Category: Les Green

Elgee Arts

Somehow, it’s become MY job to listen to a bunch of cassette tapes that were in my late father’s possession. Mostly, they are pitches by people you’ve never heard of, recommending that folks get involved with one multilevel marketing plan or another, something that my father was susceptible of buying into. But there’s also How To Be An Auctioneer (Dad was the first black auctioneer in the state of North Carolina), a 1983 episode of something called P.M. Magazine (Eddie Murphy’s language offends! John Lennon biopic to be made!) There may be a tape or two in there of his music or writings. Naturally, most of them are unlabeled, or labeled so cryptically as to be meaningless. More than seven years after his death, the day before what would have been his 81st birthday…

Tomorrow, Lydia will be three and a half. So, my father’s birthday is Lydia’s half-birthday, and vice versa. In the Lydia-naming consideration process, which I detailed way back here, it had never occurred to me that my father, Les Green, and my daughter, Lydia Green, had the same first and last initials until Carol started labeling Lydia’s things that she takes to day care LG.

For many of my father’s enterprises, involving music, painting and flowers (in other words, NOT the MLM stuff), he referred to the business as Elgee Arts – LG. So, in one more way, I have this connection between my father and my daughter, even though they never had a chance to meet.

And since I’m taking about him, let me re-request any information about my father’s – Leslie Harold Green – military service from May 1945 to December 1946 in a segregated unit in the European theater, as I described here.
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There’s this 46-year-old Carnegie Mellon professor who is dying. He seems to have a rather good attitude about it, probably better than what mine would be.

ROG

ROG

Another Day

This would have been my Grandma Williams’ 110th birthday, I think. I mean the day is right, it’s the year that’s a little fuzzy. She had always told us – my mother (her daughter), my father, my sisters, me, even her siblings (she was the oldest of five) – that she born in 1898. But when we took her to finally register to vote, in the early 1960s, she told the voter registar that she was born in 1897. What? I suspect that she was OK fibbing to thee rest of us, but didn’t want to swear to a lie.

I spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house. Because both my parents worked outside of the home -my mother at an office in McLean’s department store in Binghamton – my sisters and I went to her house, which she shared with her youngest sibling, my Aunt Deana, every day at lunchtime, and early on, after school. In fact, it was their availability that determined that I would go to elementary school at Daniel S. Dickinson rather than Oak Street, which was the school where people living at my address were supposed to go. This means, if it weren’t for her willingness to do this, I wouldn’t have know Carol, Karen, Lois, Bill, Bernie, Irene, and Diane from K-12, the first five of whom I saw at my HS reunion last year, and the first of which I’ll see this weekend.

On the other hand, my grandma tended to tell stories of boogeymen, and bad people lurking everywhere. My sister Leslie and I were susceptible to her tales, though baby sister Marcia, to her credit, saw right through them.

Anyway, Bill Walsh, the coach of the San Francisco 49ers died last month, and I remembered my grandma. See, I got a call that she had died in Charlotte, NC during the third period of Super Bowl XVI, when Walsh and the team won their first championship against Cincinnati. They’re somehow forever linked in my mind.
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Today is also the seventh anniversary of the death of my father. I don’t know what more I can say that I haven’t already said here and here and here and especially here. He was gregarious and moody, forthright and secretive, talented and limited. I was talking with my sister Leslie about him this week. He had wanted me to find a way for him to make money on the Internet, but he had so many ideas, many of them unfocused, that I didn’t quite know how to do that. And I felt that he was a bit disappointed in me for that. Whatcha gonna do?
ROG

ROG

“Living with cancer…”

Five years ago, 10 August 2000, my father, Leslie Harold Green died of prostate cancer.
Actually, the death certificate, which cites me as the “reporter” (whatever that means), says that he died of heart failure which was caused by a stroke which was precipated by prostate cancer (or some such.)

The first time Dad told us he had the disease was in early 1998. My sister Leslie, who lives in San Diego, and I were both visiting the Greens in Charlotte. I remember that my sister was very upset, but I wasn’t all that much, and she was upset that I wasn’t upset. My reaction was probably based on the fact that HE didn’t seem all that upset.

In fact, he seemed pleased by the fact that he had this disease, but that he was still in control. At Carol’s and my wedding (15 May 1999), he did all the floral arrangements and decorations. He seemed to relish in telling my new mother-in-law about it almost nonchalantly that evening.

And he also did the decorations for my parents’ 50th anniversary party (12 March 2000), perhaps needing to take a break a little more often, but still going well. More than once, I heard him say to church folks and others: “I’m living with prostate cancer, not dying from it.” That always got an “amen” from the congregation. I wasn’t quite sure what the heck that meant, and I felt as though I were missing the punchline somehow.

My father was active in many, many things, including being the organizer and primary chef for the breakfast program at his church. Sister Leslie was talking to our mother on Leslie’s birthday (23 July 2000), but my father, having made breakfast for four dozen people that morning, indicated that he was too tired to talk with her. This set off alarm bells for her. Leslie was always my father’s favorite child. This is not a complaint, it’s a fact that even she has admitted to. I mean, she’s NAMED after him, for crying out loud. So, if he’s too tired to talk with her on her birthday, something’s seriously amiss.

The next week, even though she’d been in Charlotte earlier in that month, she flew from San Diego to Raleigh, then drove to Charlotte, arriving the very night he went into the hospital with some bleeding.

So, my mother, Leslie, and sister Marcia stayed with my father on a rotating basis. I talked with one of them on the phone every day.

That first weekend, my father thought that he was well enough to go home, so he got up and started taking out his IV tubes. This set off alarms at the nurses’ station, where they had to insist that he return to his room. He was a bad patient.

Then, on Thursday, August 3, my father has a massive stroke, and I knew I had to go to Charlotte.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t want to go to Charlotte. It wasn’t because we were backed up at work (though we were) or that one of us was already on vacation (though she was). I didn’t want to go to Charlotte because I figured if I went down there, my father would die. (Conversely, I figured that if I stayed up in Albany, he’d hang on for a while.)

But my wife Carol & I got tickets to fly to the Queen City. (Here’s a piece of advice, if you’re ever in that situation; compare the price the airline gives you for their “compassionate rate” with what you might find from Priceline.com or its competitors. I’ll bet the latter is cheaper, and you don’t have the hassle of the paperwork, in this case, getting a note from my father’s physician, Dr. Friedman, that said, yes, Les Green is really, really sick.)

Carol & I went right from the airport to the hospital on Monday, August 7. Even though he had some paralysis on one side, I could usually understand what he was saying. That night, Carol and I stayed in his room.

The next morning, Marcia was on the phone and made some lighthearted tease at Dad’s expense. Dad heard this, even though the phone was to my ear, and said fairly clearly, “not funny,” but he was obviously thought it was. Carol & I stayed with him that morning, then that afternoon, my mother.

My mother, Leslie, Carol and I met with an aid worker to determine what our options were if he were to live for a while: home care, hospice. My sisters stayed with him Tuesday night.

Carol & I were in on Wednesday morning. Dad became far less responsive since I had last seen him, pretty much in a comalike state, and on Wednesday night, Dr. Friedman said that it was likely that he would die within a week.

That evening, I turned on a baseball game, and explained the action to my father. I think the sound was down, so I was doing a play-by-play for a couple innings. I told him about Jason Giambi, the long-haired player for the Oakland A’s who had “graced” the cover of Sports Illustrated within the previous year. It took me back to when Dad would explain in-person baseball and televised football to me when I was a kid.

There were men from church who worked with my father on the breakfast program, and Dad called them “The Guys.” They came by and were surprised by his rapid decline since they had last seen him.

Wednesday night, we went home and Marcia stayed.

Thursday morning, I was working on an obituary for my father. Leslie had gone to relieve Marcia. Then at about 11:45 a.m., Marcia called from the hospital and said that my father was in the “death throes.” There were two vehicles in the household and both were at the hospital.

At my mother’s suggestion, I knocked on the door of a neighbor of theirs who I didn’t know. He worked nights. He did, in fact, give my mother and me a ride to the hospital after he got dressed. But by the time we got there, my father had passed away.

In due course, we identified a funeral parlor, which we went to Friday morning. That weekend, there were tons of people at the Green household, often bringing over food.

The service that we planned went off quite well. Leslie sang, Leslie & I sang, stories were told. We felt as though we had to comfort OTHERS in their grief. We had on our game faces; Dad would have been proud, I think.

That Monday, we (my mother, Leslie & her daughter Becky, Marcia & her daughter Alex, and Carol and I) all rode in a limo to a military cemetery some 30 or 40 miles away, our one indulgence. (We weren’t that sure where it was, and didn’t know what condition we’d be in.) It was a small, stark ceremony run by old war veterans, and it was oddly affecting. The Sunday service WE did; this service was DONE FOR US, and somehow more emotional.

Carol & I left soon thereafter for Albany. We had tenants moving into an apartment we owned, and there was work to be done. And I didn’t really cry until, a couple weeks after his death, the associate pastor of my church, Donna Elia, called me at work to extend her condolences. It’s a good thing to have a private office.

That fall, I returned to choir, and I asked my buddy Peggy how her summer was, and she said, “Not so great. My father died.” I said, “Mine, too.” Then she said, “In August.” I replied, “Me too.” “On the 10th.” “Me too.” “At 3 p.m.” “Mine was about 12:15 p.m.” It’s created some sort of special bond between Peggy and me. So, I know she’s remembering five years ago, too.

ROG

Flip Flop Flap

There were two fairly minor stories in the news last week that caught my fancy. Both involved decorum and both reminded me of my father, one obtusely.

The first was the “flip flop flap”, the story of some young women on the Northwestern women’s lacrosse team who were invited to the White House to meet W and were chastised for wearing flip flops as opposed to shoes, preferably closed-toe shoes. Five of the nine in the first row were wearing this apparently awful apparel.

For some reason, this “lack of propriety” reminded me of a trip my family took from Charlotte to Raleigh, NC some 10 or 20 years ago. My father was complaining that the late Gregory Hines had worn an earring to some black-tie event honoring black Americans, probably an NAACP awards thing, that was televised. Dad complained that Hines was showing disrespect to the organization. My sister Leslie and I argued that he ALWAYS wore an earring, that this was not something he did to dis the event, and for a male actor to wear an earring was no big deal. This conversation went back and forth for about 90 miles, with neither side backing down.

The other story was about Why Knot, a robot that can tie a tie, but only certain types of knots. The link to my father was more obvious. We were having our family portrait taken in 1975, at a time when my relationship with him was in one of those shaky periods. He stood about four feet from my mother and me, and he asked my MOTHER, “Wouldn’t Roger want to wear a tie?” Well, Roger never WANTS to wear a tie, as he finds them noose-like and unnecessary. But if Roger’s father had asked ROGER if Roger WOULD wear a tie, it is likely that Roger would have complied. But since Roger’s dad asked Roger’s mom instead, the answer was: “No way.” And I think of that story every time I see that picture. (Talk about “Every picture tells a story.”)

I wouldn’t wear flip-flops to see the President, but I never expect that I’ll ever be asked to visit the White House. Also, I don’t own any flip-flops, and I don’t think I’d buy some if the occasion did arise. As for Why Knot, do we REALLY need a machine that will help us cut off blood and oxygen to the brain?

Father’s Day

The first Father’s Day without my father, in 2001, was the hardest time I had since he died in August 2000. Harder than his funeral (when I went on autopilot), Christmas, or my parents’ anniversary or even his birthday (which came only a month and a half after his death, so perhaps I hadn’t fully absorbed it.)
That first Father’s Day, the world seemed to prattle on, like verbal bullies on the playground, “We have a father, and you— don’t.”

Father’s Day 2002 and 2003 were somewhat better, though I found myself occasionally jealous of people with fathers.

Father’s Day 2004 was definitely a mixed bag. It was the first year I was a father and I got a lot of affirmation, especially from my mother, my sisters, my fellow church members, my friends.
Still, I was missing my father in a whole new way. I wondered, “What kind of advice would he have given me?” and “Would I have accepted it?” I felt that whatever he might have said to my sisters when they were raising their daughters wouldn’t necessarily apply to me. It was a “guy thing”, but I don’t know how that would manifest itself in this situation. And, of course, I wish that my father had been able to see my daughter. (A belief in an afterlife assuages this only marginally.)

As another Father’s Day approaches, I hope that Lydia will give me socks, like I gave my dad. I think that this year, I’ll be able to concentrate on the joy instead of the sorrow. Indeed, I know that I’m feeling easier now about being a father. It’s not that I know much more; it’s that I’m not so concerned about not knowing what I’m doing like I did last year. (This may be a function of the fact that I have had somewhat more sleep in June 2005 than in June 2004.)

And I hope that if someone reading this has a living father with whom he or she is estranged, reconciliation may be found. Despite our occasional turmoil, my father and I ended up in a pretty good place with each other. For that, I do feel very fortunate.

ROG
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