Fathers Day 2011: Some Thoughts on All the Fathers in my Life

By Steve Cichon | steve@buffalostories.com | @stevebuffalo

I’ve been blessed with fathers in my life. I was lucky to have the best dad that anyone could ever ask for; which is what every son and daughter created in their old man’s image will say. I mean how can I not: from my stubby fingers, to untold numbers of personality traits both wonderful and not-quite-as wonderful, I’m a spitting image of my dad in so many ways, how can I deny it?

I’ve written a lot about my dad. Click on “The Ol’man” in the word cloud and you’ll see plenty about him.

I love and miss my dad every day, but what I’d like to talk about today is the other fathers in my life, and I’m lucky to have and to have had many.

I’m so blessed to have enjoyed the love and care of three grandfathers.

First, Stephen Julius Wargo, my great grandfather, after whom I was named. My mom’s grandpa. He lived a few blocks away from us, and when I had to go home for lunch in first grade, I would occasionally bring a can of chicken noodle soup over to Grandpa W’s house for us to share, with enough left over for his dinner. He also famously fixed my Dukes of Hazzard big wheel, when the piece between the handlebars and the big wheel broke. I sadly dragged the pieces down to his house, but triumphantly rode my orange plastic treasure home a week later. He was always smiling, kind of a troublemaker, and happy that as a revered old guy, he could get away with it. Like on Christmas, when he wouldn’t fully open a gift; but would only lift up the edge of the paper to see what was in there. A master aggravator!

Jimmy Coyle was my mom’s dad. He took over sending out cards and such after my grandma died, and I know I got at least one signed “Jimmy Coyle” from gramps. A big strong man, Gramps was the old fashioned kind of strong silent type that you might see in the westerns that he loved. When I was little, and we’d be there for dinner, he’d come home from work, and within moments be sharping the big knife in anticipation of carving up the big roast beef that Grandma just pulled out of the oven. I always felt an extra compulsion to behave and eat everything on my plate, with my regular seat next to Gramps. We would often be at Grandma and Grandpa’s house the night he did grocery shopping, and he would buy a special treat for us for ‘helping’ put away the groceries (I was no more than 5 or 6, and I’m the oldest… So I don’t think we were much help.) It was usually green Chuckles (like the spearmint jelly candies) and we earned ’em. I also remember going with him in his old green jalopy of a pickup truck (it was actually a van with the back some how cut off) to the hardware store, where I can remember him using his old wooden fold out measure to see how much wood he needed. I don’t think he ever used a metal measuring tape. As we all got older, you could tell how satisfied Gramps was when his house would fill on holidays. One of his last great thrills though, came on one of his saddest days. On the day of Grandma’s funeral, he took ‘all of June’s gambling money,’ and funded an impromptu Irish wake at a hole in the wall bar. He had so much fun drinking and really just hanging out with his kids and especially his grandkids, he talked about it with a smile until the day he died.

I’m blessed that Grandpa Cichon is still as loving and lovely a man you’d ever meet at the age of 85. If the world had a few more people like Eddie Cichon, there’d be fewer coupons to go around, but a lot more happiness and love. Gramps always delighted in whatever kids were around, especially any of us 20-something grandkids. When we were small, he’d take us to the park, and sit and watch us play until we wore out. One of his classic lines, Go catch grandpa a bird, would leave us kids sneaking up on birds seemingly forever. We never caught one. Dinner was a little different at Grandma Cichon’s. The table was completely set, everyone was in place, waiting for Gramps to get home from work. His seat was a direct shot from the front door, he’d sit right down, say the fastest grace on record, ‘BlessLordGiveBoutToReceiveChristLordAmen,’ and quickly add a ‘OK, let’s eat.’ And eat you did with Gramps. A child of the Depression, he clipped coupons, and stored them under a couch cushion. He’d try to use expired ones. And he’d buy it whether he needed it or not. “But Huns,” he’d tell Grandma, “It was on sale.” Then he’d try to make you eat it or take it home. For as hard a time as I have had with my Dad’s death, poor gramps not only lost a son, but a best friend. My dad used to bring him donuts to the nursing home whenever he’d visit. It had probably been at least a year since he had one, when I brought two up a few weeks ago. He’s blind, so when I told him what a I had there with me, he said, with all the gravity and earnestness you can imagine, ‘Stevie, donuts are as good as gold.’ And there’s no doubt he meant it.

September 29, 2001, I some how shanghaied my beautiful wife into saying ‘I do,’ and I gained not only a wife, but a whole family. I don’t even like referring to Howard Huxley as my father-in-law, because father is really enough. He’s probably tearing up reading this, and that’s what I love about him. He loves his family, and loves and appreciates that his family loves him.

He’s really the ultimate proud parent, traveling to just about everyone of my brother-in-law’s baseball games. And the games were an hour and a half away, at night, and he had to be up for work at 3am. And just this week, he was there shooting video of my well-into-her 30s wife, as she took the slide into Jell-O for charity, with no less excitement than when he was there taking pictures at her 1st grade dance recital. I know it’s tough on him that his other daughter and granddaughter are in Florida, but it really makes the times we’re all together that much more special for him and all of us. Personally, I’m thankful and blessed that all this love and pride has extended to me, too. Howard’s my biggest fan, showing up to all my silly events, always listening to the radio, and just being a good guy, good friend, and good dad.

Growing up, I also became close with the fathers of a number of friends, like Bob Cohen, the late Dr. Fanelli, and Don Brindle. Each of them cared for me not only like the friend of a son; but like a son, and I them like a parent.

I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I think Fathers Day is about more than just biological dads. We actually call our Catholic priests ‘Father,’ and two in particular have meant the world to me.

Msgr. Francis Braun was really the first priest I’d ever gotten to know and love on a personal level. He’s from the same no-nonsense old school as my Grandpa Coyle, has the heart of my Grandpa Cichon, and a lot of the ‘I’m doing what’s right-get out of my way’ attitude of my dad. I’m glad he’s enjoying his retirement with his fellow retired brothers in Christ, despite his having told me more than once that ‘old priests are a pain in the neck,’ and not always using the word ‘neck.’

Fr. Braun was the pastor at my church, so it’s pretty clear how he came into my life. But it’s a little less clear how Father John Mack did.

He is the little angel who sits on my shoulder,and helps shine the beacon of Christ’s love into places I didn’t know existed.

I’m humbled by his continued guidance and friendship, and I consider myself blessed to have a spiritual father to love and trust right here in the flesh. His presence in my life (and my Facebook life) “keeps me honest.”

Of course the big guy, the Father of all men, is also someone that I have to be thankful for; for blessing me with all these great men and great memories and great hope for the future.

Max the Dog: 15 Jun 2001- 14 May 2011

By Steve Cichon | steve@buffalostories.com | @stevebuffalo

maxfamily

As I begin to write this, I’m sitting here, typing with one hand on my phone, petting Max with the other, waiting for the call from the vet to bring him in. For the last time.He hasn’t eaten in 5 days, won’t even look at food. Can’t drink more than a few laps without spitting it up.

X-rays show a big tumor blocking up his belly.

Max came to us from the SPCA almost a decade ago. He was Monica’s first real pet, and the first pet I’ve ever had any real emotional attachment to…

We had dogs growing up, and they were ok, but in a house of 5, I was certainly less connected to Buckshot, Snoop, or Casey than my parents or brother or sister.

Casey fell in love with Monica when we were dating, and it was that literal puppy love which helped Monica get over the emotional scars of a dog bite from when she was a little girl (even though she’ll still tell you ‘Butch is in hell.’)

With Butch in hell,emotional scars healed, and us newlyweds in a big house, Monica decided she wanted a dog. When Monica decides she wants something, she starts researching.

maxtoysEarly research took her to the SPCA website, and the page featuring a friendly mutt named Max.

I don’t remember exactly what was in that write up, but he sounded like my kind of dog, and the photo showed he was a handsome and sweet looking character. It did mention that he was a mixed breed of unknown origin (they said shepherd/lab, but who knows?), and they said that though he showed some signs of abuse (his tail was chopped and his ears were cut), he was still very loving.

When we went to go visit this young man at the SPCA, Max was the only dog sitting quietly with anticipation, while the rest were barking and trying to get our attention.

I walked up to the chain link cage he was in, put my hand up to it, and he gave my hand a quick, dry lick. One of my big hang ups– any dog we got couldn’t be a slobberer.

maxpraysThat quick visit, and that dry lick, had me convinced on Max. In her heart, Monica was, too, but this was an early instance of a discussion we’ve had many times during our marriage. I always say, if you’ve found something you like, and it’s reasonable, just pull the trigger.

Even though Monica’s patience has saved us hundreds on airfares, for example, this time it cost us a dog we both wanted.

She really liked him, but said let’s think about, let’s wait. So, we didn’t get him that day.

When, a couple days later, we went back, convinced on Max, ready to sign the paperwork, we found his cage empty.

He’d been adopted. Very traumatic, especially for Monica who’d had her heart set on this creature.

We went home and regrouped. Scanned the SPCA website again, and were ready to go meet some more animals.

maxstevehaleyWe pulled in to the parking lot, and there, literally being taken out of a minivan and back into the shelter, tail wagging the whole time… None other than Max the Dog!

You wouldn’t have believed it if it was written this way in a Hallmark movie, but here it is playing out on Ensminger Road.

He was too energetic, said whomever it was that tried him on for a few days.

Clearly, divine providence brought this fur bag into our lives. I have believed this from day one.

There’s always that feeling out period for both the dog and the people… He was deathly afraid of the crate, so we blocked off an area in the front hall with baby gates. He was afraid of the baby gates, too, this 60 pound dog.

Eventually, though, he gained free roam of the house and our hearts.

maxcarwindowFor about two years, I woke up every morning to the sound of him killing the washcloth Monica had just washed her face with. Actually, I woke up to the sound of him thrashing the washcloth in his mouth about half the time. The other half, I woke up to Monica swearing about the dog and the washcloth.

We agreed early on that we’d keep him off the furniture, and I’d yell at him if he was found on the couch or on the bed. What I eventually found out, was Monica was letting him up on the couch and bed when I wasn’t home. All and all, it’s fair to say Max got more use out of my bed over the last decade than I did.

After he gave up the washcloth, this beast found a new way to wake me up. He’d repeatedly back his rump into the bed, until I reached over and gave the whole area around his tail a good scratching, then he’d hop into bed, and lay with his back stretched out against mine, laying like a human with his head on the pillow.

This dog really had a near perfect personality. He was always happy and hopeful. A bit high maintenance, but he paid it back. He’d just walk up, give you one of those dry licks on the hand and walk away. Nothing wanted, nothing needed. Just a hello.

maxporchHe was a great dog, but he had a pea sized brain. He knew quite a few words. There were three different words for outside.

Outside is where you went out the back door. Porch is where you went out the from door, and the side door, well, that’s from where you went for a walk. Probably half of his vocabulary revolved around walks. he knew the work walk, the word leash, and if you just said the word, “Go,” and left it dangling the right way, he’d think you were inviting him for a walk whether you were or not.

Other words he knew: Bowl, as in his food bowl; bed, as in it’s time for bed, so I’d better run upstairs and try to claim my place on the bed; he also knew toy; and Momma and Poppa, as in, Where’s your Momma. He’d always take me to Monica.

I tried to insist that I wasn’t a poppa, but a ‘male owner.’ Max never understood that.

His favorite word though, beyond a doubt: cheese.

He could hear the cheese drawer open from anywhere in the house, even the yard. He also knew the sound of American cheese singles being unwrapped, and could some how differentiate between that and other plastic wrappers.

maxbegHe begged for cheese in the same way he’d beg for at dinner. It wasn’t really aggressive, it was just passive and pathetic. Sitting at attention, eyes fixed on the prize, drips of drool in the corners of the mouth ands on the floor, and the occasional paw in the air or on the leg. He knew he had to ‘sit’ and give ‘paw,’ two more of his words.

Sometimes he wouldn’t beg, but use the tricks he’d learned to get what he wanted. Like ask to go outside, make a quick circle on the back porch, and head back in expecting a treat. He was funny with treats. He’d look in your hand; if it was empty, he knew to look in his bowl. For something extra special, you could tell him, upstairs… and he would run to the top of the stairs to wait for his treat.

Max was probably a world record holder in two categories. Number of photographs taken of a dog, and number of nicknames. He knew all of his nicknames. Most curse words he responded to, but also Stinky boy, smelly man, The Stinky Man on Campus, little man, Mr. Man (like the old lady on the Blues Brothers), young man, old man, gray beard, fur bag, fur ball, fur burger, MTD the PYT (think Michael Jackson), buddy, pal, really you name it. Many of these were also set to songs. There’s a third record. No dog has ever had more impromptu songs written and sang about him to him. Ever.

It’s also a little known fact that Max talked. It was through me,but he did have his own distinct voice. He mispronounced big words, and made a lot of jokes about Monica, but he always apologized. I think it’s comforting for both Monica and me that some how Max can still communicate with us from the other side.

Whenever we’d walk in the door, most times you’d see one of two things: Either him standing on the landing on the stair case wagging his tail, or, if we fumbled around outside enough, you’d see nothing but a tail wagging through the window on the door on the other side of the foyer. Maybe a nose sticking through if that door was cracked open.

maxwindowWhen I was home and Monica wasn’t, there wasn’t a sound he loved more than the sound of her car doors locking with that half beep. He’d be watching out the front window, nosing open the curtains, tail wagging– rear end wagging, actually, in anticipation of the whole family being together again. He get really excited at the notion.

When sitting in the living room, we often knew the other was home by the thump-thump sound of Max jumping off the bed in the bedroom above us. He was getting up to greet. Part of his job, along with sniffing and licking.

He’d stand on the porch and wiggle if someone’d open the front door. A greeting from Max meant you’re home.

He loved to sniff bags as we came home from shopping, and liked clothes and shampoo as well as food.

Good ol’ Max was a lover, not a fighter. Never bit anyone. Never. Not even playing. He’d growl pretty mean sometimes, look like he was going to bite, but then lick.

maxbedHe did this most nights, when it was time to leave our bed, go outside, and then go on his bed.

Just a ‘Hey, Max…’ and he knew what was up. Sometimes he’d go without a fight. Sometimes he’d try to be dead weight and not move…. Growl when I’d grab his collar… and then sometimes, if he really didn’t feel like going, he’d go and sit on Monica. Oh yeah, Max was a 60 pound lap dog.

He wasn’t tough at all. One time, on a walk, a big dog came running off a porch at us; Max got behind me.

Another time, a little bunny got stuck in between the rails of our iron fence. He was really jammed in there good. Max just sat there, in the rain, and whined.

There weren’t many rabbits in the yard, because that was Max’s territory. He walked the perimeter a dozen times a day on patrol.

In the winter, you’d look in the smallish square city backyard, and see paw prints all around the outside, but no tracks at all in the middle.

And though it was across the street, he also considered the walkway into the park part of his territory. Which meant a lot of barking, every time someone walked with their dog into the park. Dozens of times a day. It was a friendly bark though, more or less trying to get the other dogs to come over to play, tailing wagging the whole time. That is, except for the ugly dogs.

These three or four rare breeds live around the corner from us, and their owner takes them on walks, one right after another. Max’s fur gets up, and its an angry bark when these dogs use his path into the park. He did not like these ugly dogs. Not one bit. They may have been the only creatures on this planet Max ever hated.

maxwatchparkAside from warning us the 16 times the ugly dogs walked by everyday, Max did have one real watch dog moment in the sun.

One Saturday morning, Max was barking, strangely, out the back window very loudly.

We let him outside, and he was barking crazily with fur up at the garage door.

The lock was broken off, and some crack head looking for something to steal was still in there. My good boy barking like crazy sent the crack head out the back window into a neighboring yard, where he leapt over a 6 foot fence. Dude must have been high as a kite.

It’s still a popular debate whether Max would have licked or bit the guy had he run out the front door.

I could write stories for days, but the bottom line is, this bag of fur has brought more joy and left me more in awe of God’s wonder than few other other things in life.

The end came quickly. Tuesday we went for a great walk through the park and through the neighborhood.

Wednesday, we woke up to vomit all over the hallway. He didn’t get any better Thursday, and wasn’t eating or drinking. Still throwing up, and going to the bathroom in the house.

Friday, the vet does x-rays, gives some medicine, says let’s see what happens tomorrow. My heart sank. I knew what had to be done. Monica was texting me from work, asking what’s going on at the vet. I tried to be vague, but Monica is too smart for that.

His last day, that Friday night, he spent a lot of time laying in that yard he used to patrol. Listless. Trying to drink a little, only to spit it up.

Monica and I sat with him on the grass, and petting him, trying to make him comfortable, and at least happy that the family was together.

I know I was thinking of the times when he’d run in circles around the yard, started off with a ‘Hey Max!’ and taking an exaggerated step in his direction.

He spent his last night on our bed with us, a treat usually only reserved for thunderstorms or when we’d feel guilty about leaving him home alone too long.

None of the three of us slept really well; so we got up early that Saturday, and went to sit on the porch. Porch was probably Max’s third favorite word. He laid there, very weak after having not eaten or been able to keep down even water for 4 days as we waited for the vet to call.

We knew what was coming, but it was still like a sucker punch to hear the vet say euthanasia that morning.

He had been doing a little better that morning… Even though we knew better, we had hoped with the kind of hope that Max showed every time we put sneakers on (No Max, we had to tell him… We’re not going for a walk.)

But Max was happy when they brought in the fluffy bedspread for him to lay down on, another rare treat from the hard tiled floor at the vet’s office.

Monica and I were both crying. She sat in the chair petting him, I got on the floor and cradled his head on my leg and pet his neck. With his collar off. Man, he loved getting his neck scratched underneath his collar.

They sedated him, and when he was comfortable on that bedspread on the floor, as I held him, and Monica pet him, the vet gave the final injection. It wasn’t even 30 seconds when I watched my little buddy’s eyes roll up in his head. I’m glad I was there, actually, I owed it to him. But I really wish I hadn’t seen his eyes roll back. I’ll cry whenever I think about it for the rest of my life.

Once he was gone, my attention quickly turned to Monica, and we held each other, and pet our great friend one last time.

stevemaxThe thing about a dog is, it’s only his presence, his company. He doesn’t remember your birthday, he doesn’t help you move, he won’t do a lot of the stuff you hope for, or even expect from, a great friend.

But the one thing dogs are.. is there. They are there. Always. It’s never more stark than when they aren’t.

Right now, there are empty spaces in my heart that I never even realized were full.

And yes, I know I’m talking about a dog here.

Max laid with us when we were sick, relaxed with us, protected us, loved us.

The skeptical ask, love? And I say, yes; maybe not like on our human level, but yes.

What is love? The desire to be with someone; to feel safe with someone; to be willing to be vulnerable with someone; to lay your head in someone’s lap and sigh loudly, knowing you’re in a good place.

Now Max’s pea sized brain may not have been able to combine all of those emotions into the single, complex human emotion of love, but on his level, I know he loved me.

I know because I felt it every day, and still do.
maxtoy

maxcurly

Maxbabushka

Max the Dog: 15 Jun 2001- 14 May 2011

By Steve Cichon | steve@buffalostories.com | @stevebuffalo

BUFFALO, NY — As I begin to write this, I’m sitting here, typing with one hand on my phone, petting Max with the other, waiting for the call from the vet to bring him in. For the last time.

maxfamily

He hasn’t eaten in 5 days, won’t even look at food. Can’t drink more than a few laps without spitting it up.

X-rays show a big tumor blocking up his belly.

Max came to us from the SPCA almost a decade ago. He was Monica’s first real pet, and the first pet I’ve ever had any real emotional attachment to…

We had dogs growing up, and they were ok, but in a house of 5, I was certainly less connected to Buckshot, Snoop, or Casey than my parents or brother or sister.

maxtoys

Casey fell in love with Monica when we were dating, and it was that literal puppy love which helped Monica get over the emotional scars of a dog bite from when she was a little girl (even though she’ll still tell you ‘Butch is in hell.’)

With Butch in hell,emotional scars healed, and us newlyweds in a big house, Monica decided she wanted a dog. When Monica decides she wants something, she starts researching.

Early research took her to the SPCA website, and the page featuring a friendly mutt named Max.

maxprays

I don’t remember exactly what was in that write up, but he sounded like my kind of dog, and the photo showed he was a handsome and sweet looking character. It did mention that he was a mixed breed of unknown origin (they said shepherd/lab, but who knows?), and they said that though he showed some signs of abuse (his tail was chopped and his ears were cut), he was still very loving.

When we went to go visit this young man at the SPCA, Max was the only dog sitting quietly with anticipation, while the rest were barking and trying to get our attention.

I walked up to the chain link cage he was in, put my hand up to it, and he gave my hand a quick, dry lick. One of my big hang ups– any dog we got couldn’t be a slobberer.

That quick visit, and that dry lick, had me convinced on Max. In her heart, Monica was, too, but this was an early instance of a discussion we’ve had many times during our marriage. I always say, if you’ve found something you like, and it’s reasonable, just pull the trigger.

maxstevehaley

Even though Monica’s patience has saved us hundreds on airfares, for example, this time it cost us a dog we both wanted.

She really liked him, but said let’s think about, let’s wait. So, we didn’t get him that day.

When, a couple days later, we went back, convinced on Max, ready to sign the paperwork, we found his cage empty.

He’d been adopted. Very traumatic, especially for Monica who’d had her heart set on this creature.

We went home and regrouped. Scanned the SPCA website again, and were ready to go meet some more animals.

We pulled in to the parking lot, and there, literally being taken out of a minivan and back into the shelter, tail wagging the whole time… None other than Max the Dog!

You wouldn’t have believed it if it was written this way in a Hallmark movie, but here it is playing out on Ensminger Road.

He was too energetic, said whomever it was that tried him on for a few days.

Clearly, divine providence brought this fur bag into our lives. I have believed this from day one.

maxcarwindow

There’s always that feeling out period for both the dog and the people… He was deathly afraid of the crate, so we blocked off an area in the front hall with baby gates. He was afraid of the baby gates, too, this 60 pound dog.

Eventually, though, he gained free roam of the house and our hearts.

For about two years, I woke up every morning to the sound of him killing the washcloth Monica had just washed her face with. Actually, I woke up to the sound of him thrashing the washcloth in his mouth about half the time. The other half, I woke up to Monica swearing about the dog and the washcloth.

We agreed early on that we’d keep him off the furniture, and I’d yell at him if he was found on the couch or on the bed. What I eventually found out, was Monica was letting him up on the couch and bed when I wasn’t home. All and all, it’s fair to say Max got more use out of my bed over the last decade than I did.

maxtoy

After he gave up the washcloth, this beast found a new way to wake me up. He’d repeatedly back his rump into the bed, until I reached over and gave the whole area around his tail a good scratching, then he’d hop into bed, and lay with his back stretched out against mine, laying like a human with his head on the pillow.

This dog really had a near perfect personality. He was always happy and hopeful. A bit high maintenance, but he paid it back. He’d just walk up, give you one of those dry licks on the hand and walk away. Nothing wanted, nothing needed. Just a hello.

He was a great dog, but he had a pea sized brain. He knew quite a few words. There were three different words for outside.

maxporch

Outside is where you went out the back door. Porch is where you went out the from door, and the side door, well, that’s from where you went for a walk. Probably half of his vocabulary revolved around walks. he knew the work walk, the word leash, and if you just said the word, “Go,” and left it dangling the right way, he’d think you were inviting him for a walk whether you were or not.

Other words he knew: Bowl, as in his food bowl; bed, as in it’s time for bed, so I’d better run upstairs and try to claim my place on the bed; he also knew toy; and Momma and Poppa, as in, Where’s your Momma. He’d always take me to Monica.

I tried to insist that I wasn’t a poppa, but a ‘male owner.’ Max never understood that.

His favorite word though, beyond a doubt: cheese.

He could hear the cheese drawer open from anywhere in the house, even the yard. He also knew the sound of American cheese singles being unwrapped, and could some how differentiate between that and other plastic wrappers.

He begged for cheese in the same way he’d beg for at dinner. It wasn’t really aggressive, it was just passive and pathetic. Sitting at attention, eyes fixed on the prize, drips of drool in the corners of the mouth ands on the floor, and the occasional paw in the air or on the leg. He knew he had to ‘sit’ and give ‘paw,’ two more of his words.

maxbeg

Sometimes he wouldn’t beg, but use the tricks he’d learned to get what he wanted. Like ask to go outside, make a quick circle on the back porch, and head back in expecting a treat. He was funny with treats. He’d look in your hand; if it was empty, he knew to look in his bowl. For something extra special, you could tell him, upstairs… and he would run to the top of the stairs to wait for his treat.

Max was probably a world record holder in two categories. Number of photographs taken of a dog, and number of nicknames. He knew all of his nicknames. Most curse words he responded to, but also Stinky boy, smelly man, The Stinky Man on Campus, little man, Mr. Man (like the old lady on the Blues Brothers), young man, old man, gray beard, fur bag, fur ball, fur burger, MTD the PYT (think Michael Jackson), buddy, pal, really you name it. Many of these were also set to songs. There’s a third record. No dog has ever had more impromptu songs written and sang about him to him. Ever.

It’s also a little known fact that Max talked. It was through me,but he did have his own distinct voice. He mispronounced big words, and made a lot of jokes about Monica, but he always apologized. I think it’s comforting for both Monica and me that some how Max can still communicate with us from the other side.

Whenever we’d walk in the door, most times you’d see one of two things: Either him standing on the landing on the stair case wagging his tail, or, if we fumbled around outside enough, you’d see nothing but a tail wagging through the window on the door on the other side of the foyer. Maybe a nose sticking through if that door was cracked open.

When I was home and Monica wasn’t, there wasn’t a sound he loved more than the sound of her car doors locking with that half beep. He’d be watching out the front window, nosing open the curtains, tail wagging– rear end wagging, actually, in anticipation of the whole family being together again. He get really excited at the notion.

maxwindow

When sitting in the living room, we often knew the other was home by the thump-thump sound of Max jumping off the bed in the bedroom above us. He was getting up to greet. Part of his job, along with sniffing and licking.

He’d stand on the porch and wiggle if someone’d open the front door. A greeting from Max meant you’re home.

He loved to sniff bags as we came home from shopping, and liked clothes and shampoo as well as food.

Maxbabushka

Good ol’ Max was a lover, not a fighter. Never bit anyone. Never. Not even playing. He’d growl pretty mean sometimes, look like he was going to bite, but then lick.

He did this most nights, when it was time to leave our bed, go outside, and then go on his bed.

Just a ‘Hey, Max…’ and he knew what was up. Sometimes he’d go without a fight. Sometimes he’d try to be dead weight and not move…. Growl when I’d grab his collar… and then sometimes, if he really didn’t feel like going, he’d go and sit on Monica. Oh yeah, Max was a 60 pound lap dog.

maxbed

He wasn’t tough at all. One time, on a walk, a big dog came running off a porch at us; Max got behind me.

Another time, a little bunny got stuck in between the rails of our iron fence. He was really jammed in there good. Max just sat there, in the rain, and whined.

There weren’t many rabbits in the yard, because that was Max’s territory. He walked the perimeter a dozen times a day on patrol.

In the winter, you’d look in the smallish square city backyard, and see paw prints all around the outside, but no tracks at all in the middle.

And though it was across the street, he also considered the walkway into the park part of his territory. Which meant a lot of barking, every time someone walked with their dog into the park. Dozens of times a day. It was a friendly bark though, more or less trying to get the other dogs to come over to play, tailing wagging the whole time. That is, except for the ugly dogs.

These three or four rare breeds live around the corner from us, and their owner takes them on walks, one right after another. Max’s fur gets up, and its an angry bark when these dogs use his path into the park. He did not like these ugly dogs. Not one bit. They may have been the only creatures on this planet Max ever hated.

Aside from warning us the 16 times the ugly dogs walked by everyday, Max did have one real watch dog moment in the sun.

maxwatchpark

One Saturday morning, Max was barking, strangely, out the back window very loudly.

We let him outside, and he was barking crazily with fur up at the garage door.

The lock was broken off, and the crack head was still in there. My good boy barking like crazy sent the crack head out the back window into a neighboring yard, where he leapt over a 6 foot fence. Dude must have been high as a kite.

It’s still a popular debate whether Max would have licked or bit the guy had he run out the front door.

I could write stories for days, but the bottom line is, this bag of fur has brought more joy and left me more in awe of God’s wonder than few other other things in life.

The end came quickly. Tuesday we went for a great walk through the park and through the neighborhood.

stevemax

Wednesday, we woke up to vomit all over the hallway. He didn’t get any better Thursday, and wasn’t eating or drinking. Still throwing up, and going to the bathroom in the house.

Friday, the vet does x-rays, gives some medicine, says let’s see what happens tomorrow. My heart sank. I knew what had to be done. Monica was texting me from work, asking what’s going on at the vet. I tried to be vague, but Monica is too smart for that.

His last day, that Friday night, he spent a lot of time laying in that yard he used to patrol. Listless. Trying to drink a little, only to spit it up.

Monica and I sat with him on the grass, and petting him, trying to make him comfortable, and at least happy that the family was together.

I know I was thinking of the times when he’d run in circles around the yard, started off with a ‘Hey Max!’ and taking an exaggerated step in his direction.

He spent his last night on our bed with us, a treat usually only reserved for thunderstorms or when we’d feel guilty about leaving him home alone too long.

None of the three of us slept really well; so we got up early that Saturday, and went to sit on the porch. Porch was probably Max’s third favorite word. He laid there, very weak after having not eaten or been able to keep down even water for 4 days as we waited for the vet to call.

We knew what was coming, but it was still like a sucker punch to hear the vet say euthanasia that morning.

He had been doing a little better that morning… Even though we knew better, we had hoped with the kind of hope that Max showed every time we put sneakers on (No Max, we had to tell him… We’re not going for a walk.)

But Max was happy when they brought in the fluffy bedspread for him to lay down on, another rare treat from the hard tiled floor at the vet’s office.

Monica and I were both crying. She sat in the chair petting him, I got on the floor and cradled his head on my leg and pet his neck. With his collar off. Man, he loved getting his neck scratched underneath his collar.

They sedated him, and when he was comfortable on that bedspread on the floor, as I held him, and Monica pet him, the vet gave the final injection. It wasn’t even 30 seconds when I watched my little buddy’s eyes roll up in his head. I’m glad I was there, actually, I owed it to him. But I really wish I hadn’t seen his eyes roll back. I’ll cry whenever I think about it for the rest of my life.

Once he was gone, my attention quickly turned to Monica, and we held each other, and pet our great friend one last time.

The thing about a dog is, it’s only his presence, his company. He doesn’t remember your birthday, he doesn’t help you move, he won’t do a lot of the stuff you hope for, or even expect from, a great friend.

But the one thing dogs are.. is there. They are there. Always. It’s never more stark than when they aren’t.

Right now, there are empty spaces in my heart that I never even realized were full.

And yes, I know I’m talking about a dog here.

Max laid with us when we were sick, relaxed with us, protected us, loved us.

The skeptical ask, love? And I say, yes; maybe not like on our human level, but yes.

What is love? The desire to be with someone; to feel safe with someone; to be willing to be vulnerable with someone; to lay your head in someone’s lap and sigh loudly, knowing you’re in a good place.

Now Max’s pea sized brain may not have been able to combine all of those emotions into the single, complex human emotion of love, but on his level, I know he loved me.

I know because I felt it every day, and still do.

maxcurly


 

olmancoverAlso by Steve Cichon: 

My dad died at age 58. I’ve really become accustomed to dealing with grief by writing about the people and things I love, and what it is and why it is that I love them. Written in the weeks following my dad’s death on Palm Sunday, 2010, read the story of his last week alive, and a reflection of our relationship and time together here: The Real Steve Cichon: Me and My Ol’Man 

 

Buffalo in the 80’s: B-kwik Markets & RC Cola

By Steve Cichon
steve@buffalostories.com
@stevebuffalo

Buffalo Stories archives

The B-kwik Food Markets chain was a part of the Tops Friendly Markets family.

The stores were medium sized markets, between the large Tops stores and the small Wilson Farms stores.

My grandma lived a block away from the Seneca Street b-Kwik, my dad worked there when it was Food Arena. Living in North Buffalo, I shopped often at the Hertel b-Kwik, which was bought out by Dash’s.

Buffalo in the 70’s: John Corbett & Mr. Yuk

By Steve Cichon
steve@buffalostories.com
@stevebuffalo

Mr. Yuk is mean, Mr. Yuk is green.

Buffalo Stories archives

WBEN-TV’s John Corbett with Mr. Yuk in 1975.

Corbett anchored newscasts on Channel 4 through the 60’s and 70’s, and was a fixture on WBEN Radio hosting midday shows live from Hengerers, as well as afternoon drive show “Car and Kitchen.”

Mr. Yuk stickers were meant to warn small children about dangerous chemicals around the house– but wound up being something that some kids were attracted to instead of repulsed by.

Remembering WWI Vets: Uncle Gordon, Uncle George, & ‘Pops’

By Steve Cichon | steve@buffalostories.com | @stevebuffalo

It got me to thinking as this piece of news crossed the wires:

America’s last surviving veteran of World War I has died. Frank Buckles was 110. A family spokesman says Buckles died peacefully of natural causes at his home in Charles Town, Va.

There have been three World War veterans in my life. The first two I never knew personally, one I did.

The first two were my Great-Grandpa Scurr’s older brothers– Merchant Marine men who died at sea four months apart during The Great War.

George & Gordon Scurr
George & Gordon Scurr

George Scurr was an ordinary seaman on the SS Hazelwood, which was mined by German U-boat UC-62 on October 18, 1917. William Gordon Scurr was killed by a German U-Boat in 1918.He was a British sailor in the Merchantile Marine, a Second Engineer on the SS Trocas, and was 26 years old when the steamer was torpedoed by German U-boat UC-23 on January 19, 1918 in the Agean Sea.

I heard stories about their sacrifice growing up, and remember my grandma showing me photos of her uncles who had died in the Great War. The photos were in the box underneath the couch, right next to where grandpa used to hide his coupons under the cushion of the couch. (It was always an adventure as a little kid at Grandma Cichon’s house.) My grandma was a wonderful story teller, and I’m glad that I listened closely and listened often. I just wish that I had taken better notes. I am proud of the sacrifice made by my forebarers, and will make sure its remembered as long as I’m around.

I have a personal, very strong recollection of another World War I vet. “Pops” is how we knew him. He lived with his son a few doors down from us on Allegany Street in South Buffalo.

He was very tiny and very old. He wore the same sort of big plastic VA glasses that my dad did in the early 80s, and wore very old working man’s clothes, including suspenders to hold up pants that were a bit loose on him. His skin was blotchy with age spots, and he was probably at least 80, but for all I knew, he could have been 150.

Like so many of the characters on that street growing up, there was a warmth about him that made us kids want to talk with him and listen to his stories. I don’t remember any of the stories he told, but I remember him standing in the driveway telling the stories, and us standing in the driveway listening.

pops house allegany

Pops would stand in this driveway, a few doors down from where I lived. The trees weren’t as big then, and the street was much more bright.It seems in my recollection that he was almost immobile, standing in the driveway; just out for some fresh air, hoping one of the neighborhood kids would give him a “Hi, pops.”

The only other thing I remember about him, and perhaps this also leads to why he was standing in the driveway, was that he chewed tobacco. It was usually wadded up into a lump in a paper towel. He’d pull it out of his pocket and take a bite, then stand there and spit out the juice. Come to think of it, this had to be why he was standing there all the time.

I’m not sure why we called him Pops, or what his name actually was, or anything about him, really. As I think about this more than I have in 30 years, maybe he told us something about “gas,” like the mustard gas Germans used against US troops in France. Maybe that’s just my brain playing tricks on me. I can’t even really be certain that he was a World War I vet, but I know I’ve thought that my whole life, and will continue to do so until I find out otherwise.

In thinking about Pops, and growing up on Allegany Street from 1980-1984, I visited Google Street View and took a look at what Allegany looks like now, and it brought back a few more memories. We were at 45 Allegany Street, a house so much smaller than I remember. Next door was the phone company, or at least that’s what we called it. Its apparently still an answering service. I remember very pretty disco-era women working in there.

45 Allegany, the house in the middle here, where I lived 1980-84.
45 Allegany, the house in the middle here, where I lived 1980-84.

As a matter of fact, when I think of ‘generic disco-era women,’ this one woman who worked there is who pops into my mind. Long blond hair, lots of eye makeup, lots of perfume, high heels, and she drove a blue Chevelle. The boss there drove an faux-wood panelled AMC Pacer, and used to make Donald Duck noises to us.

Next door to the phone company, two doors from our house, was Art. Art owned Toby the Dancing Dog, which was some sort of terrier, or maybe a small poodle. The dog would jump, his paws on our shoulders, and dance with us. One time my brother mouthed off to Art, who knew my great-grandfather.

“I’m telling your grandfather on you, you little bastard,” Art said. I’m sure my brother laughed, which only enraged poor ol’Art even more. He drove a big green early 70s Buick.

Then there was a nice older lady named Kay, and then I think was Pops’ house. Mr. Walsh lived next door to Pops, and the only reason I mention it, is because he was friends with Noodles the Mailman. Sometimes Mr. Walsh and Noodles would sit for a while on the porch in the cool ‘ultra-mod’ orange cloth folding chairs that looked like they’d have fit in perfectly on an episode of Laugh-In.

Anyway, sad the the last solider left standing from the ‘war to end all wars’ has died.

Buffalo in the 1910’s: Steamers on the Great Lakes

By Steve Cichon
steve@buffalostories.com
@stevebuffalo

Buffalo Stories archives

It’s hard to fathom that so many big work, pleasure, and ferrying ships were steaming in and out of Buffalo not all that long ago.

Who wouldn’t love to “cruise” from the foot of Main street!

This is the Steamer Western States in steaming into Buffalo Harbor around 1900-1910.

Made in Buffalo, 1951: Manufacturing in Buffalo from Fortune Magazine

By Steve Cichon
steve@buffalostories.com
@stevebuffalo

BUFFALO, NY – For the second half of the twentieth century, industry was on a steady decline in Buffalo– but it was really at it’s height when Fortune Magazine did a 10-page cover story on manufacturing and the industrial might of Buffalo and Western New York in its July 1951 issue.

cover-1The Frederick Franck painting of Buffalo’s waterfront and downtown is great by itself, but the 27 photos of humming industry, almost half in color, and the rich accompanying text show the general sense of optimism about the future of the Niagara Frontier just after World War II.

There’s even a reference to one corporation deciding to build a factory elsewhere because there just weren’t enough people looking for work in Buffalo.

Outside of a few big names, many of the mid-sized factories that came and went here are all but forgotten to the collective memory. Buffalonians often use “Bethlehem Steel and GM” as shorthand for the providers of thousands of blue collar jobs that were once plentiful in Western New York.

And while those two giants may have employed 30,000 men here at the height of it, there were more hard working Western New Yorkers punching a clock in dozens and hundreds of other smaller factories. Large corporations and mom and pop outfits.

As you’ll read below, ‘the 200,000 factory workers (of Buffalo) make everything from pig iron to pretzel benders.’ It also says that Buffalo is heavily Polish, mostly Catholic, and anti-Red.

Just like many of you, my own family history is reflected in these photos. My great-grandfather worked at Westinghouse, my grandfather scooped grain at General Mills. My father-in-law worked for Hooker Chemical.

Of course, the mere mention of Hooker is a reminder of what a truly mixed blessing the high paying jobs of dirty industry was in so many cases. Western New York became ground zero for one of the first disasters to call attention to the disposal of toxic waste. The the company was found negligent, along with the City of Niagara Falls, in what was to become known simply as ‘Love Canal.’

Enjoy this look at Buffalo’s “fascinating industrial kaleidoscope,’ and make note that the photographer on this story was Victor Jorgensen, more famed for his V-J day shot of a sailor and nurse kissing in Times Square.

page1madeinbuffalo-1

 

Reformatted & Updated pages from staffannouncer.com finding a new home at buffalostories.com
Reformatted & Updated pages from staffannouncer.com finding a new home at buffalostories.com

The Old Latin Mass: Following along in church Pre-Vatican II

By Steve Cichon
steve@buffalostories.com
@stevebuffalo

Buffalo, NY – As the Catholic Church gets ready to make the first major changes to the Mass in a few generations, we now look back at the mass before the last big change, the granddaddy of ’em all… Those made at The Second Ecumenical Council of the Vatican, usually known as Vatican II.

priest
There were many important, substantive changes made at that series of meetings held in Rome from 1962-65, but the one that had the greatest, most immediate effect on every day Catholics, was the introduction of vernacular languages into the Mass.

Up until 1967, Catholic Masses were still said in Latin, and were mostly said by a priest facing away from the congregation, and facing the tabernacle. The decisions made at the Vatican II opened up mass for more lay participation in the service, and allowed a greater number of people to take an active part by being able to listen and understand the Mass.

This missal, obviously meant for children, gives some great illustrations, the basic outline and explanation of the old Mass, and many of the old Latin responses that were changed to the ones that are about to be changed again now about four decades later. The book was necessary, because, again, nearly everything was said in Latin, and a young child certainly wouldn’t be able to follow along.

Remember Your Sunday Mass Missal? In a plastic binder like this one, you could carry a rosary, scapulars, prayer cards, and your missal
Remember Your Sunday Mass Missal? In a plastic binder like this one, you could carry a rosary, scapulars, prayer cards, and your missal

Note that the last page is a prayer to be said for those being persecuted in Russia. These prayers were added to the mass by Pope Pius X, and it was ordered that they be said in prayer for those in Soviet Russia by Pope Pius XI in the 1920s.I’m not sure where I picked up this particular book, but it was originally owned by George Clemens, who made his communion at Annunciation Church, Lafayette Avenue in Buffalo, in 1962. There was a George Clemens born in Buffalo in 1954, and died in 1987, living in the same zip code as Annunciation Church, so that could very well have been him. Again, I don’t exactly remember where this book came from, but it was likely with a pile of other things.

Why the Change?

In 1963, The Vatican Council decreed the following:

“[T]he rite of the Mass is to be revised … the rites are to be simplified, due care being taken to preserve their substance. Parts which with the passage of time came to be duplicated, or were added with little advantage, are to be omitted. Other parts which suffered loss through accidents of history are to be restored to the vigor they had in the days of the holy Fathers, as may seem useful or necessary. The treasures of the Bible are to be opened up more lavishly so that a richer fare may be provided for the faithful at the table of God’s word … A suitable place may be allotted to the vernacular in Masses which are celebrated with the people … communion under both kinds may be granted when the bishops think fit…as, for instance, to the newly ordained in the Mass of their sacred ordination, to the newly professed in the Mass of their religious profession, and to the newly baptized in the Mass which follows their baptism…”

The next year, biblical readings and the prayers of the faithful where introduced in local languages, as were the ‘Our Father,’ and other chants and parts of the Mass in which the people participated.

In 1967, the canon of the Mass was allowed to be said audibly, and in vernacular languages, and several of the vestments previously required of priests were made optional.

The Mass was further changed, to the service now familiar to most Catholics, in 1970.

Read more in a very thorough wikipedia article on The Tridentine Mass, also known as the Latin Mass.

Here at staffannouncer.com, we have dozens of church anniversary booklets, and other items from churches all over Western New York “on the pile” of great items to shared right here at your home for Buffalo’s pop culture memories.


Reformatted & Updated pages from staffannouncer.com finding a new home at buffalostories.com
Reformatted & Updated pages from staffannouncer.com finding a new home at buffalostories.com

Buffalo in the 60’s: Jimmy & Johnny– The Dialing for Dollars Band

By Steve Cichon
steve@buffalostories.com
@stevebuffalo

Do you know the Count and the Amount?

Buffalo Stories archives

Jimmy and Johnny were the house band on WKBW-TV’s Dialing for Dollars through the 60’s and 70’s.

Jimmy Edwin was on the drums, and Johnny Banaszak played the accordion. Johnny was also the guy inside the Promo the Robot suit on Rocketship 7.