The past ain't through with us

I never met my grandfathers. One died before I was born and the other died when I was too young to remember. Obviously, that sucks. Huge revelation I know. Our older relatives are conduits to the past and I often feel cheated that I didn't get to spend any time with my grandfathers. I didn't get enough time with my grandmothers either for that matter. And for whatever reason, I never really knew much about them, or my family as a whole. I knew the basics, but I never looked into it much, I think partly because I didn't have much connection to the past besides my grandmothers for a short while.

Recently I have become more interested in learning about my family history. There are many reasons for this (we did a heritage project with the kids at work and it motivated me to learn about my own heritage; spending time with my girlfriend's grandmother; watching my nieces grow up and wanting to build the connection to the past and future generations; the existential dread of getting older and understanding my minimal significance in the grand scheme of things) but the fact is I just want to know more about who I am. It's always about me.

Anyways, a few weeks ago, my mom gave me a newspaper article about her father. It's from The Hartford Courant, published on May 5, 1953. I reprinted it below. This would have probably been one of the feel good stories a newspaper ran to keep people's minds off segregation, Korea, and the inevitable nuclear war with Russia. I found it fascinating because, like any news article, it serves as a snapshot of a moment in time, even if it is a "fluff piece."

Most of all, I like it because it sheds light on the type of man my grandfather was:

The Human Touch, by Bob Zaiman

When Nick Farr first started operating the Frances Soda Shop on Ashley Street about 15 years ago, he inherited a gang of the neighborhood high school kids. The little store had been their hangout under the previous owner and, after meeting Nick for the first time, they knew right away that he was the type of guy who would permit them to continue using the place as headquarters.

They were a nice bunch of kids, not a "wise guy" in the bunch. Most of the time they would lounge around the booths talking about sports and girls and the rest of the things that interest boys in their teens. Sometimes when the talk ran down, they would go over to the magazine rack and pore through the latest issues. They never bought any of the magazines but Nick Farr didn't mind--as long as they replaced them neatly after they were through reading. 

Business slowed down in the latter stages of the evening and then Nick began to join them. There were about 15 boys in the group and it wasn't long before Nick became a sort of a senior member. On nights when the gang went bowling, they took Nick and let him compete with them. If they had problems, they would talk them over confidentially with Nick. He developed into a "big brother" for the Ashley Street crew.

Friendship Lasts

Well, the years sped by, and the boys grew into manhood but they still came around to see Nick and to chat with their old buddies. The strong bond of friendship between the soda shop owner and the boys never weakened. 

Seven weeks ago, the old Ashley Street gang received some shocking news. Nick Farr had been taken seriously ill and would be unable to work for some time. They called a hasty meeting in the soda shop to figure what they could do to help their hospitalized friend.

"Somebody has got to take care of the soda shop," one of them announce. "Nick's wife has three small children on her hands and she can't handle it."

They all agreed that the most important thing to Nick in his hour of need was to keep his business operating. And, right then and there, six of them volunteered their services. Not one of them had ever worked in a soda shop before but they knew the general routine and besides, Elva, the personable girl who worked for Nick, could advise them when they were stumped.

All six members of the old gang had steady jobs during the day, which meant they could only help out at night but that worked out fine since Elva took care of things from 7am to 7pm.

Share Night Shift

And so, seven weeks ago they started working the shop, each taking a different night. They didn't ask for or expect any money for their services. They were helping out a friend who had once taken care of them in the past. 

Barney, Victor, and Fred Castellani, three brothers who lived across the street worked all day on their mason contracting business, were eager to do their bit. So were Tom Glynn, a Hartford Gas Co. employee, and James Leary, who works at the Hamilton Standard Propeller firm.

Ray Lavery, the sixth volunteer, lives in Manchester now but he didn't let that stop him. He made the trip to Hartford on his scheduled work night and took his turn behind the counter, handling the sales of cigarettes, magazines, camera supplies and the dozens of other items in Nick's store.

Nick is out of the hospital now, but he is still unable to work. It will probably be another two months before he will be allowed by his doctor to spend even a few hours in the soda shop. Meanwhile, the six old friends are carrying on for him and they vow that they'll stay there until Nick is completely recovered.

Getting the story of their inspiring and unselfish act was like pulling teeth. They didn't want any publicity.

"There's nothing unusual about what we're doing," they said. "Anybody would do as much for a friend."

Despite what the men said about their actions, they clearly went above and beyond what most people would do for a friend. It's obvious that my grandfather made a strong impression on these individuals for them to go to such lengths to help him. It induces a sense of pride to hear that your family members made a positive impact on the people in their lives; I felt a similar sense of familial/genetic pride at the retirement parties for my parents. Not to mention, the respect and accolades my family members receive work out great for me because all that goodwill usually extends my way without me having to earn it.

One of the best parts of this article is the language. The writer states, "not a 'wise guy' in the bunch" in complete earnestness. It's fantastic. The entire situation is almost inconceivable. What is a soda shop? Nowadays it would take place in a chain yogurt shop, except it went out of business after 6 months and the boys never got to know the owner who ended up dying because he couldn't afford proper healthcare. Dark times. Makes you yearn for nuclear bomb warnings.

I am grateful for the men who helped my grandfather in his time of need. I'm grateful for the Hartford Courant for writing the story and my mom for sharing it with me. I've always recognized the importance of history but I often didn't apply that to my own life and family history. As I get older I realize, if our own family doesn't even care about us after we pass, who will? It's the responsibility of the living to preserve the spirit and memory of the dead.

Besides, the dead tell us a lot about ourselves if we just listen.

That sounds overly supernatural. I just mean that you can learn a lot about the present from learning about the past, and you can learn a lot about yourself from learning about your family, and I like doing both, and that's about that.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

EMT was ME

My time as an Emergency Medical Technician seems like a distant dream, but it has forever shaped me in some ways. I volunteered as an EMT for only about 2 years (including training) but a lot can happen in that small period of time, especially in a position where death is all part of the daily routine.

I encountered death several times as an EMT, which made me confront my own mortality in a more immediate way than I ever had before. I have luckily not had many deaths in my close family or circle of friends. When family members have died, it has been mostly in old age, which takes some of the sting out of the loss. Those deaths were painful, but expected, and about as "positive" an experience one can have with death (both my grandmothers were in their 90s when they died, so even though they missed the Willard Scott birthday shout-outs, they lived long, happy lives). The deaths I encountered in my time as an EMT are as close to understanding that immediate, unprepared feeling of loss as I have gotten or want to get.

Although these people were not family or friends, or even acquaintances, their death still has an impact. Emergency responders have a responsibility towards people. When a person doesn't make it, even though he or she may have had no chance despite any intervention, there is a feeling of failing that person.

There is the feeling of loss too, especially if there are other family members around. On one occasion, we went to an apartment where a man was on the floor, unresponsive for quite some time. I started on chest compressions while my partner gave artificial breaths, all while the man's wife was in the same room screaming, asking us over and over again if her husband was dead and if we were going to save him. I felt her suffering as if it was my own. Even though I didn't know them in life, in death I was now a part of their story.

Seeing a loved one's pain obviously makes the death more personal, but just being in someone's apartment or house gives you that sense of loss. You are there to help, but you are still encroaching upon their territory and into their lives. I have entered their world, and I now have a connection with them. Its strange, and powerful, and very sad sometimes. You feel the energy in the house as if it is a living entity (if you believed my college Creative Writing professor, homes are living entities). The sense of loss pervades the house. And if there are any family pets, forget about it.

Just being there with the dead or dying is an intense feeling. When a man died at a nursing home, I was one of the last people to be with him in his dying moments. That is a powerful feeling. And strange. And sad. Those are really the three most prevalent emotions as a first responder. What if that's how I end up? Alone in a nursing home, my legs turning green and crusty because of a lack of circulation, dying in the presence of two strangers. That is a question you try not to ask yourself. That type of question is also why most EMTs (most people in the medical field really) often have a sick sense of humor. Seeing death and misery everyday causes your brain to protect itself at all costs, and dark humor is a way of shielding the brain from drowning in depression.

Another thing that helps are the endless emergency calls. That may seem counter-intuitive, but it is the neverending nature of medical emergencies that keeps you from being overwhelmed by the tragedy of some calls. You can't contemplate and reflect on each problem (even death) for too long because you are on to the next call (there are some shifts that have long stretches of downtime, and we usually try to fill those with movies or sleep). There is no way to be completely objective and distant from the situations you are in, but the responsibility of the position makes you focus on the current situation, and that alone, which helps you get through any emotions from the previous call.

There's also just some funny moments that you'd never see in another line of work. Even in shitty situations, there are always moments that lighten the mood or add a sense of surrealism that forces you to smile or shake your head and keeps you from being overcome by misery. One night, we got a call about an accident on the Berlin Turnpike. A sedan with a drunk driver attempted to leave the parking lot of the Carrier Motel and was T-boned by a minivan traveling northbound on the Turnpike. The car was spun around and somehow sent back towards the parking lot and into the side of the motel. When we arrived, some cops were talking with the two passengers of the minivan and others were looking for the driver of the sedan; they had not found anyone in the car when they arrived.

So my partner and I began assessing the two passengers of the minivan. As we asked questions and took their vitals, we heard shouts from the police: "We got somebody over here!" The cops shouted for us to come over so we ran to the car still wedged against the building. Apparently, the driver (who wasn't wearing his seat belt obviously) was thrown into the space between the passenger seat and the glove compartment. The space was extra tight; the front end of the vehicle was smashed inwards, and the guy was almost squished underneath the seat. The police who first responded to the scene somehow missed him on their first search. The guy was motionless and obviously fucked up, but he responded with grunts to our questions.

Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for the 20 firemen that arrived, they needed the jaws of life to get him out. If you ever want to make a crew of firemen happy, let them destroy a car to remove somebody inside. They tore that car apart like a Christmas present, where the present was a barely living human.

While they did their thing, we gave the guy oxygen and tried to clean any wounds. After about 15 minutes, the firemen were able to remove the roof and doors and seats (I told you they tore it apart). We put a brace on his neck and got him out on a stretcher. If you're wondering why we took so long to get him out instead of just pulling him out (and after seeing enough videos of people pulling friends out of wrecked cars, I know a few of you are wondering) it's because pulling and twisting him would cause more damage than however much time passed while slowly and properly removing him. People in the medical field hate getting sued for trying to save somebody's life.

So we finally get the dumbass out of the car. The parking lot is kind of tight and there are numerous service vehicles in the lot: fire trucks, the fire department's SUVs, the paramedic's SUV, two ambulances, and random cars parked at the motel. In their excitement, the fire department had blocked everyone in with a giant fire truck. One of the younger firemen went to move it and 10 seconds later, a loud "crunch" caused everyone to stop what they were doing and look over towards the truck.

The rear door of the Fire Chief's SUV had been open and sticking outwards. It was positioned near the exit of the parking lot, and the firetruck apparently did not see this as it was backing up. The truck went directly into the door, tearing it halfway off and lifting the SUV two feet in the air.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, everyone erupted into laughter. Well, everyone but the fireman driving the truck. And the guy on the stretcher. He probably would have laughed if he didn't have broken ribs though.

That moment changed the whole tone of the night. Everyone was (rightfully) very serious up until that point. That little incident reminded us all that even tragedy is just a part of life and not to get too caught up in it or it will lead to mistakes. Luckily, this was not a very serious mistake. Even the Fire Chief had to laugh.

It's kind of odd thinking back on my time as an EMT. I never did anything like it before or since, and it had a profound effect on me. Even though I don't think about it directly very often, it has changed the way I think, probably permanently. I have seen so much sickness and I learned about so many different illnesses and conditions that every time I feel something wrong with my body, I think it's a horrible disease and I will be dead by morning. It's a common condition among people in the medical field called "knowing too damn much". You can't help but think the pain in your side is actually gonna be a ruptured gallbladder like that guy you took to the hospital the other day. It usually ends up being gas, but your mind always goes to the worst case scenario.

Regardless, I'm glad I did it. It was a great experience and I learned a lot. It will always be a part of me, a part in which I'm very proud.

Oh, and a little advice: always wear your seat belt and never ride motorcycles, unless you want to become one of the really cool, gruesome stories EMTs tell. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.