I have a superstitious streak. Which is weird because, you know, avowed atheist and believer in the absolute cruel randomness of the universe. Yaaay.
Justin came over to play some Magic and just hang out - we hadn't gotten the opportunity to lately [and by the way, if you want to see some amazing comic work, you should head over to his site to check out why - he's doing some amazing and innovative work right now when it comes to developing and coloring comics. If what he's doing works out, and I'm more than sure it will, he'll be making some big waves one day], and I promised him I'd dig out a handful of old Swamp Thing comics from the Moore years that I had doubles of. He's wanted to get a better look at the coloring, which isn't printed in nearly the same way these days, even when the big collections and omnibus editions are put out.
I dug out a few long boxes, but was having trouble finding them. There's this place, like a cubby or a hidey-hole under what would be... the desk, I guess in my room, which I stuck about six long boxes in to maximize space in my... let's go with modest... living quarters. What I pulled out were a bunch of moist, chewed up boxes, falling apart as I tried to pick them up, and dropping out comics pulped in the wrong sense of the word.
A wet wall. Comic books full of silverfish.
...silverfish.
As gross goes, it doesn't get much worse. Tiny translucent land shrimp that eat paper and adhesive, and like nothing better than to chow down on one of the things I love the most in this world. Plus, they bring centipedes in, which are... frightening and loud and far bigger than any bug should be [seriously, how are folks afraid of spiders with shit like this in the world?]. They're pretty much one of the biggest bads of the comic collecting world, one I fought, one my mom hated about my particular hobby, one of the reasons part of my collection was bent out of shape when I switched for a while to Rubbermaid tubs instead of long boxes...
Anyway, I freaked a little, repeating myself, edge of a panic attack [been a bit, old friend], etc. - Justin's always pretty well got his head together though, and having him there to help pull things together with me mentally, hold the light, the trash bags [sob]. With his help, I managed to get everything out of there, and sorted enough that I could clean up the mess, hang some cedar, get the comics in a place to be properly gone through, to see what survived.
Look, I have always said my comic collection was a reader's collection. Dad's was too, and when he passed and I got his comics, the bends, the tears, the nicotine stains... they were a pleasant reminder of him. Sure, growing up in the 90s, I have heard every rationalization for shucking materialism, but I don't buy it. I just don't. We put parts of ourselves in things. Some of them we make, some of them we purchase. Some we share, some we don't. That doesn't mean we all have to be hoarders.
Even though now I'm dealing with a hoarder's problem.
Going through the contents of the six boxes, I've by and large lucked out. Everything of mine and dad's was mostly bagged and sealed, keeping the moisture and the bugs out. Most of what was in the boxes that were under there were only technically a part of either of our collections - a friend of my father's sold us a rather large lot of comics on the cheap from the sports store he once ran. We really only planned to pick and choose from these to supplement some of the holes in our collections from a stint of particularly hard financial times, and everything else was boxed again and tucked away. Dad held on to them, and then they passed to me. Most were monuments to the worst of the 90s - softcore porn, Image comic ripoffs, loads of the manga Dark Horse attempted selling on a monthly basis [now, call me softy, but I still mourn for them. The thing about making comics is that there is a small place in your heart that knows the work that goes in to even the worst, and keeps you from *completely* hating anything], and few if any were ever read by either of us - we wanted the Green Lantern and Avengers and Thor we wound up bagging and slipping into our own unfinished collections, which were fine, as were the Swamp Things I was looking for - they weren't under there after all, instead stacked up off the ground.
I'm not saying that nothing important was lost - a few bags were compromised, and one of the boxes had newer stuff in it [for some reason - newer stuff is usually kept off the floor so I can get at it], meaning a handful of copies of "The Boys," "Ex Machina," some Dan Jurgens Captain America, and a few copies of the Cassandra Cain "Batgirl" will need to be repurchased. Which means, fixable, in a way, but still heartbreaking.
And all of this - all of it, is embarrassing too. I always held myself up as better than this, a "good collector." I don't think much about geek cred, and again, reader's collection, I never meant to sell any of this, but in a way, its worse, because that's a lower bar and I still screwed it up. Thanks to some unexpected payments for work I did in the past, though, the new corrugated plastic boxes are on their way, and some resealable bags and cardboard backs too. Time to get the bulk of the collection back in protective shape, which should be easy with the extra time, since with grandma's health [another story for another time], she's been of a keener mind when I'm closer, just in case.
So I'll be taking the time, letting myself poke back around into the stories I love and grew up with, making sure what wasn't stored in that soggy hellhole won't ever be in danger of the same thing happening, and what was and survived the experience will never have to face it again. I think even some of these comics might be unloaded, sold, donated, something, to give myself more room, and make sure my focus is on the memories that are most important, and maybe share some of these them with others.
I don't know. We'll see how it goes. Hoping it won't take over my life.
Happy Friday the 13th. And Happy Father's Day.
I'm sorry, dad.
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Bad Anniversary
I don't like anniversaries.
Not at all. Last two girlfriends were pretty okay setting things "around February." I don't remember the exact date I graduated -- especially with as little as I've done since. I have trouble with birthdays. Which isn't to say they're not important. They are. They're amazing.
So are anniversaries. But I still don't like them.
One year ago today, my Dad died. While I'm writing this, he was in the process of dying. Or was dead. Or was about to die. The time, on the death certificate we finally got, nary three months ago, was vague. I don't know why I'm getting hung up on that part of. It doesn't make much difference, and it's morbid to run over in my head again and again.
It doesn't feel like it's been a year. It feels like it might have happened last month. Which, I guess, is an improvement on it feeling like it happened just yesterday, like it did, like everything did until a short while ago. People would call that... progress. I don't think it's progress. I feel like a whiner. Someone who should have gotten over it already. Let it go.
I cope for shit. Hopefully, one day, I'll be able to get some help with that.
Timing is everything. Dad died on Mother's Day. Which, as a roving holiday like it is, always falling on the Sunday, means that some years I'll get the distinction of remembering twice. Because he died on Mother's Day, even if Mother's Day isn't on the same day this year. And anyway, even if I didn't have that, he went on May 10. 5/10. Five, half of ten. The day's the double of the month.
I don't like math much either.
Story my Dad used to tell. He lost a friend of his in car wreck. Young deaths hit hard. I still remember Amanda from high school, and I didn't even know her all that well. Other than the fact that on one day, I came to English class mopey, and she smiled, and talked funny at me until I cheered up. Again, we weren't close, but she did that once, for me. Makes you remember, makes you miss a person. Sticks with you. Maybe I'm not joining a Facebook group over it [really? Is that how we remember people now?], but it still sticks with you. Especially when they go so long before their time.
This kid, this kid who was my Dad's friend, who died. Every year after, dad would take the day. Go out to his friend's grave, get drunk. Probably on George Dickel. My dad was a whiskey man. I don't remember him often drinking beer, though, maybe when he was younger... hard to say. But my dad would go to his friend's grave, and he'd drink, every year on the anniversary. June. Summer. Was it on the 21st? That's how he told it. That's how I tell it.
And then I was born. Summer. June. The twenty-first. 21. Black-jack. Suddenly, Dad had somewhere else he had to be, a reason not to go out, and drink. At least not on that day.
That's a pretty big reason. A birth. I'd put it up there with a death. Especially the birth of your son. I mean, I didn't know the guy. Maybe it wasn't quite even, maybe I wouldn't have measured up. But still. It was a reason. Replaced one anniversary with another.
I don't have that. I have May 10th.
I don't even know why I'm bringing it up again. I'm not the only person to have ever been hurt. I feel bad about it. I know at least one person hurt way worse by it. She shows it less too, or maybe she just doesn't show it to me. It's been a year. I should be over it, right -- moving past it, at least?
Definitely saw it coming. I guess that is the upside to an anniversary. Put back a lot of my work. Could have -- probably should have -- started the harder parts of this copy for the dental website days ago. Just did the research, just took the notes, just scrawled the paper drafts, also known as the the easy writing [trade secret - there is easy writing], and then, spent some time proofing all the legal forms they sent me. Thought I'd save the final copy. Throw yourself into your work, everyone says, it'll take your mind off of it, it'll give you something to do other than thinking about it. Which is bullshit. Either that, or I have a special brain, which can have lots of work to do and focus on, and also think about the thing that is stupendously depressing them.
I try not to side with explanations that make me out to be special in some way -- breeds elitism. Told I already have a problem with that.
On Thursday night, I went out. I was actually in a good mood, saw Justin and Staci, went to see Iron Man 2. Dad would have approved, would have enjoyed the movie a lot. Really would have liked Iron Man's drunken roar, hell, he even had a story that kind of went with that. And then the end. Man, if we'd have gone, and I could have gotten him to stay to the end -- no easy feat. Dad was a smoker. Even when he was trying to quit, two hours, just sitting in the theater, that compulsion was still there. But if I could have gotten him to stay...
Won't spoil it. Even though the cat's out of the bag. Dad liked those kinds of secrets, the ones you sort of already knew, but weren't supposed to. So you faked it. Faked it with that half smile, the kind that showed a canine tooth, a smirk you'd hide like you were cleaning your teeth. I do it too. Watch for it.
Oh, but if he'd stayed. Man, he'd really be looking forward to May, 2011. I mean, we used to subscribe to that shit, when... you know, I don't remember who was writing. But John Romita Jr. Beautiful, beautiful line work. Original character, called Marnot. I'm saying way too much.
Couldn't keep you around past the credits, could I Dad?
I had a really good time Thursday night. Great movie. Great company. Saw one really beautiful girl, the kind of girl who even though you really only saw her for a minute, she sticks with you. Hangs on you, like perfume. Dad would have approved [which is a little creepy, actually, but hey, sometimes, that was Dad]. And then I came home, around two or three.
Couldn't get Willie Nelson's "The Party's Over..." out of my head. Haven't even listened to the song in... well, about a year. Put it on a mix CD for Dad. For, ironically, a party he was having. "My boy put these together for me." Lot of music I hadn't listened to since high school. And Willie Nelson somethings you don't grow out of.
I really wanted this entry to be something different. Something special. But I don't know that I have all that much to say about it right now. This sort of stunted, stream-of-thought stuff isn't good enough, but it's what I have. Maybe posting it will make me feel better. Maybe not. I wish, tomorrow, I could do something special -- but there's no grave, and I don't really get drunk, not that I'm necessarily against the idea in principle anymore, just not in a place in my life where I should be doing that. Maybe a stack of comic books would just as good of a remembrance. That was our thing, after all. And that could happen -- all his books, not my books, mixed in with my books at least. I could crack one of those long boxes back open tomorrow. Laugh about me lecturing him over what he was doing to their spines.
Like it mattered. I'm not a speculator. It was probably just me breaking balls. Weird thing about the way mine and dad's relationship ended up was that I could do that.
Anyway. I think I'm done. Definitely not sleeping tonight. Maybe tomorrow. And man, I've gotten a ton of work done. Probably go back over my copy, again. Might wait until tomorrow. Sent out a couple of e-mails. Few last minute clarifications, to make sure everyone gets what they need. Important to get people what they need.
You should be here, Dad. A year later, and this still feels fucked up.
Not at all. Last two girlfriends were pretty okay setting things "around February." I don't remember the exact date I graduated -- especially with as little as I've done since. I have trouble with birthdays. Which isn't to say they're not important. They are. They're amazing.
So are anniversaries. But I still don't like them.
One year ago today, my Dad died. While I'm writing this, he was in the process of dying. Or was dead. Or was about to die. The time, on the death certificate we finally got, nary three months ago, was vague. I don't know why I'm getting hung up on that part of. It doesn't make much difference, and it's morbid to run over in my head again and again.
It doesn't feel like it's been a year. It feels like it might have happened last month. Which, I guess, is an improvement on it feeling like it happened just yesterday, like it did, like everything did until a short while ago. People would call that... progress. I don't think it's progress. I feel like a whiner. Someone who should have gotten over it already. Let it go.
I cope for shit. Hopefully, one day, I'll be able to get some help with that.
Timing is everything. Dad died on Mother's Day. Which, as a roving holiday like it is, always falling on the Sunday, means that some years I'll get the distinction of remembering twice. Because he died on Mother's Day, even if Mother's Day isn't on the same day this year. And anyway, even if I didn't have that, he went on May 10. 5/10. Five, half of ten. The day's the double of the month.
I don't like math much either.
Story my Dad used to tell. He lost a friend of his in car wreck. Young deaths hit hard. I still remember Amanda from high school, and I didn't even know her all that well. Other than the fact that on one day, I came to English class mopey, and she smiled, and talked funny at me until I cheered up. Again, we weren't close, but she did that once, for me. Makes you remember, makes you miss a person. Sticks with you. Maybe I'm not joining a Facebook group over it [really? Is that how we remember people now?], but it still sticks with you. Especially when they go so long before their time.
This kid, this kid who was my Dad's friend, who died. Every year after, dad would take the day. Go out to his friend's grave, get drunk. Probably on George Dickel. My dad was a whiskey man. I don't remember him often drinking beer, though, maybe when he was younger... hard to say. But my dad would go to his friend's grave, and he'd drink, every year on the anniversary. June. Summer. Was it on the 21st? That's how he told it. That's how I tell it.
And then I was born. Summer. June. The twenty-first. 21. Black-jack. Suddenly, Dad had somewhere else he had to be, a reason not to go out, and drink. At least not on that day.
That's a pretty big reason. A birth. I'd put it up there with a death. Especially the birth of your son. I mean, I didn't know the guy. Maybe it wasn't quite even, maybe I wouldn't have measured up. But still. It was a reason. Replaced one anniversary with another.
I don't have that. I have May 10th.
I don't even know why I'm bringing it up again. I'm not the only person to have ever been hurt. I feel bad about it. I know at least one person hurt way worse by it. She shows it less too, or maybe she just doesn't show it to me. It's been a year. I should be over it, right -- moving past it, at least?
Definitely saw it coming. I guess that is the upside to an anniversary. Put back a lot of my work. Could have -- probably should have -- started the harder parts of this copy for the dental website days ago. Just did the research, just took the notes, just scrawled the paper drafts, also known as the the easy writing [trade secret - there is easy writing], and then, spent some time proofing all the legal forms they sent me. Thought I'd save the final copy. Throw yourself into your work, everyone says, it'll take your mind off of it, it'll give you something to do other than thinking about it. Which is bullshit. Either that, or I have a special brain, which can have lots of work to do and focus on, and also think about the thing that is stupendously depressing them.
I try not to side with explanations that make me out to be special in some way -- breeds elitism. Told I already have a problem with that.
On Thursday night, I went out. I was actually in a good mood, saw Justin and Staci, went to see Iron Man 2. Dad would have approved, would have enjoyed the movie a lot. Really would have liked Iron Man's drunken roar, hell, he even had a story that kind of went with that. And then the end. Man, if we'd have gone, and I could have gotten him to stay to the end -- no easy feat. Dad was a smoker. Even when he was trying to quit, two hours, just sitting in the theater, that compulsion was still there. But if I could have gotten him to stay...
Won't spoil it. Even though the cat's out of the bag. Dad liked those kinds of secrets, the ones you sort of already knew, but weren't supposed to. So you faked it. Faked it with that half smile, the kind that showed a canine tooth, a smirk you'd hide like you were cleaning your teeth. I do it too. Watch for it.
Oh, but if he'd stayed. Man, he'd really be looking forward to May, 2011. I mean, we used to subscribe to that shit, when... you know, I don't remember who was writing. But John Romita Jr. Beautiful, beautiful line work. Original character, called Marnot. I'm saying way too much.
Couldn't keep you around past the credits, could I Dad?
I had a really good time Thursday night. Great movie. Great company. Saw one really beautiful girl, the kind of girl who even though you really only saw her for a minute, she sticks with you. Hangs on you, like perfume. Dad would have approved [which is a little creepy, actually, but hey, sometimes, that was Dad]. And then I came home, around two or three.
Couldn't get Willie Nelson's "The Party's Over..." out of my head. Haven't even listened to the song in... well, about a year. Put it on a mix CD for Dad. For, ironically, a party he was having. "My boy put these together for me." Lot of music I hadn't listened to since high school. And Willie Nelson somethings you don't grow out of.
I really wanted this entry to be something different. Something special. But I don't know that I have all that much to say about it right now. This sort of stunted, stream-of-thought stuff isn't good enough, but it's what I have. Maybe posting it will make me feel better. Maybe not. I wish, tomorrow, I could do something special -- but there's no grave, and I don't really get drunk, not that I'm necessarily against the idea in principle anymore, just not in a place in my life where I should be doing that. Maybe a stack of comic books would just as good of a remembrance. That was our thing, after all. And that could happen -- all his books, not my books, mixed in with my books at least. I could crack one of those long boxes back open tomorrow. Laugh about me lecturing him over what he was doing to their spines.
Like it mattered. I'm not a speculator. It was probably just me breaking balls. Weird thing about the way mine and dad's relationship ended up was that I could do that.
Anyway. I think I'm done. Definitely not sleeping tonight. Maybe tomorrow. And man, I've gotten a ton of work done. Probably go back over my copy, again. Might wait until tomorrow. Sent out a couple of e-mails. Few last minute clarifications, to make sure everyone gets what they need. Important to get people what they need.
You should be here, Dad. A year later, and this still feels fucked up.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Hey, sorry everyone. Momentary pause in the horror-fest.
Today is my Dad's birthday -- the first one since he died. And though it wasn't originally in my plan, the closer it got the more I thought I should commemorate it in some way. I wish I had some great written tribute to offer up here, like a couple of the ones I've done before. Even if they would have been a little corny, like that Green Lantern one. But I don't, because I was gladly wrapped up in this scary movie thing, and today kind of snuck up on me. I guess I was trying not to think about it.
As much as I hate to be this kind of person, if you were planning on writing me an e-mail, or a Facebook message, or maybe sending me a tweet, or a text, or giving me a call, today wouldn't be a terrible day to do that. I'll admit, I'm not looking to talk about it, but a little distraction is always welcome. And if not, it's fine, I'm fine, I think I'd just feel weird acting like everything's okay and scheduling another list to go up at nine this morning.
I hope everyone's been enjoying these lists so far. Posting them has been a lot of fun for me, and we still have a few more. Dad loved movies, and he would have gotten a real kick out of this, I think. Except for Ian's Hulk bashing. Dad really dug The Hulk.
A new Top Ten Horror List will go up bright and early tomorrow, courtesy of my friend and self-professed gore-hound Audrey.
Today is my Dad's birthday -- the first one since he died. And though it wasn't originally in my plan, the closer it got the more I thought I should commemorate it in some way. I wish I had some great written tribute to offer up here, like a couple of the ones I've done before. Even if they would have been a little corny, like that Green Lantern one. But I don't, because I was gladly wrapped up in this scary movie thing, and today kind of snuck up on me. I guess I was trying not to think about it.
As much as I hate to be this kind of person, if you were planning on writing me an e-mail, or a Facebook message, or maybe sending me a tweet, or a text, or giving me a call, today wouldn't be a terrible day to do that. I'll admit, I'm not looking to talk about it, but a little distraction is always welcome. And if not, it's fine, I'm fine, I think I'd just feel weird acting like everything's okay and scheduling another list to go up at nine this morning.
I hope everyone's been enjoying these lists so far. Posting them has been a lot of fun for me, and we still have a few more. Dad loved movies, and he would have gotten a real kick out of this, I think. Except for Ian's Hulk bashing. Dad really dug The Hulk.
A new Top Ten Horror List will go up bright and early tomorrow, courtesy of my friend and self-professed gore-hound Audrey.
Fear and Loathing on the Road to Christmas, '86-'88
I haven't been feeling very well the past few days, but I wanted to do something nice for the up-coming holidays.
It's no secret that I'm not a big fan of pictures. But when Justin and I were going through comic books a few weeks back, I'd found a cache of older snapshots I hadn't seen in awhile. I'm not entirely sure where they came from -- mom would periodically hand me pictures, and Dad gave me a lot of them a few months before he died, ones that were probably assumed lost in the divorce shuffle.
Most of these are from Christmas in the late 1980s. The scans aren't the best. And not all are entirely flattering pictures of yours truly, but I share them because this is the time of year when things should be shared. Even things we'd normally consider private.
One of the reasons that I like Christmas so well is that it's really the sort of holiday that's just for everybody. No matter which of the various religious or non-religious traditions you recognize, there's something there for you, and unlike Halloween it isn't just for the children, or like Thanksgiving which is just a family affair. And there's even an argument for it being a parent's holiday, in that so much of the leg work is done by parents, to make the season so magical for their children. It's really a time of year that's for everyone.
Save, perhaps, for the lonely.
This last one is a little before my time. December of '82, the back of the photo reads. My mom and dad, looking so young, and my Grandpa Cole. Two of these people are no longer with us.
I miss you, dad. You always worked so hard around this time of year to convince me you knew Santa. It's funny how when you're six, that's not such a stretch, especially since both of you worked nights, right?
Merry Christmas, everyone.
It's no secret that I'm not a big fan of pictures. But when Justin and I were going through comic books a few weeks back, I'd found a cache of older snapshots I hadn't seen in awhile. I'm not entirely sure where they came from -- mom would periodically hand me pictures, and Dad gave me a lot of them a few months before he died, ones that were probably assumed lost in the divorce shuffle.
Most of these are from Christmas in the late 1980s. The scans aren't the best. And not all are entirely flattering pictures of yours truly, but I share them because this is the time of year when things should be shared. Even things we'd normally consider private.
One of the reasons that I like Christmas so well is that it's really the sort of holiday that's just for everybody. No matter which of the various religious or non-religious traditions you recognize, there's something there for you, and unlike Halloween it isn't just for the children, or like Thanksgiving which is just a family affair. And there's even an argument for it being a parent's holiday, in that so much of the leg work is done by parents, to make the season so magical for their children. It's really a time of year that's for everyone.
Save, perhaps, for the lonely.
This last one is a little before my time. December of '82, the back of the photo reads. My mom and dad, looking so young, and my Grandpa Cole. Two of these people are no longer with us.
I miss you, dad. You always worked so hard around this time of year to convince me you knew Santa. It's funny how when you're six, that's not such a stretch, especially since both of you worked nights, right?
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Johnny Appleseed [Re: Randy and Randall]
This picture was taken in June of 2008, at our family reunion. I found it tucked away inside a book while I was doing some cleaning. I'm not much of a picture person, and the few I do have tend to get stowed away, but I thought posting something with Dad and I together might be important, especially after writing about him so much. And it's not a bad picture of either of us.
It's getting close to five months now. Not a whole lot easier. Maybe tomorrow.
Blackest Night.
This post has nothing to do with work.
I went out today and bought my comic books from Cheryl's. My kid brother was nice enough to give me a lift, and it was nice time out. It was also nice to pick up my books -- a stack of Green Lantern comics the size of my head, all the Blackest Night reading I hadn't done, and a few other non-GL related things, like "The Boys," "Gen13," "Ex Machina," and "Runaways." It cost sixty of the last hundred dollars I have in the bank, but today I'm not really worried about that [liar].
As I've written here before, and will probably write here again, comic books were something I did with my dad. It was the way we bonded after the divorce. Spandex-clad muscle men, giant robots, aliens, power rings, and unbelievable female anatomy were the common ground of a lonely introvert and his pot-smoking father, and it kept us together. He started out as a DC guy -- Superman, Supergirl, and Justice League, while I was all Marvel -- Spider-Man, X-Men, and Generation X. He would eventually come around, using Thor and Silver Surfer as some kind of crazy-gateway book to make him an even bigger X-Men and Captain America fan than I was. But I had a cross-over too, and we both came to love the Kyle Rayner Green Lantern. I think between us [I guess just between myself, now], we owned every issue he ever appeared in.
Dad would have loved "Blackest Night." I try not to think about the weirdness of remembering my dead dad in the same breath as a story about the tragically deceased returning to life. He liked Kyle. He really liked Guy, and he, like me, was coming around to the idea that Hal Jordan and Adolf Hitler were not the same guy, even though we'd really started reading hardcore during DC's "Zero Hour," and Jordan had been the heavy throughout that. But it was also defiance. Everyone said the Jordan character deserved the green uniform more. We respectfully disagreed [fuck you], and skipped some of the early stuff a year or two back when Hal came back to prominence.
But as I said. We were coming around.
Dad was interested. But he'd gotten spoiled, and behind, and hadn't caught up on his Green Lantern reading in awhile. And he wanted to do it right, and in order, so he had just finished "Green Lantern: Rebirth," and I'd promised to get him "Sinestro Corps War" for his birthday. I don't know why I didn't just gather the issues I had up, maybe partly because they were split between here and my old house, maybe I just wanted to make sure I had an idea for gift, when a gift-giving holiday came around, and I wanted to get Dad a new trade.
Dad actually had his eye on another trade paperback before he died. Marvel had just put "Red Hulk" out in hardcover, and he always sort... paused over it. Picked it up at the top [hand to spine would have been a commitment], looked back at me, and smiled. I knew it was crap -- but I also knew he liked the Hulk character, had loved both movies, and that he'd be far more into watching a Red Hulk and Green Hulk slug it out in the style of Ed McGuinness. Be damned the story, he wanted to start getting into the character again, buying the books, and that hardcover would have been a nice start.
Last time we were out for comics was in Cheryl's. He picked it up again, someone had ordered it, and not made the buy. Same look. I had the money in my pocket. It would have been one less night out with friends at the IHOP. But he'd have enjoyed it. Stupid, selfish. Not that he was asking. But it crossed my mind. And I could have gotten it for him. Didn't.
Regrets.
He'd have liked "Blackest Night." It's one of those things that reminds you why you got started on comics. Maybe that's where all this came from. Why it's on my mind. It feels like something he's missing, that I'd have wanted to share with him. We could have gotten excited about it, and talked about how cool it was for a change, rather than all that shit that had been stirred up with family and injuries and bad luck.
Feels like he missed a lot of things. Glad he caught "The Dark Knight." He got to see Mickey Rourke make his big comeback in "The Wrestler." That meant something to him, I think. He'll miss "Iron Man 2," which is such a drag because he thought the first one was so damn cool. He was like me, he really liked Tarantino. About a week before he died, we talked about "Inglorious Basterds."
And he took me to "Clerks 2" when everything in life just sucked, and I loved it so much and it felt so good that when the movie ended tears were running down my cheeks, and for a moment in one of the worst summers of my life I felt like I was home. He never said a word. I like to think he got it, like when I handed him that "Nailz" lighter for Christmas that one year. We were such fucking nerds.
I remember one year at Bennington, thanking Louise Simonson for her work on "Steel." The black Superman. First book dad and I ever fought over every month to see who would read first. That seemed to mean something to her. Meant a lot to me, just having someone to thank for that. It could have went bad. Wouldn't have had all this to reflect on, or this stack of comics and a vague sense of longing to share them with someone.
This is... so hokey, but I wanted to put it here. I'm sorry if no one gets it. But it was an issue that I know both me and dad read, a last page we paused on, because the last page is what you always pause on. It's what you work so hard to get to, it's the last thing in the book you'll probably see, and it's the page you're not quite ready to let go of yet, because that means you have to wait a month for another issue. And it's also something... I guess I wish I could do. So forgive me.
I went out today and bought my comic books from Cheryl's. My kid brother was nice enough to give me a lift, and it was nice time out. It was also nice to pick up my books -- a stack of Green Lantern comics the size of my head, all the Blackest Night reading I hadn't done, and a few other non-GL related things, like "The Boys," "Gen13," "Ex Machina," and "Runaways." It cost sixty of the last hundred dollars I have in the bank, but today I'm not really worried about that [liar].
As I've written here before, and will probably write here again, comic books were something I did with my dad. It was the way we bonded after the divorce. Spandex-clad muscle men, giant robots, aliens, power rings, and unbelievable female anatomy were the common ground of a lonely introvert and his pot-smoking father, and it kept us together. He started out as a DC guy -- Superman, Supergirl, and Justice League, while I was all Marvel -- Spider-Man, X-Men, and Generation X. He would eventually come around, using Thor and Silver Surfer as some kind of crazy-gateway book to make him an even bigger X-Men and Captain America fan than I was. But I had a cross-over too, and we both came to love the Kyle Rayner Green Lantern. I think between us [I guess just between myself, now], we owned every issue he ever appeared in.
Dad would have loved "Blackest Night." I try not to think about the weirdness of remembering my dead dad in the same breath as a story about the tragically deceased returning to life. He liked Kyle. He really liked Guy, and he, like me, was coming around to the idea that Hal Jordan and Adolf Hitler were not the same guy, even though we'd really started reading hardcore during DC's "Zero Hour," and Jordan had been the heavy throughout that. But it was also defiance. Everyone said the Jordan character deserved the green uniform more. We respectfully disagreed [fuck you], and skipped some of the early stuff a year or two back when Hal came back to prominence.
But as I said. We were coming around.
Dad was interested. But he'd gotten spoiled, and behind, and hadn't caught up on his Green Lantern reading in awhile. And he wanted to do it right, and in order, so he had just finished "Green Lantern: Rebirth," and I'd promised to get him "Sinestro Corps War" for his birthday. I don't know why I didn't just gather the issues I had up, maybe partly because they were split between here and my old house, maybe I just wanted to make sure I had an idea for gift, when a gift-giving holiday came around, and I wanted to get Dad a new trade.
Dad actually had his eye on another trade paperback before he died. Marvel had just put "Red Hulk" out in hardcover, and he always sort... paused over it. Picked it up at the top [hand to spine would have been a commitment], looked back at me, and smiled. I knew it was crap -- but I also knew he liked the Hulk character, had loved both movies, and that he'd be far more into watching a Red Hulk and Green Hulk slug it out in the style of Ed McGuinness. Be damned the story, he wanted to start getting into the character again, buying the books, and that hardcover would have been a nice start.
Last time we were out for comics was in Cheryl's. He picked it up again, someone had ordered it, and not made the buy. Same look. I had the money in my pocket. It would have been one less night out with friends at the IHOP. But he'd have enjoyed it. Stupid, selfish. Not that he was asking. But it crossed my mind. And I could have gotten it for him. Didn't.
Regrets.
He'd have liked "Blackest Night." It's one of those things that reminds you why you got started on comics. Maybe that's where all this came from. Why it's on my mind. It feels like something he's missing, that I'd have wanted to share with him. We could have gotten excited about it, and talked about how cool it was for a change, rather than all that shit that had been stirred up with family and injuries and bad luck.
Feels like he missed a lot of things. Glad he caught "The Dark Knight." He got to see Mickey Rourke make his big comeback in "The Wrestler." That meant something to him, I think. He'll miss "Iron Man 2," which is such a drag because he thought the first one was so damn cool. He was like me, he really liked Tarantino. About a week before he died, we talked about "Inglorious Basterds."
And he took me to "Clerks 2" when everything in life just sucked, and I loved it so much and it felt so good that when the movie ended tears were running down my cheeks, and for a moment in one of the worst summers of my life I felt like I was home. He never said a word. I like to think he got it, like when I handed him that "Nailz" lighter for Christmas that one year. We were such fucking nerds.
I remember one year at Bennington, thanking Louise Simonson for her work on "Steel." The black Superman. First book dad and I ever fought over every month to see who would read first. That seemed to mean something to her. Meant a lot to me, just having someone to thank for that. It could have went bad. Wouldn't have had all this to reflect on, or this stack of comics and a vague sense of longing to share them with someone.
This is... so hokey, but I wanted to put it here. I'm sorry if no one gets it. But it was an issue that I know both me and dad read, a last page we paused on, because the last page is what you always pause on. It's what you work so hard to get to, it's the last thing in the book you'll probably see, and it's the page you're not quite ready to let go of yet, because that means you have to wait a month for another issue. And it's also something... I guess I wish I could do. So forgive me.
Inheritance.
I ordered 12 comic book long boxes the other day. I woke up this morning to a notice that they had shipped.
When my parents got divorced, there was this... adjustment period, where a seven year old kid and his now absentee father have to figure out how the world, and their relationship, is going to work from here on out. It is entirely common for father and son to find some activity in which they both enjoy, and proceed -- which at first seemed difficult, because my dad liked... alcohol, and pornography, and exotic fish, while I lived mostly in a fantasy world and spent most of my time quietly reading or watching television. Plus, I was sort of a mama's boy, and Dad and mother, as you might expect, weren't on the best of terms.
It's so weird to think of now. Mama's boy, but idolized my father. Neither of those things would last. Still.
The local K-Mart had recently added a book section, and between the crappy paperbacks and the crappy magazines, they had started selling comic books. This wouldn't last either -- six months to a year later, you couldn't get comics there, but it was a nice place to start. They had the only things that remotely interested me -- Spider-Man, Sonic the Hedgehog, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles [Archie Comic's version -- by far still my favorite, though not as highly thought of as others]. I started putting toy money towards comics, and that was the beginning for me.
I was new. Taking care of the books was the last thing on my mind, and I took them everywhere. And since I didn't have much money, nor many options, I read the same few over and over again, and it wasn't long until, eventually, Dad saw me with them. I didn't think he'd be interested -- Doug, my step-dad, never had a problem with the hobby, but Mom really disliked them, so in between indifference and hate, I didn't expect Dad to even have an opinion. And my normally talkative dad didn't say anything about them. Another thing Randall did that nobody got.
Except.
A few weeks later, Dad, my aunt, her daughter, and myself had all packed up for some... rustic excursion or something similar, and when I hopped into the back seat, Dad handed me a brown paper bag with powdered doughnuts, cartons of cigarettes, and comic books to hold.
I still remember them really well. It was part one and three of Marvel's "Trial of Peter Parker" -- a small storyline in the now much maligned "Clone Saga." The fight scenes in them were Spider-Man versus a hulking, scarred man in a bright pink cape called Kane, and an bodacious, yet Adam's apple-sporting blond named "Stunner." I was in heaven. In a three hour trip, I must have read those comics about a hundred times a piece. There were two others in the bag though I didn't look much at. Not for lack of trying, but because Dad kept them in the passenger seat while my aunt was driving.
"Superman."
I didn't get "Superman." I read them, of course, but it was all vaguely over my head, and I still didn't understand a lot of the stuff that the writers [mostly John Byrne, I think], were trying to do with the character at the time. Besides, there has always been a lot of public opinion against the Man of Steel, so I sort of went along with that. Dad loved them though, and pretty soon he was getting all 5 [!] Superman titles in the mail. Now, looking back, it's funny, because when I asked him how he could read a character as "lame" as Superman, Dad pretty much said what I'm saying now -- that as a kid, when he'd read "Superman," he didn't quite understand what was going on in the book, and now, reading the character, he felt like he was coming back to something he'd been missing. By high school, I'd understand.
So that's five books for both of us a month [5 Spidey's, 5 Supes -- the 90's were something], plus single issues of characters we enjoyed -- the X-Men, Daredevil, Green Lantern, Silver Surfer, the Hulk, Steel, Thor, Superboy, Captain America... and eventually things like Titans, JLA, Avengers, and Fantastic Four. If it had spandex-clad do-gooders? We were there, snatching them up.
We were those kinds of comic book fans -- we both had subscriptions and pull lists, would pass books back and forth, and weren't above buying something to complete a crossover or just because we liked the cover. You can always tell the hardcore comic book fans because they'll buy stuff they don't even like -- mostly out of loyalty to a character, or just a hope that something awesome will happen in the book and it'll pick up again. My dad didn't have a lot of income as a professional paper boy [well, he was a district manager, but even he wouldn't want anyone to parse words], and I was mostly just mooching off parents and getting a pittance for mowing lawns. And all of that went to comics.
As one might imagine, eventually we managed to compile quite the collection -- and not between us, but each. My collection today fills more than 10+ Rubbermaid tubs [holds more than long boxes, and keeps out silverfish, but... not the best for the books, as spacing goes], while Dad's collection should at least be able to rival mine, if it isn't bigger.
The size of his stash is actually something a mystery to me. Around the age of 15, I stopped going to see my dad, and instead we'd go out and do things, or meet at my grandmother's. The only reason for this, really, was that I had a particularly busy year, and slowly but surely my room at Dad's had been cordoned off for storage, which meant I really had no place to stay there anymore. And at the time, that was fine.
But being away also let Dad's collection grow beyond my watchful eyes. It's actual size is a mystery to me, and may in fact be far smaller, or far larger than I expect.
Dad had a lot of possessions, but as far as items you'd expect the family to descend upon, and cut up amongst themselves, he had very little of interest. When asked, it actually took me a minute, because in a way [and I love you Dad], he was a bit of junk pauper, and I couldn't think immediately what of his I'd want to have.
But then I remembered. All those trips to King's and Cheryl's. All those days spent in the car, quietly reading, not talking, and passing books back and forth. And "oh, I like this," "you'll like that," and "what did you think of this?" And me asking if I could borrow this book or that, and him just saying, outright to me, "Randall, those comics are as much yours as they are mine."
So that's what I want. And dammit, I don't have a single place for them, but that's what I want, so I put in the order for the boxes, and it shipped today. And I still have no idea how I'm going to manage being in that house for the first time since... forever, but I'm going to have to go. I have to get my inheritance.
He loved those stories. All of this, the writing, the Mojo Wire, the movies and the comics? They're partly for him, to write one of those stories for him. To put his [my] name on one.
I'll stack them to ceiling if I have to.
When my parents got divorced, there was this... adjustment period, where a seven year old kid and his now absentee father have to figure out how the world, and their relationship, is going to work from here on out. It is entirely common for father and son to find some activity in which they both enjoy, and proceed -- which at first seemed difficult, because my dad liked... alcohol, and pornography, and exotic fish, while I lived mostly in a fantasy world and spent most of my time quietly reading or watching television. Plus, I was sort of a mama's boy, and Dad and mother, as you might expect, weren't on the best of terms.
It's so weird to think of now. Mama's boy, but idolized my father. Neither of those things would last. Still.
The local K-Mart had recently added a book section, and between the crappy paperbacks and the crappy magazines, they had started selling comic books. This wouldn't last either -- six months to a year later, you couldn't get comics there, but it was a nice place to start. They had the only things that remotely interested me -- Spider-Man, Sonic the Hedgehog, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles [Archie Comic's version -- by far still my favorite, though not as highly thought of as others]. I started putting toy money towards comics, and that was the beginning for me.
I was new. Taking care of the books was the last thing on my mind, and I took them everywhere. And since I didn't have much money, nor many options, I read the same few over and over again, and it wasn't long until, eventually, Dad saw me with them. I didn't think he'd be interested -- Doug, my step-dad, never had a problem with the hobby, but Mom really disliked them, so in between indifference and hate, I didn't expect Dad to even have an opinion. And my normally talkative dad didn't say anything about them. Another thing Randall did that nobody got.
Except.
A few weeks later, Dad, my aunt, her daughter, and myself had all packed up for some... rustic excursion or something similar, and when I hopped into the back seat, Dad handed me a brown paper bag with powdered doughnuts, cartons of cigarettes, and comic books to hold.
I still remember them really well. It was part one and three of Marvel's "Trial of Peter Parker" -- a small storyline in the now much maligned "Clone Saga." The fight scenes in them were Spider-Man versus a hulking, scarred man in a bright pink cape called Kane, and an bodacious, yet Adam's apple-sporting blond named "Stunner." I was in heaven. In a three hour trip, I must have read those comics about a hundred times a piece. There were two others in the bag though I didn't look much at. Not for lack of trying, but because Dad kept them in the passenger seat while my aunt was driving.
"Superman."
I didn't get "Superman." I read them, of course, but it was all vaguely over my head, and I still didn't understand a lot of the stuff that the writers [mostly John Byrne, I think], were trying to do with the character at the time. Besides, there has always been a lot of public opinion against the Man of Steel, so I sort of went along with that. Dad loved them though, and pretty soon he was getting all 5 [!] Superman titles in the mail. Now, looking back, it's funny, because when I asked him how he could read a character as "lame" as Superman, Dad pretty much said what I'm saying now -- that as a kid, when he'd read "Superman," he didn't quite understand what was going on in the book, and now, reading the character, he felt like he was coming back to something he'd been missing. By high school, I'd understand.
So that's five books for both of us a month [5 Spidey's, 5 Supes -- the 90's were something], plus single issues of characters we enjoyed -- the X-Men, Daredevil, Green Lantern, Silver Surfer, the Hulk, Steel, Thor, Superboy, Captain America... and eventually things like Titans, JLA, Avengers, and Fantastic Four. If it had spandex-clad do-gooders? We were there, snatching them up.
We were those kinds of comic book fans -- we both had subscriptions and pull lists, would pass books back and forth, and weren't above buying something to complete a crossover or just because we liked the cover. You can always tell the hardcore comic book fans because they'll buy stuff they don't even like -- mostly out of loyalty to a character, or just a hope that something awesome will happen in the book and it'll pick up again. My dad didn't have a lot of income as a professional paper boy [well, he was a district manager, but even he wouldn't want anyone to parse words], and I was mostly just mooching off parents and getting a pittance for mowing lawns. And all of that went to comics.
As one might imagine, eventually we managed to compile quite the collection -- and not between us, but each. My collection today fills more than 10+ Rubbermaid tubs [holds more than long boxes, and keeps out silverfish, but... not the best for the books, as spacing goes], while Dad's collection should at least be able to rival mine, if it isn't bigger.
The size of his stash is actually something a mystery to me. Around the age of 15, I stopped going to see my dad, and instead we'd go out and do things, or meet at my grandmother's. The only reason for this, really, was that I had a particularly busy year, and slowly but surely my room at Dad's had been cordoned off for storage, which meant I really had no place to stay there anymore. And at the time, that was fine.
But being away also let Dad's collection grow beyond my watchful eyes. It's actual size is a mystery to me, and may in fact be far smaller, or far larger than I expect.
Dad had a lot of possessions, but as far as items you'd expect the family to descend upon, and cut up amongst themselves, he had very little of interest. When asked, it actually took me a minute, because in a way [and I love you Dad], he was a bit of junk pauper, and I couldn't think immediately what of his I'd want to have.
But then I remembered. All those trips to King's and Cheryl's. All those days spent in the car, quietly reading, not talking, and passing books back and forth. And "oh, I like this," "you'll like that," and "what did you think of this?" And me asking if I could borrow this book or that, and him just saying, outright to me, "Randall, those comics are as much yours as they are mine."
So that's what I want. And dammit, I don't have a single place for them, but that's what I want, so I put in the order for the boxes, and it shipped today. And I still have no idea how I'm going to manage being in that house for the first time since... forever, but I'm going to have to go. I have to get my inheritance.
He loved those stories. All of this, the writing, the Mojo Wire, the movies and the comics? They're partly for him, to write one of those stories for him. To put his [my] name on one.
I'll stack them to ceiling if I have to.
On professionalism.
I have been trying to figure out how to move on. When Steven died, I basically turned this blog into a shrine for a week plus. It was nice, fitting, and I benefited from that. But giving it some thought, I've decided doing the same for Dad right now just wouldn't be right.
There are several reasons for this. The first is, Dad had a service, and I spoke at it. Much of that mourning process wasn't available with Bach, and what I did here was to make up for that fact. It also helped me to reach out to others, which, for the death of my father, isn't really going to help. There's a perspective I have on this that seems... unlikely to be matched.
And maybe, on some level, a lot of my life has been spent writing about my father. And a lot more of it will go to the same. Somehow, a week dedicated to writing about him doesn't strike me as much of a tribute in that context.
Other things. I wondered, earlier, if this space was doomed to become a mausoleum. Selfishly, I don't want that, because more selfishly, this place is often helpful to me. I don't want to lose that. More importantly, there is a level of professionalism I at least try [Re: pretend] to maintain here. I'm still writing, I'm still working. Things are happening on the projects I'm working on. And this blog is for that.
I guess it's important for me to stress I'm not okay. I'm not moving on yet, and things are a long way from getting better. My dad died. I can't think of anything that fixes that. Time, maybe. But I'm not feeling that right now. Something, though, tells me this isn't the place for my grief right now. We'll see if I feel the same way in the future.
The Mojo Wire marches on, however.
There are several reasons for this. The first is, Dad had a service, and I spoke at it. Much of that mourning process wasn't available with Bach, and what I did here was to make up for that fact. It also helped me to reach out to others, which, for the death of my father, isn't really going to help. There's a perspective I have on this that seems... unlikely to be matched.
And maybe, on some level, a lot of my life has been spent writing about my father. And a lot more of it will go to the same. Somehow, a week dedicated to writing about him doesn't strike me as much of a tribute in that context.
Other things. I wondered, earlier, if this space was doomed to become a mausoleum. Selfishly, I don't want that, because more selfishly, this place is often helpful to me. I don't want to lose that. More importantly, there is a level of professionalism I at least try [Re: pretend] to maintain here. I'm still writing, I'm still working. Things are happening on the projects I'm working on. And this blog is for that.
I guess it's important for me to stress I'm not okay. I'm not moving on yet, and things are a long way from getting better. My dad died. I can't think of anything that fixes that. Time, maybe. But I'm not feeling that right now. Something, though, tells me this isn't the place for my grief right now. We'll see if I feel the same way in the future.
The Mojo Wire marches on, however.
To my father.
I read this at my father's funeral. Rarely do things written in the black book get to be put here too. I typed it up at my family's request, but I feel I should post it here as well:
My name is Randall William Nichols II. Named for my father.
People sometimes ask me what it’s like to be a “II,” a second. I think of it being like a paper crown. Your dad, your namesake, is like a king to you. And when you’re young, believe me, you are so proud of that paper crown. You flaunt it, you treat it like a prized possession, and you mimic your father’s every move – you idolize him.
But that doesn’t last forever. You grow up, you come into your own, you get rebellious [Dad would appreciate that – “rebellious”]. Your paper crown feels silly, and unoriginal. On some level you want desperately to be rid of it, to be your own man, and get away from that legacy. And you fight it, and try to take it off, until eventually you realize that one day you’ll have to wear the real thing. And suddenly, it’s not so bad being a “II”.
So you put that paper crown back on, because you have grown up a little now, and you realize being someone’s successor is not so bad. It’s an honor, actually, and all those similarities you worked so hard against, all those things that tie you and your namesake together, you’re proud of them again.
Humbly, I admit I was getting there. I wasn’t there yet. But in the last year, I’ve spent more time with my father than I had in a very long time. Perhaps ever. We’ve run errands together, told each other stories, commiserated about those we’d felt had wronged us, talked about comics and movies, and wasted so much time in that way where wasting time is completely okay.
And we’d talked about the future. Not just what I was going to do, what we were going to do. He expected to see it. He was making plans.
Which is why this is so hard, and why I wish dearly I wasn’t putting my paper crown away today. My name is Randall William Nichols II, but now I am the only Randall Nichols. It is my inheritance. And a lot goes along with it, more than just a passing resemblance, shared body language, or a single, slightly droopy eyelid – something Dad and I shared. Something only some of you may know about him. I’d like to share that with all of you today.
My dad didn’t sleep. He did, actually, but not during normal hours, he was always a night-owl. Most don’t ask why; they assume it was the job at the newspaper, the work at the Shop-a-minute, his time spent as a partier and a ne’re-do-well. But it wasn’t that – it wasn’t just some bad habit for dad, because my dad was, let’s face it, a worry-wart. And his mind just couldn’t slow down at night, not with everything out there that might go wrong, that had gone wrong, and all the things he might not have tried hard at. Not to mention people he might have failed, or felt like he’d failed. People he cared about. Because for dad, caring and worrying – they were interchangeable.
There is a good chance if you ever talked to my father, called him a friend, or a brother, or father, or son, shared a meal with him, or listened to one of his stories, then he spent some time in his life worrying about you. And even if you were at odds with him, even if the rest of the world had written you off, if you came to him, he’d help if he could. Because he worried about you. What you thought, what you were going through, how you felt – he cared. And then after, when he had done his best by you, he would worry he hadn’t done enough. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting anyone down – even though he knew, sometimes, disappointment was unavoidable. We all let people down, sometimes. And that bothered him too, deeply.
And with those thoughts, with that weight, who could sleep? It can make you so tired. And I know he struggled, because too often he and I would be able to call each other at two a.m., and find the other awake, anxious, and lucid. Wanting to talk about anything, save for whatever was on each other’s minds.
But there was really no alternative for Dad. He loved you all, as you are, and if a few sleepless nights were the price of that love, it was no contest for him. He’d choose his friends and family every time.
And that’s his legacy, my inheritance, and my head is heavier for it today. In some sense, it is a burden we all share now, because a man who thought of us all so often, who talked of in his stories and put us in his prayers, isn’t here to do that anymore. And we’re worse for it today.
But we’re better for knowing him, and though he left us far too soon, I feel almost happy for Dad, because there are no more sleepless nights, no more worrying. He can finally rest.
I love you Dad.
My name is Randall William Nichols II. Named for my father.
People sometimes ask me what it’s like to be a “II,” a second. I think of it being like a paper crown. Your dad, your namesake, is like a king to you. And when you’re young, believe me, you are so proud of that paper crown. You flaunt it, you treat it like a prized possession, and you mimic your father’s every move – you idolize him.
But that doesn’t last forever. You grow up, you come into your own, you get rebellious [Dad would appreciate that – “rebellious”]. Your paper crown feels silly, and unoriginal. On some level you want desperately to be rid of it, to be your own man, and get away from that legacy. And you fight it, and try to take it off, until eventually you realize that one day you’ll have to wear the real thing. And suddenly, it’s not so bad being a “II”.
So you put that paper crown back on, because you have grown up a little now, and you realize being someone’s successor is not so bad. It’s an honor, actually, and all those similarities you worked so hard against, all those things that tie you and your namesake together, you’re proud of them again.
Humbly, I admit I was getting there. I wasn’t there yet. But in the last year, I’ve spent more time with my father than I had in a very long time. Perhaps ever. We’ve run errands together, told each other stories, commiserated about those we’d felt had wronged us, talked about comics and movies, and wasted so much time in that way where wasting time is completely okay.
And we’d talked about the future. Not just what I was going to do, what we were going to do. He expected to see it. He was making plans.
Which is why this is so hard, and why I wish dearly I wasn’t putting my paper crown away today. My name is Randall William Nichols II, but now I am the only Randall Nichols. It is my inheritance. And a lot goes along with it, more than just a passing resemblance, shared body language, or a single, slightly droopy eyelid – something Dad and I shared. Something only some of you may know about him. I’d like to share that with all of you today.
My dad didn’t sleep. He did, actually, but not during normal hours, he was always a night-owl. Most don’t ask why; they assume it was the job at the newspaper, the work at the Shop-a-minute, his time spent as a partier and a ne’re-do-well. But it wasn’t that – it wasn’t just some bad habit for dad, because my dad was, let’s face it, a worry-wart. And his mind just couldn’t slow down at night, not with everything out there that might go wrong, that had gone wrong, and all the things he might not have tried hard at. Not to mention people he might have failed, or felt like he’d failed. People he cared about. Because for dad, caring and worrying – they were interchangeable.
There is a good chance if you ever talked to my father, called him a friend, or a brother, or father, or son, shared a meal with him, or listened to one of his stories, then he spent some time in his life worrying about you. And even if you were at odds with him, even if the rest of the world had written you off, if you came to him, he’d help if he could. Because he worried about you. What you thought, what you were going through, how you felt – he cared. And then after, when he had done his best by you, he would worry he hadn’t done enough. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting anyone down – even though he knew, sometimes, disappointment was unavoidable. We all let people down, sometimes. And that bothered him too, deeply.
And with those thoughts, with that weight, who could sleep? It can make you so tired. And I know he struggled, because too often he and I would be able to call each other at two a.m., and find the other awake, anxious, and lucid. Wanting to talk about anything, save for whatever was on each other’s minds.
But there was really no alternative for Dad. He loved you all, as you are, and if a few sleepless nights were the price of that love, it was no contest for him. He’d choose his friends and family every time.
And that’s his legacy, my inheritance, and my head is heavier for it today. In some sense, it is a burden we all share now, because a man who thought of us all so often, who talked of in his stories and put us in his prayers, isn’t here to do that anymore. And we’re worse for it today.
But we’re better for knowing him, and though he left us far too soon, I feel almost happy for Dad, because there are no more sleepless nights, no more worrying. He can finally rest.
I love you Dad.
--Randall W. Nichols II
[May 15, 2009]
[May 15, 2009]
Dad's Obituary
Randall William Nichols
Randall “Nic” William Nichols, 51, of Elkview went home to be with the Lord on Sunday, May 10, 2009, at his residence.
For those who left comments on my previous post, thank you. Your thoughts and sentiments are appreciated, and I will try to respond soon.
Randall “Nic” William Nichols, 51, of Elkview went home to be with the Lord on Sunday, May 10, 2009, at his residence.He was a district supervisor with Charleston Newspapers for 18 years and was a medical assistant with the Veterans Administration.
Randall graduated from Herbert Hoover High School and graduated with a medical assistant degree at Everest Institute College.
He was preceded in death by his stepsister, Diane L. White.
He enjoyed hunting, fishing and spending time with Luke.
Surviving: are his loving wife, Lisa Kay Fullen Nichols; mother, Geneva M. (Nichols) Cole of Elkview; father, Ronald William Nichols of Summersville; son, Randall Nichols II of Elkview; stepdaughter, Amy LaDawn Nichols of Elkview; brother, Roger A Nichols of Elkview; and stepbrother, Kelly Cole of Clendenin.
Memorial service will be 7:30 p.m. Thursday, May 14, at the Hafer Funeral Home Chapel with the Rev. Ted Tawney officiating.
Friends may call two hours prior to the service on Thursday.
Online condolences may be sent at www.haferfuneralhome.net.
Hafer Funeral Home, Elkview, is in charge of the arrangements.
Source : Charleston Gazette Newspaper [Click for link]For those who left comments on my previous post, thank you. Your thoughts and sentiments are appreciated, and I will try to respond soon.
In Loving Memory of Randall William Nichols [Sr.]
My dad died today [May, 10, 2009].
I've been trying to think of what to type here. I'm just going to go with something straightforward.
My grandmother knocked on my door a little after noon, opened the door, and asked if I was there. She couldn't see because her glasses were tinted, and I had the curtains closed. She asked me if anyone had called -- I didn't think so, but I was pretty out of it. I had started sleeping again on Friday-Saturday, and was trying to take advantage of that while I could. Without saying much else, she left.
My uncle [Roger, my dad's brother] and his wife knocked on the front door not long after that. It took me a minute to compose myself, and when I opened my bedroom door, I met them both face to face. They said something to the effect of "Your grandmother needs you at your dad's house," which is, even with a sleep-addled brain, a strange statement. I asked what they were talking about, and the reiterated that my Grandmother needed me there.
I'm a pretty resistant person. I asked why again, and they told me my dad had died.
I took my time getting dressed after that. There didn't seem to be any reason to hurry. There was a crowd at Dad's house, and my grandmother told me the only reason she didn't say anything when she opened the door was because she didn't want to tell me and just leave. And I felt somewhat... thankful for that. Rest of the day sort of went from there.
I don't know what killed him. We'll probably find out from the ME in the next couple of days. He was only in his fifties. He wasn't healthy, but he wasn't so sick that anyone was expecting this. He was a cancer survivor. He was on a lot of different medications for a lot of different things, and though the things weren't fatal, maybe the pills were. Maybe it was a heart attack, or an aneurysm. I don't know. The reason why isn't that important to me right now -- the end's still the same.
Not sure what to do next. Some things will happen naturally. Family will come on their own. But I need to be there for my grandmother. She's a strong woman, but she's outlived her oldest son and I can't imagine that. And a lot of things that I took for granted while dad was here, I'm going to have to figure out how to do without him.
Little things are creeping in too. The way he'd shakes his head, and say "yeah." That's what I'm thinking about right now. It wasn't something most people did, a full-body movement for an affirmative. I don't know.
I miss him.
I wonder if this place is going to become a mausoleum?
I don't know if I'll post more this week. Maybe yes, maybe no. Feel scattered, might need it. Might not be able to stand it.
P.S. Couldn't think of a way to work this in. My brother Aaron, and my step-dad, Doug, stopped by to check on me. Can't say I felt better after, but it was nice. Meant a lot. Lot of people were in and out all day, but I want to remember that one.
I've been trying to think of what to type here. I'm just going to go with something straightforward.
My grandmother knocked on my door a little after noon, opened the door, and asked if I was there. She couldn't see because her glasses were tinted, and I had the curtains closed. She asked me if anyone had called -- I didn't think so, but I was pretty out of it. I had started sleeping again on Friday-Saturday, and was trying to take advantage of that while I could. Without saying much else, she left.
My uncle [Roger, my dad's brother] and his wife knocked on the front door not long after that. It took me a minute to compose myself, and when I opened my bedroom door, I met them both face to face. They said something to the effect of "Your grandmother needs you at your dad's house," which is, even with a sleep-addled brain, a strange statement. I asked what they were talking about, and the reiterated that my Grandmother needed me there.
I'm a pretty resistant person. I asked why again, and they told me my dad had died.
I took my time getting dressed after that. There didn't seem to be any reason to hurry. There was a crowd at Dad's house, and my grandmother told me the only reason she didn't say anything when she opened the door was because she didn't want to tell me and just leave. And I felt somewhat... thankful for that. Rest of the day sort of went from there.
I don't know what killed him. We'll probably find out from the ME in the next couple of days. He was only in his fifties. He wasn't healthy, but he wasn't so sick that anyone was expecting this. He was a cancer survivor. He was on a lot of different medications for a lot of different things, and though the things weren't fatal, maybe the pills were. Maybe it was a heart attack, or an aneurysm. I don't know. The reason why isn't that important to me right now -- the end's still the same.
Not sure what to do next. Some things will happen naturally. Family will come on their own. But I need to be there for my grandmother. She's a strong woman, but she's outlived her oldest son and I can't imagine that. And a lot of things that I took for granted while dad was here, I'm going to have to figure out how to do without him.
Little things are creeping in too. The way he'd shakes his head, and say "yeah." That's what I'm thinking about right now. It wasn't something most people did, a full-body movement for an affirmative. I don't know.
I miss him.
I wonder if this place is going to become a mausoleum?
I don't know if I'll post more this week. Maybe yes, maybe no. Feel scattered, might need it. Might not be able to stand it.
P.S. Couldn't think of a way to work this in. My brother Aaron, and my step-dad, Doug, stopped by to check on me. Can't say I felt better after, but it was nice. Meant a lot. Lot of people were in and out all day, but I want to remember that one.
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