Mickey Hadick

I just threw out a dozen sweaters, all of them too large for me. I recently lost weight, and I've had to change my wardrobe. Those sweaters were some of the last things to go.

I don't even wear sweaters that often but over the years I acquired them. Most of them were gifts from either my mother or my wife. The rest were purchases made by my wife for whatever reason. I probably didn't wear them for precisely the fact that I didn't buy them, and thus was not invested in them. Thirteen sweaters and I didn't buy a single one of them. What am I, a four year old?

So I've been cleaning house. It has accelerated since my weight loss, but had actually started a couple of years before, after my father died.

When he passed, and my mother left to go live with one of my brothers, my other brother and I cleaned out their home. Most of that was brutal, because there was so little left that was of significant value to be salvaged. We trashed great deal. I was shocked about how much miscellaneous stuff a closet can hold

After that ordeal, I was intent on not living with miscellaneous stuff any longer. I had many, many useless things in the basement, and I began a process of throwing away a bag of stuff every week. I did leave a few things that I intend on selling on eBay, but I haven't gotten around to that, either, and now I'm thinking I just need to trash that stuff too.

My daughter did a good thing this weekend in cleaning out her room. The one problem is that she piled the stuff she didn't want in the hallway, and it actually spread so far and wide that it blocked our doorway. So tonight I spent a few minutes putting all that stuff in a trash bag. My wife still wants to sort through it, but I'm all for trashing it.

More than once the past couple of years I have had the thought that what I need to do, that what would make me happy, is to throw away all the old stuff. I'm surrounded by clutter and chaos (still!) and it really bothers me.

At work I've been better about spending a little time each week cleaning off the piles of stuff and filing what is important and then trashing that which is not important.

At the moment I have no joy in this. I really want to look forward to when all the stuff (I don't want) is gone, and I can live an uncluttered life. In fact, at the moment, I'm just exhausted and falling asleep at the keyboard. With luck, I'll dream of that uncluttered life.

Labels: personal growth

I had a nostalgic moment. I seem to have a lot of those, but this one was classic, or, rather, in the classical sense of nostalgia.

I play the accordion. I'm not very good at it, have only been playing for a little more than three years, and there's a lot to learn. I stopped taking lessons this year because it was just too traumatic to get to the lessons on time with the other demands on my time. I really thought I'd be better at studying on my own, and I have, but now I miss learning new things, other than the songs. So I began searching for books on how to play the accordion.

I've already bought most of the books on the subject, and there's quite a few at the beginner's end of the scale, a couple at the very highest end, but next to nothing in between. There are intermediate song books, but no explanation on how to play those songs.

I kept searching. Depending on the phrasing used, I'd get most of the same old stuff, or some links to what seemed to be very expensive DVD-based lessons of various styles. Today I stumbled on the right combination of search terms, and discovered a review of "Fingering the Accordion" by Robert L. Smith. I immediately ordered it.

Here's the interesting part: it seems to be self-published, and the only contact information was a name and address posted on the reviewer's web page. I did specific searches of the title and the author, thinking I could order it on Amazon.com, or eBay, or Half.com, or alibris.com, but there were no other traces of the book on the internet. Spooky, right?

I doubted the veracity only for an instant. I wrote out the check. addressed the envelope, and wrote a note by hand to explain my interest in the book. That was the cool part for me, writing a note and ordering something with a letter.

In fifth grade, our teacher (Mrs. Perkins) put us through some exercises in Social Studies wherein we would write letters to our Congressman, Senator, and the President to see what we would get back. It was a lot of fun, and, sure as hell, we got neatly typed letters in return on some serious weight stock.

I also was a big proponent of ordering dumb-ass things out of the back of comic books, or from cereal boxes. My greatest acquisition was probably a Quisp ray gun that actually shot a cloud of talcum powder, but looked really cool, or the Cap'n Crunch milkshake set, or maybe the Willie Wonka chocolate factory kit. Each of those involved the envelope, a small amount of money, and writing a letter to explain things, as my teacher taught me, to ensure it'd arrive safely, rather than relying on those tiny little order forms.

I got a real kick out of writing a letter, explaining what I wanted, and stuffing that into an envelope. In three days, the letter will arrive in California, and Mr. Smith will rip it open, see my check, and begin his order fulfillment process. Perhaps in ten days, I will have his book on accordion fingering techniques in my hands.

Because Mr. Smith does not have a web presence, it seemes doubtful that he is egomaniacal enough to constantly google himself. If he did, he might see this blog entry before my letter arrives, and so he might have my order prepared and just waiting for the check to arrive.

Labels: memoir

In many ways, our kids have it easier than we did, but that also complicates other aspects of their lives. It's easier because we live in a house with two and a half bathrooms, so the fighting is over which hair appliance is plugged in, and who left the cap off of the teeth-whitening toothpaste. They are stressed out in the morning because they can't decide what to wear, and that's because they have so many choices. I had five shirts for school, and two pair of pants, and so it was very straightforward. My mother probably had one dress and one skirt and two shirts.

For breakfast, they might debate whether to have a bagel with cream cheese or sweetened cereal. They definitely fight over who gets to control the digital video recorder remote control.

All of the luxuries come with a price. We all get too little sleep, so the kids are up late, distracted during the evening by television, internet games, and cell-phone shenanigans. The cartoons they do watch are mind-abusing, heavy on ironic social commentary and adult-themed humor (why cartoons ever left the tried, true, and trusted format of physical violence is a mystery to me).

They also must remember to plug in their cell phone.

A very real problem they have to deal with is over-loaded backpacks. Every teacher demands that they have a binder for them, and so they must fit ten pounds of school stuff into a five pound backpack. All the binders can't fit in their locker, either, so there's a constant struggle to tote and find the right material.

The one bright spot is that the backpacks are so full, there's no room for alcohol, tobacco, or firearms. It's an insidiously brilliant approach to keeping the kids on the straight and narrow.

There has been some saber-rattling lately about the end of affluence, as future generations will not enjoy the same standard of living as we did. I believe the lifestyles will become increasingly casual regardless of the income available. It's not like people will revert to toting water from the village well to bathe themselves twice a year (whether they need it or not). Future generations may not be able to afford digital cable, broadband internet, and new car payments, so I think people will drive used cars, and leach off of their neighbors for wireless internet to find pirated television shows.

I'm not saying that it will be a better life. They may be doomed to struggle hopelessly to recreate this golden age of wastefulness in which we are living, and it may be impossible to achieve the level of unbalanced affluence that Americans now enjoy. But it won't be third-worldish, either. They will find love and ways to be happy. They may even take advantage of the nascent health movement, and actually lead simpler, healthier lives than we do today.

Think of it: in a world with less pressure to acquire useless goods, we might sit at home in the evening with our spouse and talk and laugh over a quiet meal of healthy food. We might turn in early, every day, to make love in a warm bed. And when we have children, we might raise them with a villager's attitude of providing for their needs, watching them grow, and imparting to them the values of love, cooperation, and respect.

In the morning, we would all awaken with the sun, rested and impatient for the new day to begin.

Labels: memoir

When I was a kid, we had a fairly rigid morning routine. The house was small, and my brothers and I slept in the (finished) attic. There was only a single bathroom, but in later years my father built a shower in the basement near the drain, but we were a bath-at-night family during the early years. In the morning we would dress, wait our turn at the toilet, and eat a bowl of cereal.

My mother would have been awake for at least on hour before we were up. A banker, she would dress nicely for work. She was usually not ready, though, when we got up. She would be part of the way there, but usually was wearing a house coat (a fancy robe) and had curlers in her hair.

Mom would put the cereal on the kitchen table and make us lunch. For cereal, we usually had a choice of Rice Krispies or Cheerios. Occasionally we were spoiled with Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, Fruit Loops, or Coco Puffs. (During the Quake and Quisp years, we were a Quake house.) Come to think of it, we usually had Cap'n Crunch, and only were without sweetened cereals when my father went on a health rampage, declaring the extra sugar evil.

Mom made balogna sandwiches for lunch. Two slices of Wonder Bread, two slices of bologna, and two swipes of mustard. Occasionaly we were treated with some potato chips, but usually not. We got a quarter for milk, which could buy a few milks and some pretzel rods. I splurged for chocolate milks, feeling the extra penny was worth it.

We had about a half-mile walk to the elementary school, so we were out the door by 7:30 am. I know we watched cartoons in the morning, so we were probably up by 6:30 am most days, to give us that extra time to watch TV.

This brief remembrance may make it sound quiet and lovely, but I know it was tense and stressful most days. We lived in a small house, so there was very little room for book bags, musical instruments, and projects. Things were left on the stairs to our room, but things were also misplaced, covered up, and lost. There was yelling to keep us moving, and fighting over which lousy TV show to watch.

I was prone to anxiety attacks, and freaked out about little things, and sometimes my mother would drive me just to get me to shut up about being late.

Still, one memory sticks out. It was winter, and the furnace was slow to warm the house. So my mother had the gas stove going full blast, and left the door open to warm the kitchen. It was, to her, the equivalent of her own childhood, during the depression, during which they would not burn coal in the furnace because they couldn't afford it. She would get up in the mornings, sometimes with frost in her room, kept warm by the shared heat of her sisters, with whom she slept.

They would dress in the freezing cold, and then run to the kitchen to find the heat. Once there, her father would toast bread in the oven. Thus they would start their day.

In part two, I'll describe our current equivalents, and explain how this generation so is much weaker than mine, and how my generation was weaker than my parents'.

Labels: memoir

Shortly before leaving for college, I went to a party at my friend's house. It was an odd time because many of us were about to leave town and start new lives. There was an anxious energy about, at least for me there was.

The party was much like the others we'd had that summer, involving a few drinks, maybe watching television, and talking about girls. It went until quite late at night, and Eddie got very antsy and wanted to go for a walk. This was three in the morning. I went with him.

It was a calm night, and warmer than normal. We walked through residential streets and across our city park and past the municipal building where the police station was. We were probably the most dangerous things on the street, so there were no worries about that. We talked mostly about the girls we knew and liked (and which I was too shy to approach) and what college might offer us. I was very hopeful that the fresh beginning would bring me an interesting social life.

Eddie was prematurely nostalgic for the world he was about to leave. So much so that he wanted a souvenir from our home town. At around three-thirty in the morning, he decided that he really wanted a road sign to hang in his dormitory. We made our way back to the party, but with a renewed interest in the signs along the way. Eddie was basically shopping.

Back at the party, we announced our grand design to those still awake, borrowed some tools, and returned to the streets.

A street sign was the first choice, but it was mounted too high to reach. Nearby was a Stop sign; we could reach the nuts and bolts holding it in place, and realized that it was really a much better choice than the street sign.

The nuts proved very stubborn. In fact, we couldn't budge them one single bit. Perhaps it was the fact that it was past our bed time, or that we were somewhat inebriated, but struggle though we might, the sign was not coming free from its mounting.

Eddie was frustrated. He really liked the idea of the souvenir, and refused to surrender it. He thought perhaps we could pull the post from the ground, and we tried that, nearly soiling our pants with exertion.

Near desperation, Eddie began to rock the sign back and forth, hoping to loosen it where it was planted. He leaned against it, then pulled, back and forth, over and over again. Once more we tried to lift it from the ground, but the earth would not release its grip on it.

Eddie tried once again pushing and pulling. He was voicing his frustration at this point, and about to surrender, pulled back on the sign so that he was almost flat on the ground. He released his grip and the sign snapped forward like the lever of a catapult. Eddie also sprung up, so as not to fall backwards, and took a step forward.

The sign's forward movement was halted by the same forces that had frustrated us so many times already, and pushed it back with nearly the same energy it had on its flight forward. This time its movement was halted when the sign smashed into Eddie's face. Mind you, this all happened in less than a second, the pull, release, snap backward into Eddie's step forward, and then bang, smack in the forehead like something out of a Three Stooges movie.

Eddie was knocked flat to the ground into the street. Luckily, his skull had not been broken by either the sign or the pavement. He did, however, have the distinct imprint of a hex nut in his forehead, just above his nose.

Dazed, we returned to the party. We had failed on our quest, but learned a valuable lesson.

Labels: memoir

I believe I would be more productive without the internet. This is a bold statement because the internet means so much for so many people, but I have been using it lately to kill time around the house. I'm avoiding projects I want to accomplish by surfing through random web sites.

In truth, it's not the internet, it's me. Before the internet, I would get lost in books. I always had stacks of them or literary journals full of short stories, and I would grab them from piles somewhat randomly, and read. It was very hypertext-ish because of the randomness. In a sense, my reading habits were forward looking and prescient. You might even say I invented the internet.

One of my all-time favorite places is the Dawn Treader Bookshop in Ann Arbor. Many years ago, I would wander into that store on the way back from classes and purchase a few used books. I would do this frequently, and at a pace much exceeding my ability to read.

This bad habit continued after graduation with the Daedalus catalog of remainders. I quickly overwhelmed myself with lovely books, some which I still haven't read.

To top it off, I subscribed to both The New Yorker and The Paris Review. And I liked to watch TV. What was I thinking? Ironically, it was my obsession with computers that chipped away at my reading habit. Now it's reading on a computer that chips away at my computer habit.

Did I mention that I'm trying to learn how to play the accordion?

Labels: personal growth

My son is not big on projects. It is not the way he learns, and he hates the idea of them. For the most part I agree with him, but it's something that has to get done.

My son is big on talking, watching television, and arguing. He especially likes arguing about what's on television, especially when he can use the DVR to prove a point through the miracle of pause and slow-motion. These things don't help get a project done.

Labels: memoir, story