The rafters

I put up a Facebook post recently about my trip back to New York to see Springsteen On Broadway. In the comments, I saw my good friend Shivaun put one up asking me if I saw anything in the rafters. I was startled by it, not because of what it said, but because she remembered. It was a reference very few people in my orbit know about, and an experience I hadn't thought about in many years.

And Shivaun, if you're reading this, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of it.

It begins, as so many of my stories do, at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Bruce was doing a five-night gig at the late, great Los Angeles Sports Arena. My girlfriend at the time—now my wife—would always go with me to the opening and closing shows of his multi-night gigs. So it didn't come as a surprise that she didn't want to go to all five shows this time—two were enough for her.

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

Naturally I wouldn't have missed the shows for any reason, but this tour it was more important than usual that I be there. My dad had died unexpectedly a couple months earlier, six years after my mom had passed away. Being an only child, after I lost my dad, I jokingly (kind of) referred to myself as an orphan. My spirit—sad, defeated, lost and feeling very much alone—was in dire need of the kind of lifting only a Springsteen concert can give me.

I don't remember which show in between the opening and closing one it was, but with me that night was an art director, friend and one-time roommate of mine named Monte Hallis.

Now anyone who knows me knows I'm long past believing there's any concert worth a few hours sitting in the nosebleed seats. Unless of course that concert is Bruce Springsteen. If it means the difference between being in the building and not, I'll sit wherever I can get a seat.

Monte and I sat in the very definition of nosebleed seats: the very last row where you could reach up and touch the ceiling of the arena, at the complete opposite end of the building from the stage (may I direct your attention to the yellow arrow in the top picture).

It was just after intermission, and Bruce came out to start his second half of the show. Because I'd already seen it two or three times, I knew the first song was going to be Cover Me.

My Bruce tramp pals and me have a name for his songs we're not crazy about. We call them bathroom songs, because if we have to go, those are the ones we don't mind missing. And, I know you never thought you'd read these words from me, but there are songs of his I'm just not crazy about.

Working On A Dream is one. So is Outlaw Pete, or as my friend Kim appropriately calls it Outlaw Pee. And at the top of my list, Cover Me.

So the lights dim, Bruce rips into Cover Me, and I'm just removed from it all. I'm watching Monte watching Bruce. I see the entire arena in front of me rocking out.

Then it happened.

It was like a fog set in, figuratively speaking. Movie like, the sound slowly faded way, way down but not out entirely. The crowd jumping up and down and pumping their fists seemed to be doing it in slow motion. Scanning the building, I tilted my head up and peered into the darkness that lay just up above. Moving my eyes along the rafters from one side to the other, my vision landed on a beam above and a little in front of me.

And a smile came across my face, because that's when I saw him. My dad was sitting on the rafter waving to me.

He was sitting on a horizontal beam, legs crossed and dangling below him. His right arm was wrapped around a vertical beam, and he was wearing the new purple plaid bathrobe my girlfriend and I had given him at Christmas—two months before he died. He had his blue striped pajamas on underneath, and his brown slippers with the fleece lining on his feet. His glasses, like always, were sitting askew on top of his nose that'd been broken years ago and never set correctly.

As our eyes locked in what definitely was a moment out of time, I realized he wasn't just waving randomly at me.

He was saying he loved me.

He wanted me to know everything was going to be okay.

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

I understood, and I smiled and nodded up at him. Then, I slowly looked away from him and came back to the room. The sound dialed back up again, the fans were moving in real time and Monte was enjoying herself immensely.

I looked back up at the rafter, and he was gone.

Conflict

I'll keep it short tonight for a couple of reasons. One is I have to travel early tomorrow. The other is I feel like I've visited this well a little too often and you, dear reader, may be yearning for another subject.

To which I say, see the "Next Blog" link at the top left there? Have at it. My blog, my subject.

And tonight's subject, as you can probably tell already, is conflict.

My son leaves for college tomorrow. On one hand, I couldn't be more proud and excited for him as he starts this next season of his life. Not to get too Seussian, but oh the places he'll go. The adventures he'll have. The friends he'll make. It will be rewarding for him in ways neither of us can even imagine.

On the other hand, my baby boy is leaving home. For eighteen years I've lived with him and quite frankly I don't know how to live without him. If you follow me on Facebook, you know I posted a link to an article Rob Lowe wrote about sending his son to college. He absolutely nails it. The experience is as joyous as it is heartbreaking.

I've tried, and admittedly done a lousy job, to keep a game face around him (my son, not Rob Lowe). I don't want him to feel like he can't leave me because I'll be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Which I will, but he doesn't have to see it.

Anyway, tonight's post has been brought to you by Vent. Vent, when you just need to ramble on about it.

On a personal note, I know he doesn't read every single thing I post on here (thank God). But James, if you're reading this one, pack this in your suitcase: I love you and have always loved you more than either of us will ever know. You're more talented in more ways than any hundred people I know. And your heart is bigger than the state you're moving to - and that's saying something. I know I've told you already, but I just can't seem to stop saying it: I'm beyond proud, and can't wait to see the great things I know you're going to accomplish. You done good.

I like to think it's good parenting.

I've got an astral plane to catch

My friend Rich over at Round Seventeen put up a post yesterday about an accident he was involved in years ago on the way to his mom's funeral. By his own description, it was one that should've reunited him with his mother but fortunately didn't.

Because of when it happened, and the outcome being exactly the opposite of what logic and reason would tell you it should've been, I'm of the belief it was his mom who decided to intervene and make sure Rich and his family were at her funeral. Apparently I'm not the only one who's told him this.

However, Rich doesn't agree.

When it comes to beliefs in God, angels and the supernatural, by his own admission he's simply not on board the faith train. Which is fine. All it means is that at the end of the day - and I do mean the end of the day - he'll just be packing lighter.

Hey, it's a free country and I'm not out to change anyone's mind. But one of my personal beliefs is every once in awhile there are signs of and from a world beyond that simply can't be ignored. Or explained any other way.

So I'll see your departed mom story, and raise you a departed dad story of my own.

My dad died six years after my mom. When he died, he'd been seeing a woman named Esther who rode with us to his funeral.

When we got there, my (now) wife and I wanted to be alone with my dad for a few minutes. So we went inside, and had the casket opened so we could look at him. I turned to my wife and said, "This is weird, but I feel like I want to put some money in his pocket." To which my wife said, "Go ahead."

I took out my wallet, and inside were a few different bills. I took out a few, then put them back and took out a $20 bill and put it in his pocket. After I did, I felt an immediate sense of relief. We had the casket closed, and proceeded with the service.

When it was over, we were driving Esther home. She was sitting in the back seat so I could see her in the rear view mirror. She was just casually talking about my dad, saying how sweet he was, how she'd loved traveling with him, things like that.

Then she said, "And did you know your father never went anywhere without a $20 bill in his pocket?"

Needless to say that got our attention.

I told her I didn't know that, and asked her why. She said, "Because your father was from Brooklyn, and he always thought that if he got mugged and didn't have any money on him they'd beat him up even worse. So he always carried a $20 bill in his pocket."

We were speechless.

After thinking long and hard if I'd ever heard him say that - which I never did - I finally told Esther what I'd done and told her I was pretty sure he didn't have to worry about it where he was going.

Sometimes it's easy to see the signs, sometimes it isn't. But I believe with all my heart that was a goodbye from my dad that I simply couldn't ignore. I suppose it'd be easy to chalk it up to coincidence, or say that I did hear him say it at some point and just don't remember.

But I know that wasn't it. I know, my wife knows and Esther knows what it was.

Woody Allen once said one of the things he feared most about dying is that when he got to heaven they wouldn't be able to break a twenty.

I've known for a long time that's not a worry my dad had.