I Have These, and I Am Lucky

There’s an intentionally idiotic contest I have with a colleague who works in my office. It began when I started to amass decorative items on my desktop. Some of them are from my kids, such as a retractable keyboard brush that says “#1 Dad,” a cell phone holder that I use to hold my business cards, which also has “Dad” printed on it, and a stuffed vinyl “Yankees” baseball, among other things.

One day, as I was digging through reams of data, I took note of the stuff I had been hoarding in my workspace. I picked up a scented candle given to me as a Christmas present years ago and said:

“Richard, I have this, and you do not.”

He took note of my offering, searched his messy surroundings, and picked up one of his items—I think it was a can of Pepsi—and replied, “Michael, I have this, and you do not.”

And so, our juvenile game was born.

Yet, that is not why I have these trinkets and souvenirs in the first place. In the past week, I added two wooden shot glasses, one with “Haiti” carved into it, that I bought while on a cruise with my family this summer. Our ship stopped in Labadee, Haiti, and I bargained for them with the shop owner. He started the bidding at twenty-five dollars each. After I told him that only in Fantasy Land could he get someone to pay that kind of money for his junk, I whittled him down to three dollars apiece. When I look at them positioned beneath my monitor, I think about wading through the water under the Haitian sky with my son riding on my back. My wife and daughter are on the beach trying to get a tan, and for a day, we are in paradise.

My business cards could have no better receptacle than the hard rubber stand with protruding arms holding them tightly. My son gave this to me, and I am sorry I don’t remember whether it was for my birthday or Father’s Day. There’s an oversized ballpoint pen my daughter gave me, a small car that somehow wound up in my possession, and a multi-tool a former coworker generously gave me because he thought I could use it. Recently, a young woman who works in the front office returned from vacation and gave several of us flavored tea bags in pouches tied closed with ribbon. This gift has joined the clutter, and I am not sure why it is not in one of my desk drawers with manila folders piled on top.

I’m never sure where my next tchotchke will come from, but I do not seek them out. Except for the silly, ongoing contest I have with my buddy who sits behind me, I wouldn’t assign much value to more than a few of them. Perhaps the miniature medallion with the word “Empyre” painted in script across the top and attached to a rectangular scrap of leather would be in the garbage if it had not helped me win several of our office “one-upmanship” contests.

As I write this, my array of knickknacks seems a bit childish for a grown man to have in his possession. I could toss out the Yankees ball, and I could give the candle to one of the women in the front office. The multi-tool would be of better use in my toolbox at home, and the Disney keychain in the shape of a crown would probably just get lost.

Yet, the shot glasses are from Haiti, and they remind me of the fun I had with my wife and kids on the cruise. The giant pen is a present from my daughter, and the keyboard brush and business card holder both say “Dad” on them. I could never get rid of those. Yes, the word “Dad” makes all the difference when it comes to landing in a trash can or sitting on my desktop.

I have these things, and I am one lucky dad.

By Michael J. Kannengieser
Photo by M.J. Kannengieser

Have Phone, Will Shoot -- Pictures

The cell phone is so ubiquitous, that no one questions the fact that these devices have become more like Swiss Army knives than merely telephones. I remember when I made my first cell phone call. It was in my friend Jeff's car and we were coming back from the Hamptons. It was around 1992. I remember this because my wife and I were married the year before and we were no longer newlyweds by then.

Jeff bought this gray, wedge of plastic with large punch buttons, and a narrow LCD screen for around three hundred dollars. Though cell phones had been around for a few years by then, they were for people with money who also liked to flaunt the fact that they were able to make phone calls from train platforms and restaurants. I joked with my friend telling that if he waited a year, phone companies would be giving them away. Wow, was I right on that one. 

A Ghost in the Dunes

On the second tier at the Nikon Theater at Jones Beach, I settled into my seat for the big concert. My wife and I had taken our kids to see My Chemical Romance and Blink-182 on the Tenth Anniversary Honda Civic Tour. Though it had been quite a while since I had attended a show at this arena, I had a long history at Jones Beach State Park.

My father was a World War II veteran who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Upon his retirement, he got a job with the now-defunct Long Island State Park Commission. He spent his time traveling back and forth among Robert Moses State Park, Captree, and Jones Beach. During the summer, he’d take my brothers, sisters, and me to one of the fields at Robert Moses and leave us there while he went about his duties. I was the fifth of six children, and my older sister was well equipped to keep a careful eye on us younger ones while we splashed around in the waves.

It was comforting to see Dad stop by in one of the park vehicles to check on us. He’d have a worried expression on his face, wondering whether we were having a good time and whether there was any danger in leaving us alone. Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when we visited our summer paradise, a tradition was born.

I remember riding with Dad in a green, state-owned truck as he went about his routine. He seemed important wherever he went, and he loved what he did immensely. It was the environment—the ocean and the dunes—that made him inhale deeply and smile as he scanned the horizon. I always sensed that he felt lucky to be so close to nature and to visit such a beautiful place each day. Because he was not a wealthy man, his appreciation for the parks became part of his legacy to our family.

My wife and I make it a point to take our kids to the beach during the warm months. During winter, we eat bagels and drink coffee and juice while watching wild deer from inside our parked car at Robert Moses. When friends are in town, I take them on a tour of the area and share what I know about each location as I recall what my dad taught me. The iconic water towers, the lengthy bridges, and the bathhouses all fell under his purview. My father helped maintain these landmarks. His fingers touched steel beams and stone that tens of thousands of people see each day during the summer.

All that was part of my childhood is still present after my father’s passing. The striped umbrellas, boardwalks, concession stands, saltwater taffy, and amphitheater are as enduring as my precious early memories. As I sat in the fold-down seat at the Nikon Theater last Saturday with my family, I felt as though I were host to a stadium full of strangers. My life had taken root in this very place.

In the waters to my left, boaters awaited a musical performance. Overhead, clouds winked with the suggestion of rain, and to my right, beachgoers bid farewell to the sand and ocean for the evening. I sat back and imagined that, among the wavy crests of sand dunes and the inky shadows stretching wide, my father was smiling, at home in the park he loved so dearly.

By Michael J. Kannengieser

Photo by M.J. Kannengieser

When Faith Died

The week before Easter, I was talking with acquaintances at my son’s lacrosse game. When asked if I was going to church on the holiday, I fumbled as did not know what to say. The answer was no, and the moment of awkwardness did not pass quickly. They could not know that my struggle with faith was more germane at present than ever before.

When my father was alive, I could refer to him and say that he had enough devotion for his entire family. We attended mass when we visited him, or when he came to our home for the weekend I took him to our parish. When he died, those opportunities vanished, and so did my connection to the church.

Seasons Of Living

This is the first Christmas season without my mother and father and it has hit me hard. Granted, I am a middle aged man with a family, and there are those who have suffered greater losses while much younger. Still, my children miss them very much, and their passing left a big hole in our lives. Also, not having parents leaves me at the top of the family tree along with my brothers and sisters. I’m too young for that, I think.

My nieces and nephews are either in college or getting ready to go. My daughter is in high school and we are already picking out universities from websites and catalogs. My son will be entering middle school next September, and I feel like life is sailing past me rapidly. I’m in my forties, sliding down the back end of the hill. There’s nothing but gray hair and an A.A.R.P. membership in my future. I’m not unhappy, but I have a vague sense that I lack accomplishment.

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Public Relations & You

I’ve been asked by a professor at the college where I am employed to deliver a lecture on public relations. My speech is tailored to the young, inexperienced, undergraduates in her class. The main theme will focus on how the demeanor and appearance of job seekers influences potential employers.

In my other professional life, I am managing editor for fiction for an international literary magazine. In that role I get to read some well written stories. In many cases, however, I must turn writers down in short order. My duty is to accept only the best a writer has to offer which complements the style accepted by the periodical I work for. I am intolerant towards authors who submit poorly written query letters which do not provide a plot summary or begin with a salutation. Many of the e-mails I receive are composed like text messages and expose the authors as incompetent writers. This brings me to my earlier ideas on public relations.

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A Learning Moment

“Do you want to know what the President did today?” I asked my ten year old son. He wasn’t paying attention as he was playing Nintendo. With my laptop on, I scrolled through news websites with the TV on in the background.

He came over to see what I was talking about. There was a picture on the Drudge Report of President Obama, Vice President Biden, Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr., and Sgt. James Crowley. This was the scene which the President hoped for, a “teaching moment.”

My son asked me what I was talking about and I showed him the photo. I then explained about the arrest of Professor Gates and the misunderstanding about race, and why it became important for President Obama to preside over this meeting. My son sensed that this was a significant story. He nodded his head and listened as I spoke. “He’s doing a good thing, he’s a nice president” he said. He paused over the laptop a moment longer and I patted him on the back.

As a former New York City police officer, I can closely relate to Sgt. Crowley and his handling of the burglary investigation. I’ve never been accused of racial profiling in my career; yet, I can detail incidents where bystanders expressed antipathy towards the white officers present at the scene. Upon reading the report of the incident at Professors Gates’ home, my reaction was to side with Sgt. Crowley.

Phone Envy

My wireless carrier offered me a brand new phone if I added another line. So far, there are three names on our account: my wife, my fourteen year old daughter, and of course, me. Our daughter was the first to chime in on the topic.

She reasoned that my son, who is going into the fifth grade “needs” a phone so he can text his friends (who each have one) and call us when he want to be picked up from a play date. Our carrier would send our son the latest and greatest which technology has to offer; and, I can’t see why he would require such a gadget. I get by with my standard-issue flip phone. Why does he have to own a cell phone with a keyboard and movie camera?

The Business of Men

Mr. Hoyt’s truck overflowed with the stock of his trade: car parts of all types, tires, and occasionally kitchen appliances. He’d park his large, creaky vehicle across the street from our home near Mr. Lowman’s house. It was one of many stops he made during the course of a day to sell his goods.

Mr. Lowman was a mechanic who relied upon Mr. Hoyt to supply the components he needed to run a part-time auto repair business from his garage.

We lived in a blue-collar neighborhood, and it was necessary for many people to work more than one job in order to make ends meet.

My dad was no exception.

As a boy of maybe five or six, I’d watch Mr. Hoyt amble across the street to our home to meet with my dad, leaving his sons to tend to the business of unloading tires and other items.

Dad would greet him at the front door and invite him inside to discuss their particular deals over a cup of coffee in the kitchen. During the holidays, they’d sip whiskey in the dining room like gentlemen, as they would not drink in front of my mother.

My dad was an oil-burner mechanic.

Mr. Hoyt, being the kind of businessman he was, knew people who needed work done and found people to do the work for them. He could rely on my father to answer the phone in the middle of the night and run out to fix an ailing boiler during the cold winter months.

I am still not sure what arrangement existed between the two of them, but my father was always happy to greet him, and Mr. Hoyt always walked away with a smile and an envelope.

There was nothing peculiar about a grown man providing products and services to the mechanics and utility men of my neighborhood.

However, my childhood was in the 1960s, and Mr. Hoyt was Black.

Those were the years of the civil rights movement and the struggle against segregation and racial discrimination. Meanwhile, Mr. Hoyt drove his panel truck across town and through neighborhoods where he could conduct business but might not have been welcomed as a homeowner, providing for his family as he went.

He was a fixture in our lives until I entered high school and my dad found another line of work that was more lucrative and did not require him to break his back.

Mr. Hoyt still visited his other client across the street from us.

In his later years, his beard turned white and his body became slightly stooped. He was considerably older than the men he supplied with both parts and work.

By then, his sons did most of the driving and heavy lifting, and my dad still invited him inside for coffee whenever he came around.

In my early childhood, he was the only Black man I knew personally.

Yet, as welcome as he was in our home and Mr. Lowman’s, others were not as tolerant.

A man named Slater, who once lived in the house next to Mr. Lowman, originally hailed from Kentucky and was fond of displaying a large Confederate flag on his front porch.

Mr. Hoyt often parked his truck in front of Slater’s house and had to endure that malevolent Civil War banner staring him in the face.

Then Mr. Slater would scurry next door upon seeing him arrive in order to purchase wares from him too.

That type of ignorance was baffling to me.

Mr. Slater liked me and often waved as I rode my bike up and down the street with my friends.

One particular Fourth of July, when I was about twelve or thirteen years old, he draped his Confederate flag across the wall of his porch again.

I reminded him that Kentucky had been a border state during the Civil War and had not seceded from the Union, making his allegiance to the Confederacy seem particularly odd to me.

He didn’t wave to me as much after that little history lesson.

How he reconciled his racist beliefs with his genial yet inhibited relationship with Mr. Hoyt was beyond me.

I can’t remember when I stopped seeing Mr. Hoyt come around.

To this day, Mr. Lowman still occasionally fixes cars for pay in his garage, but the kind gentleman and his sons are no longer the suppliers he relies upon to keep his side business going.

When I was a boy, I understood something of the awkwardness of Black and white people doing business in a world of hate, mistrust, and segregation.

I remember the cold stares of people who drove past his truck piled high with vehicle parts, with his two teenage sons sitting patiently in the front seat waiting for their father.

The young men would look away or talk quietly while ignoring those who seemed unable to understand why my dad and our neighbor would invite a Black man into our little row of homes.

In the decades since those days when Mr. Hoyt took his commerce wherever he saw fit, our society has changed.

It is difficult to appreciate how dramatically different things are without having witnessed a businessman tread carefully down a suburban street simply to make a living.

And just a few days ago, our nation elected a man to become the next president who also happens to be African American.

I do not know where Mr. Hoyt is today or even whether he is still alive.

However, I believe his sons must appreciate, now more than ever, the fortitude and courage their father displayed as he drove down boulevards and across racial divides to conduct the business of men.

-Michael J. Kannengieser