John Foley

This time of year I think of my father and brother, and an epic — well, epic for us — voyage we took four years ago in August.

I’ve always been close to my brother Mike, who is also a bit restless. After years in large corporations, he bagged the American dream to chase his own, and persisted despite some very lean years. He eventually started his own business (Claritycentral.net), and has found a way to tie business principles with his spiritual view of the world. He is much in demand as a speaker and seminar teacher.

I once invited Mike into my classroom at Roosevelt High School in Minneapolis. He had an exercise that was effective with professional business people, and he tried it with my class. It involved completing the statement, “If I didn’t listen to my fear, I would…”

Well, Roosevelt was in a rough neighborhood, and some of my students were hardcore gang members with violent tendencies. The first boy Mike asked to share said, “If I didn’t listen to my fear, I’d pop a cap in my old man’s ass!”

“Okay,” I said above the ensuing din, “I think we’ll move on to some vocabulary work.” And I got my brother out of there before he started a riot.

Mike visited me a couple of times when I moved to Everett, Washington, and he enjoyed getting to know the Seattle area. I’d casually mentioned how much I enjoyed living aboard a sailboat in Everett, and following a divorce, Mike moved to Seattle and brought along his recently purchased 41-foot Beneteau called Shannon. She was a beautiful sloop, and we enjoyed many cruises around Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands.

We tried to persuade our old man to come out for a cruise. He’d mustered out of the Navy on Whidbey Island in the early ‘50s, had fond memories of the area, and often spoke about coming out to visit sometime. Yet whenever Mike and I would invite him, he’d turn us down, citing the long flight from New York and this and that.

During the summer of 2005, after dozens of excuses, he finally caught a plane to Seattle. We had a week, and our plan was vaguely circular: set out from Everett aboard Shannon, cruise north through the islands, then back south to Seattle. We planned short legs. A day on the water can be tiring, and our sisters back east had warned us that the old man’s energy level was pretty low; he’d had to quit his retiree job as a school bus driver because he simply didn’t have enough spunk to deal with the kids.

While getting older did not make my father a happy man, he was far more peaceful. Alluding to the abusive way he treated me during home repair sessions when I was a kid — to this day, I avoid anything remotely mechanical because of the anger that arises — he told me once, “You know I’m just so sorry about that, John. I remember the hurt look on your face when I yelled at you, and boy, I just feel terrible. I’ll start thinking about that, feeling bad, and then I’ll just say to myself, ‘It’s the past, you can’t change it.’ And I try to let it go.”

We’d put the bad blood in our wake years earlier, and had become genuine friends.

The first day we motored from Everett to La Conner, a charming village surrounded by tulip fields. The second day we took another small trip to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. We stopped for lunch at Roche Harbor, on the west side of the island, on the third day, and that was when I really noticed how frail my father was. He had to stop three times along the dock to rest, and I had to help him up the last ramp near the restaurant. Despite smoking and drinking heavily all his adult life, he’d also been vigorous and athletic; the last time I’d seen him, a few years earlier, he’d still been swimming, walking and playing a little tennis. Clearly, I was in denial about his decline.

From Roche we cruised west to Sidney Island, where we anchored for the evening. We were blessed with wonderful weather most of the week, but that night in particular stands out. Surrounded by islands, we sat in Shannon’s cockpit, sipping beers and watching the tide flow in, the sun head toward the horizon and the play of alpenglow on Mt. Baker. We told old stories and new lies and generally renewed our kinship.

The only really challenging weather we hit was on the leg from Sidney Island to Victoria, when the wind kicked up to 25 knots and waves sprayed across the deck. Mike and I enjoy sailing in that kind of weather, but the constant pitch and roll of the boat means you are always shifting your balance and adjusting your center of gravity, not to mention trimming the sails. A couple of hours of this can be tiring, and we were both concerned.

But Dad seemed invigorated by the weather. He caught a second wind, as it were, and even took the helm for a while. I have a picture of him at the wheel, smiling though the rollers and spray – suddenly, miraculously, a young man again.

Our final stop was Victoria, where we visited my aunt M’ada, my father’s sister, and her husband, Jack. We stayed a couple of days, enjoying their Canadian hospitality. Then we set out across the Strait of Juan de Fuca on a foggy morning that seemed surreal and foreboding. It was our longest leg, all the way down to Seattle, and our father flew home the next morning.

He was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer about six months later. I talked to him regularly, the last time following a dispute about where and how his funeral arrangements would be carried out. He was gracefully accepting his death and didn’t care much, which led to various family members interpreting his wishes.

Finally I’d had enough. “Dad,” I said over the phone, “we’ve decided to fly you back out here. Then we’re going to wheel you aboard Shannon, cruise out into the sound, and bury your ass at sea.”
That was the last time I heard him laugh. A couple of weeks later I flew east for his memorial service. On the long flight I thought over our sailing trip, and I felt very grateful for those fine days we spent on the water, sailing the old man home.

A few days ago my 9-month-old son looked at me and said, “Da-da.” Naturally I was thrilled, humbled and nearly moved to tears.

Then he looked at the cat and said, “Da-da.”

So okay, comprehension is an ongoing process. We’re trying not to get ahead of ourselves. After Sean Michael said, “Oye” repeatedly, Jules got so excited she went out and purchased a Star of David and a yarmulke.

I jest.

A few of Sean’s favorite activities are bouncing in his activity jumper, taking shoulder and backpack rides (my little hitchhiker and I walk a trail on Sunday mornings), watching Baby Einstein videos, strolling around the park in his custom chariot and diving from the couch onto soft pillows. That last one scares Miss Jules, but he always comes up smiling.

My least favorite activity with Sean remains diaper changing. As a classic movie fan, I’ve labeled various aspects accordingly: Rear Window, Midnight Run, The Sweet Smell of Success, Groundhog Day, Duck Soup, Water World, Five Easy Pieces, The Dirty Dozen and, occasionally, Apocalypse Now. Just when I mastered the process, Sean Michael added some challenges. Now he rolls, kicks and arches while I’m working, and it’s like trying to strap a diaper on a bucking bronco.

The diaper change is about the ONLY image his Paparazzi Grandparents haven’t captured digitally – and I’m sure they will eventually. I half-expect them to jump from behind a tree and snap his picture when we’re strolling around the park. Grandma Mary claims she is entering his pictures in some cute baby contest, but I suspect she’s actually selling them to tabloids.

As Sean Michael gets older, his toys are starting to accumulate. The latest was a version of Jack in the Box called Peter the Pirate. Unfortunately, Peter refused to leave his box. Rather than suggest therapy, we exchanged Peter the Pirate for Jester the Clown, who dutifully pops at the appropriate time.
Most of Sean’s toys end up in the play pen. I call it the bullpen, but it actually reminds me more of a little prison – solitary confinement, unless you count a couple of stuffed animals. Every time I put Sean in there, I feel like that mean warden from The Shawshank Redemption, and I can imagine the conversation he might have with another inmate:

“What ya in for, bub?”
“Disturbing the peace.”
“How short are you?”
“About 30 inches.”

“Sheesh, new fish! I meant how long are you in for?”
“Ten to twenty.”
“Years?”
“Minutes. But it could be five to ten with good behavior.”

Well, it’s time to spring the kid for a shoulder ride. I’m guessing his ever-increasing weight and my ever-waning strength give us about a five-year window for this activity. Best Wishes from Baby Land, John & Jules.

Mark Fink, a successful TV writer and producer (FULL HOUSE, among many others), asked me to provide a blurb for his second young adult novel. I was flattered he asked and happy to oblige, since I thought his book was excellent. Here’s the blurb: “Andy Crenshaw has reason to sulk when his big summer trip is hijacked from Hawaii to Wisconsin. Instead, this kid rolls with the punches, embraces his funky relatives, avoids the cows in the road and sees beauty beyond surface appearances. Andy is a hoot and THE SUMMER I GOT A LIFE is hilarious — as well as sensitive and insightful. I loved the characters, who are perfectly drawn in all their imperfections.” I should add that a scene set at the Oshkosh Mall, in which a pig invades Victoria’s Secret, is worth the price of the book.

…What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
–William Wordsworth

So there I was, hiking along a riverbed in the Mount Hood Wilderness, enjoying the scenery in front of me – glaciers dripping off the massive peak, sheer canyon walls, the roaring river a few feet away. I was planning to go another hundred yards or so, take a picture, then return to the Pacific Crest Trail…I’m not sure why I turned to look behind me – I rarely do on hikes. Perhaps it was some atavistic instinct, the ancient hunter within sensing something amiss…In any case, there was a large black bear crossing the river about 200 yards away. I picked up my pace but soon came to a jumble of boulders that made passage all but impossible. The river was to the south and sheer canyon walls to the north, so I was trapped. When I looked again, the bear was about a hundred yards back and coming directly towards me; I felt very much like prey for the predator…I’d recently written a novel that includes a bear attack, but must admit the irony of the situation was lost on me at that point. Moreover, I wrote respectfully about bears in the book, and I’ve never hunted the magnificent creatures. I also have a healthy fear of bears, based on what I’ve heard and read. When he was in college in Houghton, Michigan, way out in the middle of nowhere on the Upper Peninsula, my brother once attended a bear wrestling contest. A cruel sport, of course, on the same level as dog fighting. He said the large black bear was muzzled, declawed and clearly drugged. But when the first “wrestler” put a headlock on the bruin and began pummeling him, the bear came out of his haze and casually flung the man into the second row. No other wrestlers clambered into the ring…The un-muzzled, fully-clawed, drug-free bear was now 40 yards away. There was some ammunition in the form of small rocks that I intended to use, but first I raised my hiking stick overhead and yelled, “Go home, bear! Go home!” Yeah, I know, more irony – he was home, and I was essentially trespassing in his living room. I vaguely wondered if the bear was my karma coming to get me. I hadn’t done anything bad lately, that I could recall, not for years…Well, there was that flap about the Obama/Huck Finn column, but that was just an experiment with p.r. and satire! I wanted to sell some books! No harm intended!…I remembered a columnist in Alaska who took relish in writing stories about foolish tourists dying in the wild. Naturally, he was mauled by a grizzly when his gun jammed – now that was karma in action…The bear raised up on his hind legs to look at me. Standing like that, he seemed at least seven feet tall. I dropped my stick and picked up a handful of rocks…I recalled Werner Herzog’s GRIZZLY MAN, the documentary about “Bear Whisperer” Timothy Treadwell, who spent 13 summers among grizzlies in Katmai National Park & Preserve in Alaska. He was appalled when bear watchers threw rocks at “Mr. Chocolate” when the grizzly came too close. Of course, Treadwell was eventually attacked and consumed by one of his “pets.” I thought he was misguided, but admired the obvious affection he had for animals, as well as his courage…Still, I was not going to whisper sweet nothings to Mr. Black Bear and hope for the best. No, I was going to throw rocks as hard and fast as I could, and if that did not deter him, grab my stick and try to take out his eyes…My Irish side, I guess…After taking a long look at me and growling, the bear dropped and, to my relief, turned and trotted back in the direction he came. My heart pounded hard for another couple of minutes. I kept a cold eye on the ursine while retracing my own steps, and was relieved to see him run up a steep slope and disappear in the woods to the north…By the way, it would have taken me about fifteen minutes of exhausted slogging to go up the slope that the bear covered in about fifteen seconds. They are amazing creatures, and I feel lucky to live in a part of the country where they thrive – and I’m relieved that our encounter ended peacefully.