Living As If I'm The Last Patriarch
There was a more innocent time in my life when I looked up to others, elders who could comfort, guide, validate. They're all gone.
Ray Amato, the rennaissance man who owned a medical laboratory, was one such guide. At 12, he must have succumbed to my mother's nagging to give me a job. I think he was delighted: I did hemoglobin and red blood cell count.
The machines -- little centrifuge, old time spectrophotometer -- were pretty easy to use. It was a great summer working for him in that pre 1800's building in Haverstraw, NY.
View Larger Map He loved to play the trumpet and, besides his HAM radio and small airplane flying, he found time to start up a trumpet mouthpiece company.
I loved him and he knew it. I knew he loved me, too. It was the kind of love a young boy can only dream of; the kind of affection that was genuine and never negated by any malice, yelling, disappointment. Like my real father. Or, was he my real father?
Six years after his death, I still have to deal with [real?] my father's estate. He made my job as executor almost impossible because he chose not to plan. Is this his legacy? Is it mine?
I just thought of Ray because he made me a few custom trumpet mouthpieces that sit on a shelf in my hole of an office (if the computer took a picture, it would look...rough) where I can glance at them once in a while.
Dinner is cooking. My little guy is visiting friends and my wife and I have to talk about our family budget. Money. I can't help but feel defensive because I don't contribute to positive cash flow these days, just expenses.
So, my surrogate fathers, Ray among them, are gone. Others have names like Davey, Scotty. Now, I'm the father figure, the last patriarch. I find I'm not up to the challenge but it's mine anyway.
There was a more innocent time in my life when I looked up to others, elders who could comfort, guide, validate. They're all gone.
Ray Amato, the rennaissance man who owned a medical laboratory, was one such guide. At 12, he must have succumbed to my mother's nagging to give me a job. I think he was delighted: I did hemoglobin and red blood cell count.
The machines -- little centrifuge, old time spectrophotometer -- were pretty easy to use. It was a great summer working for him in that pre 1800's building in Haverstraw, NY.
View Larger Map He loved to play the trumpet and, besides his HAM radio and small airplane flying, he found time to start up a trumpet mouthpiece company.
I loved him and he knew it. I knew he loved me, too. It was the kind of love a young boy can only dream of; the kind of affection that was genuine and never negated by any malice, yelling, disappointment. Like my real father. Or, was he my real father?
Six years after his death, I still have to deal with [real?] my father's estate. He made my job as executor almost impossible because he chose not to plan. Is this his legacy? Is it mine?
I just thought of Ray because he made me a few custom trumpet mouthpieces that sit on a shelf in my hole of an office (if the computer took a picture, it would look...rough) where I can glance at them once in a while.
Dinner is cooking. My little guy is visiting friends and my wife and I have to talk about our family budget. Money. I can't help but feel defensive because I don't contribute to positive cash flow these days, just expenses.
So, my surrogate fathers, Ray among them, are gone. Others have names like Davey, Scotty. Now, I'm the father figure, the last patriarch. I find I'm not up to the challenge but it's mine anyway.
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