Tucking You In At Night

Some of my fondest memories of my father are when he would tuck my twin brother Mike and I into bed every night. There was a silly ritual to it that still makes me smile. I've repeated this ritual with my nephews and nieces, as well as some of my friend's kids. It's a crowd pleaser.

In some ways, mom and dad switched stereotypical emotional roles in my family. Dad was emotional, affectionate, demonstrative, sensitive, and outwardly very loving. Mom was more stoic, somewhat detached, and distant. She showed her love by cooking great meals and other subtle ways. As a kid, I couldn't articulate that dynamic, but I was sure as shit aware of it. 

Living with that uncommon parental paradigm molded me in many ways. Having a father like mine, I learned that it was okay for a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. It resonated with me quite powerfully, because I was a very sensitive kid. Being a lot like my father already, especially emotionally, the qualities we both shared became more developed in me. I idolized my father growing up. He was loved by so many. He was successful, articulate, intelligent, and in some ways larger than life. My dad was unique, a one of a kind individual. He was a witches brew of old world values and non-conformity. Simply put, My Dad was a true Fuckin' Character. Guess my apple don't fall far from that tree.

Our nightly ritual offered a rare stability: My brother and I would kiss mom good night and then see dad, who was usually in the family room watching some television; or in his study working, or just listening to music.

After saying good night to dad, Mike and I would scurry up the stairs, and get into our matching pajamas (we're twins, and suffered from the common malady of our parents buying us matching clothing until we were....like, thirteen?). Then we would hop into bed and cover ourselves; sometimes with our head exposed, sometimes completely covered. And then we waited.....until we heard our dad coming up the steps. Sometimes he would start saying something, sometimes not. Dear Old Dad was very unpredictable, in a lot of ways. 

My bed was closest to the door, but that didn't mean he always came to me first. Like a master showman, he surprised his audience by switching up his act often.

Whichever one of us he approached, the routine was always similar. First, dad would lean over us, with his head so close you could hear and feel his breathing, and just stare. If my head was uncovered, I would try and open my eyes, just a little, to see his voluminous face, with a prominent nose, just inches from my face. This was not a good strategy for defending his assault. The sight of my loving father's face so close to me is such a sight that it is still etched so deep into my mind that, even if I have my eyes wide open, I can still picture it right in front of me as if it were happening now. 

Then dad would start talking, saying ridiculous things calculated to make us laugh. I would hold out as long as I could, and then, inevitably, break into laughter and be on the receiving end of tickling, silly verbiage, and a whole lotta love. The other one of us who heard this did all he could not to laugh, but such attempts at restraint were doomed. 

I miss those moments so much these days. That exchange goes a long way in explaining why I love to share the bed with someone I love. The moments before sleep, next to another sacred soul, are precious to me. I want to go to bed with someone feeling loved, feeling connected, feeling safe, feeling all we have to do is be with each other. And I want her to feel the same thing. 

Lover's everywhere: be it moms, dads, siblings, aunts, uncles, lovers, even one night stands: give the one laying next to you a sacred container for beautiful, loving, sleep. Let them know you love them, however that manifests itself in the relationship. Hold them, kiss them, play games with them, make love to them, whatever it takes. Going to bed in the arms of another, be it virtual arms or physical arms, demonstrates a level of love and connection that can not be replicated in any other circumstance. I don't care how long you've been together, how long you've known each other, or what the relationship is. Make it happen.

Falling asleep with someone you love is like falling in love, every night. Don't squander this precious opportunity to Make A Moment. 

© 2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

The Last Time I Saw Him

       The last time I saw him, I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. He. Squeezed. Back. He wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. He’s not supposed to be able to hear me.
       It was just me and my sister Cheryl by then. Everyone else had gone back to our sister Pam’s house to sleep. But Cheryl and I couldn't fathom not sleeping at the hospital, next to him, in his room. A room full of more pain and sorrow and heartache than I knew was possible.
       After doing my best to fall asleep in a chair, I went to the small chapel down the hall. There was a bench in there I could stretch out on. And it was a good place to pray.
       A few days before, from his hospital bed, he had been asking where I was. Although I wasn’t there to hear him say “Where’s John”, I can hear those words echoing in me so loud and dissonant that they strike my heart, plucking it like a string. And then everything I am inside vibrates the most haunting of tones.   
       I should have been there for him more. I should have lived at the hospital. But I didn't get how bad it was. None of us did. And I took some comfort knowing that the worst two nights he had, I was there with him, in the ICU, lying next to him in a cot rolled in by the nurses. If he could have stepped out of his delirium long enough to realize what was happening, it would have made him happy to know that it was me spending the night. I know he would have wanted it to be me in there with him.  
       What I didn’t know was how to handle his sickness. So I made myself sick by self medicating. It took my pain away for a while. It was the only thing that did. So I kept doing it.   
       The heaviness I sometimes get when I think about those last few weeks of October still makes my head tilt a little forward; still makes breathing a little harder; still weighs my heart like an anchor; still puts something in my throat that has no substance but chokes me nonetheless; still either causes a numbness or a welling up behind my eyes. Even now. Eight years later.
       In the chapel down the hall, I actually dozed off for a few minutes on the couch when Cheryl came in and said “John, he’s doing real bad”. His heart had gone into arrhythmia. So now on top of the tubes up his nose and down his throat, he had pads on his chest shooting electricity through him. His body spasmed in a most horrific, unnatural way after the nurse repeatedly cried “Clear!”. I held Cheryl’s hand. And we held his hands. And we didn’t let go.  
       This was it. There would be no miracle. There would be no more baseball games. No more long, philosophical discussions. No more watching World War Two documentaries together and discussing the impact of that war on the history of humankind. No more corny jokes I had heard a thousand times before but still laughed at. No more watching him lean back in his chair, stare off towards a distant target, and pick his lip when I posed an inquiry that he had to think deeply about. No more dropping by his office just to say hi. No more of him coming up to me, spontaneously hugging me, and asking me.....“Who loves ya, John?”………and me replying…….“You do, Dad. You do.”


©2104 John Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved

Piatelli Construction

       Over the weekend, I stayed in an old Boston hotel that used to be called The Bradford. It’s a Marriott Courtyard now, in the theatre district right across from the Wang Center.
       My family has a history with that hotel. Back in the mid 1980’s, my dad and a few partners were thinking about buying the hotel and renovating it. I remember accompanying my father to those business meetings at that hotel. I was fresh out of college, very green, busting with pride to be helping my dad, and observing how some big boys operated. The deal didn’t work out, but Piatelli Construction ended up doing some work on the place before another group took it over. For that phase, my dad didn’t need me in the boardroom but in the bathroom - of the hotel - so I worked with the demo crew. My sister Cheryl got a very cool brass water fountain from the old Bradford.
       I miss my dad a lot these days. I miss him a lot most days, actually, but something in particular is up between me and him right now. He’s trying to tell me something. Either something I haven’t heard before, or something I haven’t been able to hear before.
       Dad’s aura was all over that hotel last weekend. I felt it. I felt him. It was actually a little surreal. Aside from going to the old Roxy nightclub, I hadn’t been in that hotel since I ripped mirrors and such off the walls many years ago. My dad was still alive then.
       When I think about my dad and his construction company, I remember that I felt that he, and it, would be around forever. Piatelli Construction was as much a part of my life, as my whole family’s life, as any person. It was like the great container that we all navigated the world through. Manned by my father, it gave us all so much; it would be impossible for me to imagine my earlier life without it. It was like my third parent.
       It saddens me that the company no longer exists. That none of us took it over and continued the legacy. My dad was okay with that, however. At least he said he was. He always wanted his kids to do what we wanted for work, not what he wanted. That point was made clear to all of us again and again, and I know it was sincere. And yet, I can’t help but think he would have loved to see one of his sons take the company over. Then again, knowing dad had some serious control issues, especially around his business, maybe not. I’m sure he had mixed emotions over the whole thing.
       The legacy of my dad and Piatelli Construction are inexorably entwined. They both made a huge difference in so many people’s lives. I wonder what my legacy will be. I don’t ponder that question in the future tense. I understand that whatever my legacy will be, it’s determined by the choices I make, by the actions I take, now. Today. This moment. And I want to make a difference in people’s lives. Now. Today. This moment.
       So I’m listening dad. Speak to me. At no other time in my life have I had my ear more to the wind of my own heart. Your heart was your greatest gift. Yes, your head was magnificent, but it was your heart that drove you to be the man you were. The man so loved, so deeply, by so many.
       Especially this son.      

©2014 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

I Love John

       About three o’clock one morning in June of 2006, while spending the night at my parents' house, I awoke to a rustling in the nearby bathroom. I got up to see what was going on. It was my dad. And he was making a little ruckus.
       My father had contracted a nasty rash from coming in contact with lawn fertilizer, and was prescribed some cream to relieve the intense itching. But he was having great difficulty applying the ointment to his arms. My eighty-six year old dad was tired, and in considerable physical distress from his ailment. Fumbling about, mumbling and swearing under his breath like he always did when he was frustrated, the poor guy was just having a miserable time.
       Bleary eyed myself, and functioning at less than optimal after attending my nephew’s college graduation party, I approached my father and said, “Dad, let me help you.” Now, helping my dad, with anything, was not always easy. My father was old school, wanted to do everything himself, and was a bit of a control freak. He had started a construction company from scratch with his dad back in the 1950‘s, and built it into a very successful business through a lot of hard work. A World War Two veteran who spent two years on Guam building airstrips in the middle of the jungle, he only delegated what he absolutely had to. And he rarely asked for help.
       But there we were, in the bathroom at three in the morning. I wasn’t waiting for my dad to ask me for help. I simply wasn’t going to let him do this by himself. At my insistence, my “Dear Old Dad”, as he frequently referred to himself as, dropped his arms and let me take the wheel. He let his underwear clad, half-asleep, slightly hung over, youngest son rub the doctor prescribed medicated goop all over his arms, thus alleviating his discomfort.
       It was a beautiful moment, being able to help my father. I was aware of that then, even through my sleepy haze. As I rubbed the cream on his arms, we talked about how much fun the party had been, and about my plans to spend the summer in California. When I was done, my dad thanked me. We hugged and kissed goodnight.
       A few hours later, at about eight AM, I was awoken once again. Someone’s hands were gently stroking my hair, and a man was crying softly. My eyes slowly focused. There was my dad, leaning over me in bed, like he used to do when I was just a kid, touching my head, staring at me with watery eyes and a little smile. He said to me, “John (my father rarely called me Clint).....thank you for what you did for me last night.” I touched him on the shoulders and said something like, “No problem dad. I’m glad I could help”.
       I was very close to my dad. We were very much alike in many critical ways. And as different as night and day in others. We shared many tender times together. And this may have been the closest I ever felt to him. In my life.
       When I woke up for good about an hour and a half later, I went downstairs to the kitchen. My folks were long gone by then, having headed off to Maine. Over the kitchen table, a table I had eaten countless meals at throughout my life, there was a note, taped to the chandelier. Before I even read it, I knew the note was from my dad.  Because the first thing I actually saw was the white surgical tape used to tape the note to the chandelier itself. My dad used white surgical tape for everything. It was his magic elixir. He loved the stuff. I think my dad believed that if it had been available during the days of the Titanic, that ship would still be afloat today.
       On the note, in my dad’s distinctive printing (he rarely used cursor, even though he had fabulous penmanship), were three simple words. “I Love John”.
       I can’t think about that moment, even now, more than seven years later, without tearing up. I have a feeling it’ll be that way for the rest of my life. I certainly hope so.

(This picture was taken the week after.....)

©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.
    
    

Santa Claus Meets The Piatelli Twins

       This post is what’s known as a “Teaser”....
       And, adhering to my mantra that inspiration and spontaneity are absolutely vital to the nexus of creation, I, in the moment, add this, completely non-sequitur, yet invaluable tidbit:

Teasing your lover in the bedroom is so delicious, so explosively sexy, that, if you have any aversion to, or reservations about, being teased so much that you forget your own name, then please.....for sex sake.....try and get over it.
    
Thank You! That has been a word from our sponsor! Now, back to the program!
    
       This is the first picture of my twin brother Mike and I with Santa Claus. We were almost two years old. More pictures and stories to come.....

©2013 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.