Home Depot or my local hardware store during the week is a DIY'er's dream. Weekend visits are worse than Walmart on Black Friday. Now that Mrs. G. and I are at the tail end of our big projects, we have time to take on a few of those on the way, way, way back-burner. Today as I was rummaging around the cellar, I walked by dad's beloved bandsaw sitting neglected and cobweb-covered. I could hear my father preaching to me about taking care of my tools. It struck a chord. I decided to clean up the 75 year-old and take her for a spin.

I took my $30 Sears handcart and pulled the 300lb cast iron saw up out of the cellar, one cement step at a time. I'm not sure how I did it alone, but something tells me I wasn't. The old girl looked great in the June sunlight, but she needed a little sprucing up. She hadn't been out on a date in decades, so I grabbed a whiskbroom and some 3-In-One oil and got to work. The lead cord seemed okay, so I plugged her in. When I first flipped the switch, there was nothing but silence. I gave the belt a few turns by hand and wiggled the switch again. Suddenly like Rip Van Winkle (Goggle it kids) waking from his slumber, the electric motor began to moan and groan back to life. Another few hand-spins of the belt and the old Delta was singing once more. The sound of that old motor and spinning saw blade brought me back to dad's shop and the 1960s in an instant. The smell of pine sawdust, and that old musty shop filled the air. Best of all, I could hear my father breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe the kid finally gets it? It took a lifetime to grasp the impact of his lessons, but they all came flooding back like a tsunami. Cleaning up dad's old bandsaw had become a Father's Day gift I wasn't expecting. 

 

Work Light with old GE Bulb 

Once I had the saw cleaned up, it was time to try it out. I found an old piece of trim and flipped on the switch—nothing. I wiggled it a little, and as it snapped back to life, I suddenly remembered something. It had always been bad. It was 1968, and I could hear my father as clear as day saying, "I have to fix that switch someday." Well, dad, it's June 2020, today's the day! I ran back into the cellar and found a new one. It took less than five minutes to take something off a fifty-year to-do list. I'm sure I could detect a smile on the Delta/Milwaukee when I flipped her on this time. I'm guessing dad was smiling down too. It felt so good I even replaced the lead to the work light dad had mounted on the saw years ago.

Time to make a new key rack

I did leave the vintage socket and 60W GE light bulb intact as a reminder of days gone by. Bringing that 1945 saw back to life gave me more than good memories; it gave me the inspiration to tackle more long-overdue projects. I think the first one will be to use an old wooden pattern I saved from dad's shop. It's the cutout of a large key. You add hooks to it to hang your various keys on. My parents had one hanging in the kitchen for as long as I can remember. Dad had all the hooks marked with those plastic Label-Maker labels you made one letter, one squeeze at a time. The hook I remember most clearly was the one labeled "Shop." 

Happy Father's Day! 

Love,
John 


* Founded in 1919, DELTA Power Equipment Corporation is still in existance and making bandsaws. The 2020 version of this saw is not all that different than the 1945 version I own. I was able to verify the year of manufacture by calling Delta Machinery's 1-800 number with the serial number. I was surprised to learn it was 10 years older than I thought. 

Father's Day Happy

Father’s Day Happy

By John R. Greenwood

I think we have Father’s Day backwards. Fathers don’t need to be acknowledged on Father’s Day, they should be thanking their children for giving them the joy and fulfillment every man hopes for when raising a family. I was blessed twice and those two sons compounded that blessing by adding five grandsons to my life. Who should be thanking who? My sons are great fathers. They give their families their all. That is my reward for Father’s Day. Seeing the time and nourishment they both shower their sons with is about the most gratifying thing a man can hope for. I long for the days when I would take my sons with me on my milk route. I would let them put the milk on the shelves and bring the milk crates back to the truck. Their pay check came in the form of a handful of quarters for the Pac Man video games in the backrooms of the Mom and Pop grocery stores we stopped at. I miss the days when you could bribe them with a new Matchbox or a Happy Meal. I especially loved the days when I would give my wife a break by taking them to the park where they could ride their pedal tractors or play on the jungle-gym. They’ve both instituted their own father-son rituals and it swells my heart to see it. I’m proud of the men and the father’s they’ve become. With each generation fathers become more and more involved with their children. My sons work as hard as my father and I did as a provider, and that might be the one thing that gives me the most pride. Both of them are blue-collar strong. They both possess an admirable work ethic as did the generations that preceded them. I have no doubt they will pass that trait on to their sons as well. I miss my father and grandfathers. On this Father’s Day I will take some time to reflect on all the “little things” they did that I didn’t realize the importance of at the time; like showing up for work on time and respecting my elders, teaching me to say please and thank you. They taught me how to plane a board, paint a garage, and tighten the chain on my bike. Most importantly, my father and grandfather’s taught me the difference between right and wrong. They instilled in me that doing the right thing was the best thing, and that you can’t put a price tag on integrity. My sons passed that test with flying colors and knowing that is about the best Father’s Day gift you could receive. 

So Brendan and Kevin, I want to wish YOU a Happy Father’s Day. 

Being a father makes me, “Father’s Day Happy.”   

Love,

Dad

Time

Time

By John R. Greenwood

We were teenagers. Time was on our side. Life was in its infancy for us. Hands held then and now always familiar, always automatic. Time keeps ticking adding days together one on top of the other, the stack so high you can see for miles. Children, broken cars and power bills swirl around tossing a sight or sound into the air for us to grab when needed. Coupled as one we’ve always gone north when others swarmed south, never feeling comfortable to mingle amongst a crowd. Support comes and goes when summoned, the words never needing to be spoken. She shows up standing there, knowing—caring—understanding. Imperfect as any life long relationship might be, it’s ours alone. 

I’ve had time to think about it. The answer always comes back to me when a disagreement swells. “What would I be without her?” 

Lost, I’d be lost at sea. Left to my own accord, my decisions always faint from the lack of thought, I would have sunk to the bottom or floated away, sail-less, drifting through life with no wind, nobody to spend my time with. 

Time and love have been by my side. 

Emotion

Emotion 

By John R. Greenwood

e-mo-tion 

noun 

a natural instinctive state of mind deriving from one’s circumstances, mood, or relationships with others. 

“she was attempting to control her emotions” 

synonyms: feelings, sentiment, reaction, response

“she was good at hiding her emotions"

- passion, strength of feeling, warmth of feeling

“overcome by emotion, she turned away”

Do you see a pattern in the Google definition above of the word emotion? They are as clear as a Windex’d mirror to me. The first pattern I noticed was all three three quotes were made by women. It’s as if the male side of the equation should have no involvement with the word. Most men blush just saying the word. If I used the word at work I’m sure groups would instantly form and the whispering would begin. The only emotion men are allowed to share publicly is anger or excitement; one manifesting itself in traffic on the way to the big game and the other when our team wins in overtime with a 58 yard field goal. 

Surely, we are not allowed to show sorrow or concern for someone’s pain or good fortune. 

The second thing I picked up on was the fact that each scenario is about controlling, hiding, or being overcome by emotion. None of the descriptions painted emotions, or being emotional, as a positive attribute. Since our earliest recollections men are trained to bury and mask our emotions. Imagine the world if men showed visible empathy toward another mans misfortunes. The universe would implode before our eyes. 

These two points lead me to the photo of my sister and I at the top of the page. It sat on a table in our family home from the day it was taken until our parents passed. Emotion flows from the faces of my sister and I. We have both been “accused” of being emotional. It’s as if it’s a diagnosis of some incurable disease. As a normal teen with a hint of a rebellious vein whenever my sister tested the boundaries of adulthood things seemed to go awry. Her high-spirited nature led to her being labeled as “too emotional”. As an adult man who’s responsible for the health and welfare of dozens of men with families, not a day goes by that one of them doesn’t experience a life altering event, good or bad. They count on me to be there for them. For me it’s automatic to weep for their losses and cheer for their successes. I struggled one day when I had to terminate a long time employee. Regardless of the circumstances it was taking a toll on me. I was told I needed to take the emotion out of it. Having a bit of a rebellious side myself I fought the idea of turning into an uncaring and emotionless being. Instead I made a vow to myself to do the opposite. I cranked up the emotional dial and embraced it. If I felt bad for someone’s situation I would put my hand on their shoulder and tell them so. If I was proud of an accomplishment they’d made I’d do the same. I didn’t suppress my fear of being labeled as a weak or sensitive man, I ran it up the flagpole and shared my emotion. It made me stronger not weaker. It felt good not to worry about anyone’s interpretation of me. I’ve never for one moment regretted wearing my heart on my sleeve. It’s here right now spilling out onto the page. 

I love my sister and her emotional side because it shows how much she cares. We don’t have to agree on political or religious issues or who’s going to win the Superbowl. The only thing we have to do is allow and accept each others emotions. The rest will follow.  

We've both now passed the sixty mile marker. She’s still my big sister and my hero. All I have to do is look at the photo of us above and I get emotional. 

Got a problem with that? 

I didn’t think so. 

Mothers And Fathers

Mothers And Fathers
By John R. Greenwood

Mother's Comfort 

Mothers comfort the bumps and bruises.
They hug away pain and fear.
Mothers know how to read tears.
They decipher words no one else can hear.
Mothers warm us like blankets and wrap us in love.
Mothers make it all better. 

Father's Lift

Fathers lift us up.
They fill us with encouragement and wonder.
Fathers teach us to reach for the stars. 
They make us laugh with funny faces and body noises.
Fathers play rough.
They bend and never break.


Thank you to my son, grandson, daughter-in-law (first photo) and her sister (second photo bottom right) for the photos above. 
I have two sons with sons. They are good fathers who married good mothers.
My wife and I are grateful for the love they all share with their children. 

Love At Stewart's

Love At Stewart's 

By John R. Greenwood

A love-sided booth captures my eye and time comes to a stand still. A gentle cowboy comforts his girl. Two young hearts bridge the years with happy memories of Saturday night dances and Sunday rides in the country. I hear George Jones in the distance as for better or for worse these two spirits melt into one sweet scene. I imagine the history shared and storms weathered, the sick children and broken cars, the mortgages, the buried friends, the anniversary flowers left for days on the dining room table. I smile from behind and without words I thank them for reminding me that there is still hope for the world—still hope for love within it. 

Love this thick in a convenience store booth, can never be broken. 

She Knows

She Knows

By John R. Greenwood

She knows one trip is never enough for me. She knows the man she married will be back. He will forget his phone. He will forget his lunch. She knows after forty years of the same routine he will be back for something. Sometimes she smiles lovingly and cracks open the back door, “What is it today?” It’s turned into a wife’s early morning roll of the dice, “To Lock or Not To Lock”. It’s cold outside, there’s more to forget: gloves, a hat, an extra sleeve of Cinnamon Pop Tarts. She calculates the odds on her 'how many times has he done that before' husband-computer. 

Today I mog back to the house one more time, head face down, to get my prox-card. I reach for the handle with the same anticipation as scraping a $2.00 scratch-off. 

It's open.

I smile.

I hear the weather forecast as it drifts from the bedroom. I pause briefly waiting for a sarcastic comment about my absent-mindedness to follow, but it there is none. 

"Thank you for leaving the door open, I forgot my prox-card." 

"I know Honey." 

"It's on the counter."