Calico Joe, a Review

 Calico Joe is a novel by John Grisham.  I had to keep flipping the book to the front cover to remind myself of that.  No matter how much truth is blended into the story, the fact remains that the book is a novel.  The book is probably one that I never would have picked up on my own, but my buddy Jordan purchased me a copy and gave it to me to read, lauding it as a good story.  Not wanting to put Jordan off for too long, I picked up the short book and started as soon as I finished what I had been reading.

Calico Joe is, on the surface, a story about baseball.  Joe Castle was an up-and-coming baseball star, shattering records and making fans all across the nation.  Paul Tracey, at eleven years old, was obsessed with the game.  His dad, Warren Tracey, was a pitcher for the New York Mets, and from an early age Paul loved the game.  But Warren was a lousy father, often drunk and abusive and critical of everything.  Paul loved his dad but hated him, and this is the true crux of the novel.

The book is formatted into a memoir style.  One chapter is present day, with an odd first-person-limited view being told in present tense action.  Paul is older now, married with children.  The next chapter is a flashback to mid-century America, past tense jarringly obvious.  This format works, though I did find its methodology peculiar.  Regardless, the presentation accomplishes the story Grisham is telling.

The action here is subdued, with a foreseeable climax and a lengthy denouement that’s entirely appropriate.  The mood is tragic—Paul’s childhood was terrible—but the Reader is never all-out distraught.  The story is remarkably simple, but it’s also very accessible.  Grisham tends to do this well, writing prose that hooks the Reader on.  (Maybe that’s why I read pretty much all of his novels in middle and high school?)

I enjoyed Calico Joe.  As I’ve already stated, it was a simple story, but its simplicity made it effective.  The book is especially recommended for folks with daddy issues, or also for people that like reading “coming of age” books.  Baseball fans will undoubtedly love Calico Joe, although I suspect that hardcore fanatics may jump at some of the liberties Grisham took.  Overall, Calico Joe is a quick read.  The book handles the familiar themes of love, forgiveness, and death reasonably well, making an impact as much as to be expected by a popular fiction author.  If you want a summer read that’s appropriate for all sorts of Americana, check out John Grisham’s Calico Joe.

Aftermath

Monday brought with it heat and sun, despite it being November.  Inside the funeral home it was simultaneously cold and hot.  Family arrived an hour early.  The parlor was opened and we were led inside.  The body was in a casket at the front, clothed in simple, every day clothes.  A thermal John Deere shirt.  Jeans.  A bandanna around the head.  He looked good, and it was the first time I'd seen him since February.

The feeling of nothingness pressed on.  I stood at the coffin and stared absently.  Throughout the evening, many friends and family members showed up to offer condolences.  For once, I was the recipient of awkward conversation and empty words.  My life was instantly in dichotomy.  One part of me was engaging in normal conversation with familiar people; the other part of me was slightly aggravated/annoyed.  Still, I'm thankful for all the people that showed up.

A funeral is rarely pleasant, and this one was about as pleasant as a dentist's trip, just worse.  I feel for ministers.  Having to stand in front of a grieving family and others and make a eulogy has got to be hard, especially for people who die without knowing the Lord.  For I believe with all of my heart that if someone does not have Jesus as their Savior then they are doomed to eternal hell.  I have no idea the condition of my dad's heart before he died, nor can I begin to fathom how longsuffering God is.  I do know that he was saved at a young age, but he lived a life of drugs and rebellion.  What does that mean?  I have no idea.  The only comfort here is that I know that I am saved through Jesus' sacrifice and that I won't have to spend eternity apart from Him.

A dead body is cold.  It's something any lover of fiction knows.  I've been to many, many funerals, but never once have I touched a corpse (at least not to my knowledge).  I hadn't planned on touching this one, either, and I resisted the urge until the final time I saw him.  We all stood around the coffin, people crying and sobbing.  My typical stoic demeanor dissolved at some point.  Compelled beyond reason, I patted his crossed hands.  Bone beneath loose skin.  Dead muscle.  And cold.  Unnatural.

We all exited and waited in our vehicles until the coffin was loaded into the hearse.  The cemetery was a few miles away.  It was sunny and windy.  A few final words were spoken and that was that.  People scattered, and a few of us went back to Nana's house to eat and be together.  While there, I leafed through a dozen photo albums and pulled out baby/kid pictures of me and Jake.  I have seen very few pictures of our childhood, as most of them burned up when our house burned down, so this find was wonderful.

Now it's Thursday.  I'm back to work again.  It's good to be back to routine, but I'm exhausted.  It's been a taxing few days, and I suspect I'll be tired for a few more before I balance out.  I've got in a little reading time of late, but nothing substantial.  I've also edited a flash fic piece and submitted it to an online 'zine.  And I discovered a 4 volume, 8 cd set of great music at the library called the Anthology of American Folk Music, compiled by acclaimed folklorist Harry Smith.

I'm amazed at everyone's support.  For the most part, I don't know any of you.  Still, it's indescribable how loving and supportive the blogosphere is, and I thank every single one of you for the kind words/thoughts/prayers sent my way.  Seriously.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

My Dad is Dead

My Dad is dead.  His body is laying in the basement of the local funeral home, going through the process of embalming and preparation for burial.  Tomorrow, an 8'x3' hole will be dug in a tiny cemetery atop a tiny hill to bury a 6'-5" man.  Well, he won't be buried until Tuesday, but I'm guessing the hole will be dug early.  That was  my responsibility.  Going to the cemetery with the graveyard keeper, marking the plot, staking the ground.

I'm not sure how I feel.  My relationship with my dad was pretty much nonexistent, and has been this way for the last few years.  In the greater scope, it's been this way for most of my life.  He and my mom divorced when I was but a babe.  So I grew up without my "real dad" an active part in my life.  We--my brother (Jake) and I--would go over nana's and see that side of my family every few weeks, but most of those memories are vague and blurry at best.  I distinctly remember being disappointed in his usual absence whenever we were out nana's, but I also distinctly remember his usual presence whenever we were out there, too.  He would go around singing or humming, hilarious, fun.  Making sweet tea.  Playing chess.  Reading comics.  These things, these positives, I have clearly inherited from him.  I sing/hum almost constantly.  I'm told that I'm a rather funny person.  I (used to) make sweet tea (until my taste buds switched to preferring non-sweet).

But by and by, for most of my life, I've thought of my dad as a man who squandered what he had for drugs and alcohol.  That was why mom and him divorced.  I can remember him being buzzed, eyes glazed over, lethargic.  He sometimes looked skeletal.  These aren't things I like thinking about, nor do I necessarily like revealing them to the Internets, but they're truths that are responsible for me being the man I am today.  From early on I resolved to be a better man than my dad, and now that I have a baby of my own, this ideal has been practiced for five-months strong.

I always intended to see him more.  More than just Christmas and Thanksgiving and the occasional summer time, but I never got around to it.  I could have called or visited, but I suppose that door swings both ways.  Still, it is what it is.  I was trying to think of the last time I saw him, which I guess was back in February, when we got together for Christmas at nana's.  I don't remember anything special sticking out.  Avonlea wasn't born yet.  And that's another thing that's sad.  He never met Avonlea.  Ciara (my sister) showed him pictures of her on Facebook, and he loved looking at them, but in flesh & blood, the two never met.

It was odd, going out there.  I got the call last night about 10pm.  Nana was somewhere a few hours away, on her way home, asking me if I would go out to his house and wait with Ciara until she got in.  I changed clothes and hurried down there, making the forty-minute trip in less than forty-minutes.  There were two cops there when I pulled up, a white van belonging to the funeral home, a neighbor across the street, and my sister and two twin uncles.  I hurried over and got in talking up the last few details with the funeral director.  (Did we want him smooth-shaved?  What time did we prefer to meet and go over the arrangements?)  And we stood around in a huddle in the cold wind, dark night, confused, silent.  Ciara said the cops wouldn't let her touch him.

Soon, the two funeral directors brought out the body.  It was on a stretcher, covered with a brown, squared, simple quilt.  I never saw his face, and I still haven't.  I watched them roll him to the van and put him in.  The cops came up and told us to lock up the place.  Everyone left and we went in.

It was the first time I'd ever been there.  A simple, old, dirty single-wide trailer.  Aluminum foil in the windows for insulation.  A weathered-but-comfortable couch.  It was definitely the home of a bachelor.  Pill bottles lay around, mostly empty.  I gathered that more than a few people had been trying to get him to quit. I soaked it in, still feeling blank inside, headache pounding away.  What am I supposed to think?  How am I supposed to be feeling?  There is no norm.  Every situation is unique here.

Now, after a day of dealing with cemeteries, morticians, and family, everything is slowly settling in.  Even so, I'm still confused, still uncertain.  That's why this post exists.  Writing, and blogging by extension, is the simplest way for me to put my thoughts to focus.  It's personal, yes, but I'm an honest individual that believes transparency is healthy and good.  And when you've stood in a room full of coffins, filled from wall to wall, all different but all similar, your thoughts are bound to be scrambled.  It's late.  I'm tired.  There's still lots to do.  Lots I don't know about.  I do know that my dad loved me, and I think he knew that I loved him.  I know that it hurts knowing that I didn't put forth more of an effort, and that's something I have to live with.  I'm still working on me and this, and I'm sure I will be doing so for a while.  Everybody has daddy issues, and they're influential in personal development.  It's pure coincidence that I started a book last week on becoming a better father/husband and that my mind has been thinking about my dad more than normal these last few days.  I was excited that Thanksgiving was coming up because he was finally going to get to see his only granddaughter.  Not anymore.

I loved my dad, even though I was an absent son, even though he was an absent father.  And now the potential for change and for a relationship is gone.