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Ep 9: My Whole World · The Starter

• My Whole World I have become domesticated. It happened over time. Many nights I find myself in the family room, sorting through toddler clothes fresh out of the dryer, and still hot. It’s not so clear these days which items belong to Teddy, and which are Phillip’s. They’re almost the same size. I sort and fold, and spread neat little piles across the couch. Laundry is a Sisyphean task. There is always more, and it never ends. And so, I have a system. In my humble-ass opinion, it is always best to organize while folding. Otherwise, you are left to pick through it all at random once the laundry baskets finally make their way upstairs to be put away in their proper places. And if you can’t get to the whole pile while it’s still hot and fresh out of the dryer, at the very least, fold the pants and collared shirts. Lest you end up looking like a wrinkled mess next time you go to dress your best. As Walter Sobchak once said, “This is not ‘Nam. This is bowling. There are rules. ” I often perform this task unaided by any distraction - just me and my thoughts and the laundry. Sometimes though, I like a little music; a nice rhythm to work to. I have my favorites - the well-worn albums I return to time and time again. The ones I depend on. The certified bangers. But you can only sort and fold to Funk Wav Bounces Vol 1 so many times. So you pull out your phone, because that’s what we do these days. A million songs at our fingertips, and somehow you can never find the right one. 57 channels, and nothin’ on. I can’t remember the last time I stumbled upon a song - a new song, that really got me. Right in the feels. Sometimes, you get lucky. The other night, as I stood in the family room holding one of Teddy’s little tee shirts, and scrolling through yet unheard tracks, I found it. It was Kings of Leon. In another life in a distant place and time, I had discovered this band within the pages of Rolling Stone magazine, before they got big. Good and true American rock and roll played by three brothers, and one cousin for good measure. What’s not to love? In Florida, I saw them play in an arena, and woke up the next morning in the bathtub at our hotel room. In North Carolina, their song “Back Down South” was on heavy rotation at the barbecue place where I tended bar. I was the DJ. “This fucking song again?” my coworkers would groan. The other night, it was almost like I heard them for the first time again. They had grown. They were older and wiser, and it showed. “My Whole World.” The song begins with intimate strumming on an acoustic guitar and tender vocals singing of a life slowed down, and pausing long enough to appreciate it. I set Teddy’s shirt on the pile, and stopped to listen. As the wind blows, there goes My whole world A couple blocks from our house, a path leads down a small hill to the neighborhood park. Teddy likes to ride down the hill on his pink scooter, balancing with one leg raised and bent, like a flamingo. In spring and fall, the park comes alive on Saturdays with soccer. Toddler soccer. If you have never witnessed this phenomenon, it is as most parents describe it; kind of a running joke. Mostly, the kids run around in circles, cry, pick at grass and/or their noses, and happily drink a juice box when it’s all over. It took Teddy two and a half seasons to kick the soccer ball. Most mornings, it was a struggle just to get him into his shin pads and long soccer socks and cleats. Once we finally got him down to the field, he was adamant about not wanting to participate. Midway through season three, something changed. Teddy got out there. He kicked the ball, and he even scored a goal. Go Teddy, go. Phillip had become sort of an honorary member of the team. Not old enough to participate yet, he would routinely walk out on the field and kick the ball around or get himself tangled in the net. Coach even gave him a medal at the end of the season. One bright and sunny morning in June, Lizzie bent down at the edge of the soccer field to apply some sunscreen on the boys. The grass was still wet with morning dew, and the hot early summer sun beat down. She took off her rings, tucked them in her pocket, and made sure that Teddy and Phillip were sufficiently protected from the sun. The game went on. Later that day, Lizzie realized something. We were standing in the kitchen, and she looked at me. Her face said it all. “Babe,” she said. “I think I lost my ring.” My wife has three rings: One: her engagement ring. The one I bought with Henry and entrusted him with the secret that I was going to propose. The one I knelt down with on a blistering cold February night in downtown Ann Arbor, right next to the water fountain where Lizzie and I first met. Two: her push ring. The one she picked out after Teddy was born. A consolation for nine months of carrying, and hours of labor. And three: her wedding band. The one we said our vows with. The one I placed on her finger as my brother Brian presided over the whole ceremony. “Forged in fire,” Brian had said. “The process of making something beautiful, where there was once nothing at all.” This was the one she had lost. We went back to the park, and combed through the grass. The boys helped. We found nothing. Lizzie called around to a couple places she had been that day; the flower shop with her mom to get hanging baskets for our front porch. No luck there either. I posted on Craigslist, and threw it up on Nextdoor as well. Lost Wedding Band at Ford Heritage Park, I wrote, and added a single tear sadface emoji, for good measure. As the wind blows, there goes My whole world There was a time in my life when I lived off Craigslist; jobs, gigs, free stuff, and occasionally perusing the missed connections for a good laugh. I even bought a dog once. Unless you count the time I went out with the girl I got the dog from, I had never been on an internet date before I met my wife. Lizzie said I was her lucky number 13. She was a teacher, and I was a newly sober single dad working as a waiter and social media specialist, whatever that meant. We messaged back and forth, and on the last day of school, I invited her out for ice cream to celebrate. “I’m more of a gelato girl,” she told me. I liked her style. We made loose plans to hang out over the weekend, and get gelato. The next morning, Henry had a flag football game downriver. His mom and I sat on the sidelines and watched him run around on the field in his jersey, Henry has always liked wearing a uniform. In preschool, he went through a policeman phase and dressed himself every morning in a blazer, button down, necktie, and captain’s hat. It was charming. “I’m going on a date later,” I told Henry’s mom. “She’s a teacher.” She looked at me. “You should change your clothes before your date,” she said. I looked down at my shirt. I was wearing my blue mechanic shirt with the Yo Mama’s Big Fat Booty Band patch over the left breast pocket. The patch had a red silhouette drawing of a pole dancer over the band’s name; prized merch from my brother Greg’s seven-piece funk band out of North Carolina. “Yeah,” I agreed. “I probably will.” After the game, I messaged Lizzie about our date. No response. I went for a bike ride. A couple hours later, she wrote me back. She had just woken up from a nap, and would be happy to come meet me downtown. I was still in my mechanic shirt, wearing cargo shorts, and riding around on a bike I had bought off Craigslist. We agreed on a meeting place, right near the fountain in front of Rackham Auditorium, where they hold the Ann Arbor Summer Festival every year. I rode my bike over, found a bench, and waited. There are a whole lot of platitudes about love and marriage and finding “the one.” Love at first sight and all that good stuff. It can make for a decent movie, but in the real world there is usually no bolt of lightning or dumbstruck moment with butterflies in the stomach when you meet the person you are going to marry. Mostly, it is what it is: meeting a new person for the first time. As I sat on the bench, I watched Lizzie walk over from the other side of the fountain. She was wearing jeans and a lightweight summer cardigan that trailed behind her as she walked. She was pretty, I thought. I stood up, and we said hello. There were bands playing that night at the Summer Festival, and we walked over. Lizzie ordered a beer. I decided to skip that whole awkward conversation about being newly sober on a first date, and ordered one as well. Six months before, right around Christmas, things had gotten bad. I ended up in the psych ward at St Joe’s Hospital under 72-hour watch; a mandatory hold when you express thoughts or intentions of hurting yourself. I hadn’t had a drink since. We talked, and it felt natural. We both loved music, and grew up going to summer camp. After we got gelato, Lizzie offered to drive me home. “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I have my bike.” We hugged, and she texted me later; A goodnight kiss would have been nice. The next time we saw each other, I was walking home from the hospital, at midnight. It didn’t happen right away, but those few beers I had on our first date caught up to me. Within a matter of days, I was off the rails, and got myself fired from my desk job when I snuck a pint of whiskey in my work bag. They had to call me a cab home. With my newfound freedom, I headed down to the local watering hole for some day drinking. Caught up in the spirit of things, I donned my finest basketball jersey; a bright red Scottie Pippen circa 1996; the golden era of Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls. Things got hazy. Time travel, as my friend Danny likes to say. One minute you’re sitting at the bar, enjoying a few refreshments with your fellow patrons, and then you’re somewhere else entirely, as if old Doc Brown himself had come by and picked you up in the Delorean. I woke up in a hospital bed, with no recollection of the in-between. After convincing the doctors that I was just fine, thank you very much, and no further treatment was needed, I stepped out of the hospital into the night. I looked at my phone. There was a text from Lizzie: Call me as soon as you get this. Earlier that day, she had gotten a call from the police, asking her about my name. She was the last person I had called. “I just met him,” she told them. Everyone at the bar only knew me as Hollywood, a nickname I am glad to have lived down after so many years. Purportedly, I had passed out in the bushes behind the bar, and an ambulance was called to retrieve me. After that, I was no longer welcome at the local watering hole. “Can I come pick you up?” Lizzie asked. “No,” I said. “I’m just gonna walk.” She insisted, and I obliged. “I’m wearing a bright red Scottie Pippen jersey,” I told her. “You can’t miss it.” When we got back to my apartment, there was an empty brown paper bag sitting on the couch; a remnant from my last trip to the party store. “Sorry about the mess,” I said, and threw the bag away. Lizzie told me later she was impressed at how clean my bathroom was, even that hard-to-reach spot near the back of the toilet. We sat on the couch and talked. And for the first time, we kissed. It was our second date. “Such a gentleman,” Brian said at our wedding ceremony, after telling everyone I had waited until after Lizzie told me she would have liked a kiss. Gentleman, indeed. Brian knew the whole history - the Bulls jersey, the ambulance, and his younger brother being somewhat of an idiot. Graciously, he left those details out of his sermon. I know this not because I have memorized Brian’s words from our wedding day. It’s because I have his notes; the journal where he wrote down his speech and the outline of our ceremony in his neat and deliberate hand, complete with the occasional spelling error. A few weeks ago, Becky sent me this journal, along with a record for The Vinyl Exchange on Brian’s birthday this year. It would have been his 49th. In the journal, there was a note: Dear Steve & Lizzie, I started journaling in this last week on what would have been our 25th anniversary. But I decided it belongs to you… I cut my pages out, a letter to Brian, things I never want to forget about him… Maybe we should still throw that birthday party for him next year? Love, Becky On the morning of our wedding day, Brian and Becky saved our asses. There was an issue with the flowers, and they could not be delivered. My brother and sister-in-law drove to Traverse City to pick them up, an hour away. When they got back, we had no plans for the flower arrangements. We hadn’t gotten that far. Becky, the family florist, got to work. She masterfully picked and pulled and sorted over a dozen arrangements in record time. They were beautiful. That night, the flowers sat next to glowing candles on everyone’s tables at the reception, while Lizzie and I danced to our first song as husband and wife. “Let’s Be Still,” by the Head & the Heart. Before we got married, we had seen them in concert a number of times. Once in Chicago, out on Navy Pier, with the lights from the city shining off the water on Lake Michigan. Another time in Ann Arbor, when the whole crowd insisted on sitting down when all my wife wanted to do was dance. People yelled at us. I yelled back. “It’s a concert!” I said. “Not a fucking movie.” We stood, and my wife danced on. A few months ago, we saw them play in Detroit for the first show of their 15th anniversary tour. They played their debut album, the Head & the Heart, in full. Lizzie and I agreed: it was their best one. I bought it for us, and when I showed Lizzie the record, she held it in her hands, and said, “It’s beautiful.” The world’s just spinning A little too fast If things don’t slow down soon We might not last So just for a moment Let's be still Before the ceremony, my Aunt Julie gave me something; a handkerchief. It was my grandma’s; my dad’s mom, Hazel. The handkerchief was white with an elaborate H and grey embroidered pattern sewn into it. Hazel Hollowell. When she passed away, Julie took over her sewing shop in Dearborn; Bits & Pieces. As a kid, I always loved visiting the shop and looking at all the neat and tidy rows of colorful threads and fabrics. A place for everything, and everything in its place. I wore the handkerchief as my pocket square, in the left breast of my blazer. On the right side of my vest, I wore my Grandpa Lusher’s Swiss Army pocket watch, the one he had given me when I was a kid. He had earned it with Marlboro miles peeled from all his empty cigarette packs. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. My dad’s mom and my mom’s dad. Out of all my grandparents, I felt closest to them, even after they were gone. When Lizzie and I met, I was in the habit of wearing a necklace with dog tags. I had them made. Stamped into the metal was a quote from each one of my two favorite grandparents. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles,” from Hazel Hollowell. And from Robert Lusher Sr; “Pull my finger.” A classic fart joke from my grandpa that has stood the test of time. On the day of Brian’s Celebration of Life, I wore that same vest, and I had my mom sew a patch into it. It was a Stealie; the classic red and blue lighting bolt skull from the Grateful Dead. Growing up, Brian had it sewn onto a polo shirt. Somehow I had ended up with the patch. “Pieces of the people we have lost,” I told my mom, and showed her my other two artifacts, from Hazel and Robert. “It’s too much,” my mom said, and got a little choked up. She sewed the patch on for me anyways. “Forged in fire,” Brian had said about the rings before Lizzie and I placed them on each other’s fingers. Coming from my brother, this was much more than a clever metaphor of metallurgy. Brian knew the process firsthand. Before he and Becky got married, Brian took a metalworking class at Montana State. He had inherited an old pair of gold cufflinks from our Grandpa John, and he melted them down to make their wedding bands. Hand forged. On a Sunday morning, one week after Lizzie lost her wedding ring, we walked down to the park with the boys. No soccer that day, just a trip to the playground. Teddy rode his scooter, and Phillip rode one too. He was still learning. I walked along beside him, to catch him when he fell. Halfway to the park, right before we cross the street and instruct the boys to “look both ways,” I got a phone call. I stopped on the sidewalk to answer it. “Hey, you want your ring?” asked the voice on the other end. “What?” I said. I was stunned. “Your ring,” the guy said. “I found it.” It was Todd. He had responded to my post a few days before, and I messaged him back with details on the location where we thought the ring might be. “Really?” I asked. “Are you sure it’s the one? Can you text me a photo?” Lizzie was half a block ahead with Teddy. I waved at her to hold on, so Phillip and I could catch up. Todd texted me a photo of the ring balancing on the end of his finger. “Let me show my wife,” I told him. “I kind of forget what it looks like.” Lizzie looked at the picture. “I think that’s it,” she said, a little unsure. She pulled out her phone and looked up a photo she had taken from our wedding album for reference; a close up of Lizzie’s hand on mine, with the rings clearly visible. It was a match. “We’ll be right there,” I said to Todd, and hung up the phone. He was only a block away, just past the little hill that leads into the park, right by the soccer net. When we got there, he was holding a metal detector. “I didn’t even have to use this thing,” Todd said. “I just saw the ring lying there in the grass, with the glare from the sun.” Lizzie walked over, and Todd gave her the ring. She put it on her finger, and gave him a big hug. I offered him some money as a reward. Todd refused. We thanked him profusely. “No problem,” Todd said. “It keeps me moving.” We said goodbye, and walked over to the playground so the boys could play. Nothing in this world is lost. If it’s mine, it will come back to me. This was a phrase that my mom had taught me as a kid I always believed it to be the Prayer of Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost items. It’s not. Turns out it’s just a nice sentiment and a comforting proverb to tell yourself when you lose something. I have muttered it to myself hundreds of times, wandering around looking for lost items. The other day, I was searching for words. I had returned to Brian’s wedding journal. That morning began like most. I woke up with the boys, made them breakfast, wrestled them into their clothes, and whisked them away to daycare. On the drive in, they requested songs. They like to play DJ. “I want the Witch Doctor,” Phillip said. It was October 1st. Cue the Halloween playlist. I put it on, but it was the wrong one. Teddy spoke up. “I want the boy version.” And so I found it: “Witch Doctor” by Don Lang, 1958. After dropoff, I pulled into our driveway just as Lizzie was leaving for the day. She stopped to tell me something. “Look!” she said, and showed me the package in her hands. “Their costumes.” She had ordered the boys new Halloween costumes a few days ago, and they just arrived. Phillip’s was a zebra - his choice. “Zebras are my favorite,” he told me the other day. Teddy chose a unicorn; pink and purple with stars all over. A quintessential Teddy pick. “They’re perfect,” said Lizzie. I agreed. We kissed each other goodbye, and she was off to mold young minds in her 4th grade class. Inside, there was work to do; home and business. I started with the chores. Another day, another load of laundry. The joys of working from home. After throwing in the first load of wash, I went into the family room and picked up the journal that Becky had sent me. I keep it next to the photo album from our wedding. I guess you could say I was looking for something. Not marriage advice or some deep revelation about life itself; no wisdom from the great beyond. I just wanted to see my brother’s handwriting and read the words he had written, during a time when he was happy, and helping us plan our wedding. I flipped through the pages, studying Brian’s neatly written words. I found something. “This ceremony today is not magic,” Brian wrote, and I could hear the line in his voice, just as he had spoken it on our wedding day. He went on to tell our story of how we had arrived there, and how we built our life together. “They realized that they were better together,” Brian wrote. “And their future held more promise if they could make things work. That is what it took. The work doesn’t end here.” I closed the journal, and got back to the chores. There was still more work to do. More laundry to fold, more clothes to be put away. More outfits to be sorted into what is now too small for Teddy, and what becomes Phillip’s hand-me-downs. The work doesn’t end here. I have gone through these stages before, with Henry. He was once small. I changed his diaper and washed his clothes and folded and sorted. Now he is in college, looking handsome in his marching band uniform. If we’re lucky, Henry comes by on Sundays for family dinner, and to throw in a load of wash. Lizzie’s dream. To have all of her boys sitting down at the dinner table together. And you know what? It’s my dream, too. This world that we have built together. That Kings of Leon song has been echoing in my mind for weeks now. As the wind blows There goes My whole world I’m grateful today For my whole world When the laundry accumulates, I cannot say that I kneel down before the gods and thank them for bestowing upon me the many piles of toddler pajamas and socks and undies to sort and fold. But I also know, deep down, that there will come a day when the boys don’t need me to wash and fold their clothes anymore. So I do the work. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.