A Look Back / A Look Forward

As I sit here writing this blogpost, it is early in the evening on December 31st, and 2018 will be over within a couple of hours. Like a lot of you, I have spent the day reflecting on what I've accomplished, what I liked, and disliked over the past year. Overall, 2018 was a pretty good year for me. I lost thirty pounds in the first few months of the year, released Deadly Passion, book two in The Razzman Files series, featuring PI Tony Razzolito, and we welcomed our second grandchild into the world just a few days ago.

That was the good stuff.

Now in all fairness, some of this good stuff was actually stuff I set as part of my goals for 2017. My doctor told me to lose the weight in 2017. I didn't. I originally had planned on releasing Deadly Passion by the end of 2017. I didn't. Be that as it may, I did both of these things - it just took me a little longer than I wanted. So, I'm gonna refer to those two goals as a part of my two year plan.😃

Losing weight is never an easy task. Losing weight as a 59 year old with arthritic knees makes that task even harder to accomplish. I'm very proud of the fact that I lost 30 pounds. My doctor was ecstatic!😀 Mostly, I did it by changing the way I eat. But I also crossed over into the dreaded Mall-Walkers club this year. Yes, I am now one of those older folks who walks around the neighborhood shopping mall to get my exercise. And yes, I am one of the people that always thought that dressing up in sweats and putting on a pair of New Balance shoes and then power-walking around the younger people strolling through the mall was just plain silly. I used to think that way. I don't anymore. I am now the guy who the young moms shoo their even younger children away from, as I speed by them donning my sweat pants and New Balance shoes.

I released Deadly Passion in April. I felt a real sense of accomplishment when I finished that book. I think it is better than the first book, Dead is Forever. Mainly, I think I'm a better writer than I was when I wrote the first one. I've learned a lot about story, and structure, and research, between the time I wrote book one and book two. I believe I found my writer's voice through the main character, Tony Razzolito, and I knew all of the characters and their personality quirks better this time around. So, the story was actually driven by the characters... I just put their words on paper.

My first grandchild was born in 2017. His personality blossomed in 2018. My daughter and I took him on a road trip back to my hometown, to visit with family and friends in August. It was a special trip for me because I really had a chance to spend some quality time with the two of them. My daughter and her husband were to welcome a new baby by the end of the year, so this would be the last time we would probably take this trip in the way we did, since the dynamic was about to change. That's not to say that the new dynamic wasn't going to be great... because it is. It's just that when my kids were, well... kids, we would take this trip every year. My son, daughter, and their mom would make the trip with me and we would visit family and friends. As time marched on and things changed, those trips also changed. Now that my kids are adults, each has made the effort to occasionally tag along. But, they are both married now and have lives of their own, so they don't come along as much as I would like. When my daughter asked if she and my grandson could go with me this year, it touched me deeply. If you are interested, you can read a bit about that trip here, on an older blogpost. Just click on the summer trip blog under the September tab.

My granddaughter was born on December 21st, and I can't think of a better way to cap off the year. I now have two beautiful grandchildren. I am very blessed.

As the remaining hours of 2018 tick away, I look forward to the new year. 2019 holds a lot of promise, but then so does every bright and shiny new year. What matters most as we cross over into 2019 are the promises kept and the goals achieved throughout the upcoming year, and not the promises made or the goals we set at the beginning. Most likely, the promises, goals and resolutions we take into the new year will change and be modified as we bump into the, for now, unknown challenges that are bound to get in our way. We all usually go into the next year believing that this will be the year we change, the year we prosper, the year we find love, the year where we finally realize all of our dreams, etc. And for some, that's how it plays out. But for most, it takes a lot of hard work and commitment to stay on task, or to even remember what we set out to achieve once the year gets rolling. I'm guilty of that, myself. Every year I start out strong, only to let it go in the middle of the year, and then push during the last month or two, trying to accomplish what I promised myself ten months earlier. The third book in The Razzman Files, Dirty Air, fell prey to this. I wanted to release it before the end of the year. I will not be doing that.

But this year is different. At least it is for me. I will mark a milestone birthday in 2019. I turn 60 years old in May. So, the finish line I am now most concerned with goes beyond the end of the current year. I have a lot of stuff I want to do yet. And 2019 is a great time to push the pedal down a little harder and get busy.

That being said, here are a few things I would like to continue, or get done in 2019:

• Be the best grandpa I can be to my grandbabies
• Spend less time concerned with things I cannot change anyways
• Set foot inside a gym and begin the weight training and toning I should have included when working on my weight loss last year - and maybe even lose a few more pounds 
• Release book three, Dirty Air 
• Complete a short story that will be included in a WolfPackAuthors anthology book, coming out in the first half of the year - proceeds to be donated to charity (Follow me on Twitter for more information)
• Start and FINISH the fourth book in The Razzman Files series
• Write on this blog with a little more regularity - perhaps even hold to a schedule😏
• Continue to learn and grow as a writer
• Read and REVIEW more books than I did in 2018
• Be the best, supportive partner I can be in the Twitter Writers Community    

I am certain this list will grow and change a bit over the year, but nonetheless, it is the list I plan to follow and accomplish by the time the ball drops on the last day of 2019.

Until next time - Happy New Year!
________________________________________________________________

As always, any thoughts or comments are welcome! 😎

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Good Writing

How do you define good writing? Well, there are lots of ways to go when answering this question. Some will define good writing as stories written about subjects that people want to read. Others will say that good writing is performed by someone who writes well. Someone who uses proper grammar and has no spelling or punctuation errors.

For me, good writing is composed by someone who simply has a deep seeded passion to write. Genre doesn’t matter as long as the story being told has the author’s sweat equity attached to it. The words flow from brain, to fingertips, to paper in such a way that even if the reader does not normally enjoy the genre or subject matter, there is an appreciation that cannot be denied. The passion the writer has for the subject transfers to the person reading the story.

I’ve experienced this effect recently. My genres of choice when reading are Mystery, PI Detective, Suspense, and Adventure. However, lately, I have dipped my toe in a few other genres and was pleasantly surprised.

Not long ago, I read a book titled, Broken Pieces of Tomorrow, by Soulla Christodoulou. At its core it is Women’s Fiction. It is also a coming of age story, a novel about strength, relationships, and family. This book took me to a place I’d never been before… and I found that I liked where it took me.

I recently read a short story by Stefan Angelina McElvain. Twelve Nights is an erotic tale that took me by surprise. I had always stayed away from Erotica as a genre because I had the idea that it was mostly raw sex that lacked quality storylines. Yes, people are drawn to Erotica because of the tantalizing, escapism sex, but these books also have substance and storylines that make them a good solid reading experience.

I’ve never been real big on science fiction stuff, and usually stay away from that genre and all its sub-genres. However, I took a chance on a collection of short stories by Claire Buss, titled, The Blue Serpent. This collection was much more than I had originally (pre-reading) gave it credit for. I thought it was going to be all Sci-Fi, Dystopian type of stories, but after I finished the book, I was impressed enough to give her two-book, Post-Apocalyptic, Dystopian Sci-Fi series, The Gaia Collection, a spot on my TBR (to be read) shelf.

I’ve read several cozies by Kathi Daley, Lucy Quinn, Tonya Kappes, and Ritter Ames. This I find the most amazing as I’ve always thought of the Cozy genre as straight up female targeted writing. Surprise, surprise, I find myself really liking these stories and have gone back to the well several times. It has become my dirty little reading secret.

Of course, I have not been ignoring my first love; Adventure, Detective, PI, and Mystery. I have enjoyed, On the Hook, by Cindy Davis, which is a newer Cozy-style Mystery series. This is a light-hearted series where the mysteries are theft, and caper style plots rather than murder mysteries. The Justinia Wright, Private Investigator Mysteries, by CW Hawes, gives a nod to the traditional detective stories like Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe. I enjoyed the first in the series, Festival of Death, so much that I immediately bought the entire series after I’d finished the book.

There are many others, too numerous to mention. But there are a couple of threads that tie all of these books together for me. One; they were all written by independently published authors whose passion for writing was evident in every story, and two; although all are vastly different in genre and style, all are considered, in my opinion, to be good writing. The authors left it all out on the field. They held nothing back as they crafted the words that best fit their ideas. In some cases, the books I’ve listed were the author’s first born, and in others, it was perhaps the first in a new series. But whether it was the first or the twenty-first book written, never did I feel like I was reading something that the author simply phoned in.

I’m glad I decided to travel to these other worlds I’d not visited before. I’ve had a great time exploring different genres and discovering new stories by talented writers I’ve overlooked in the past, simply because of the genre they work within. It has definitely helped me to become a better writer, and what I've found is that there is simply just too much good writing out there to be ignored.

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Click on the author's names above to see their Amazon page

And for the specific books I mentioned above, just click on the links below and you will be able to discover these great reads for yourself!        

Broken Pieces of Tomorrow by Soulla Christodoulou
Twelve Nights by Stefan Angelina McElvain
The Blue Serpent by Claire Buss
On the Hook by Cindy Davis
Festival Of Death by CW Hawes

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And as always - please check out all my books by clicking on one of the links below:

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My Childhood - Part II: The Game Around the Neighborhood

   When I was fifteen years old, my brother, our best friend, and his brother would get together with a few of the other neighborhood kids and we'd all play "The Game Around the Neighborhood". Yes - it's not a very inventive name, but keep in mind, it was the '70s... my excuse for everything that makes no sense. It was essentially hide and seek on steroids. We certainly couldn't call it hide and seek, since that is a timeless little kid's game, and we were teenagers.

   We would split up into two teams; me and my friend John against my brother, Tony, John's brother Stevie, and anywhere from three to five other kids ranging in age from eight to twelve years old. The object of our version of this timeless kid's game was simple-- John and I would go off and hide somewhere in the neighborhood, and everyone else would look for us.

   My brother and his team of eager bloodhounds would give us a ten minute head start before they would begin their search. Nothing was off limits. Neighboring yards, open garages, unlocked cars, even the woods that butted up against a cemetery at the end of a dead end street was fair game. So, off we'd go. We would spend upwards of two hours hiding and seeking across several different streets and numerous back yards. Since this was all taking place in the mid ‘70s, there was no fear of anything bad happening to any of us. As a matter of fact, it never even entered my mother’s thoughts. Different world back then, and it was a great way to spend a sunny, hot summer afternoon.

   The game was usually nowhere near as exciting as the picture I've painted here😏, so John and I decided we would spice it up a bit. Rather than spend our ten minute lead time to get as far away as possible, we'd circle back around and spy on team Tony. It was incredibly easy. My brother was busy handing out assignments to the troops and sending them off in different directions, thinking he had the advantage of being able to cover more ground in less time than just the two of us could. It never occurred to him that we doubled back and were behind them.

   Both of our teams had walkie-talkies to communicate. I had the bright idea that my team would keep changing channels which was designed to keep my brother's team from locking in on our conversations. Tony, and his team, being a few years younger, didn't have our level of brain power and intelligence. We were able to lock in on their communication, easily allowing us to listen in on what they were planning. Since the hunted became the hunters, it helped us to formulate our plan of attack.

   One day, during one of these marathon game sessions, John and I decided to climb up into a tree and wait for the search party to wander by. We thought it would be funny to see how long we could stay in the tree without being noticed.

   We situated ourselves up high enough so that the leaves would give us some sort of cover. We stayed in the tree laughing and congratulating each other on our brilliance for a solid twenty minutes before Tony, Stevie, and their posse appeared in the yard that we had planted our rear ends above. And as luck would have it, they took a break from their pursuit and sat around the base of the tree drinking water and catching their breath.

   I thought I was gonna burst with laughter. What a rush! How did they not realize we were right above their heads? We could barely contain ourselves. They were talking strategies and trying to piece together where they thought we were hiding. Meanwhile, we're sitting about fifteen feet north of them. This went on for a while when John suddenly leaned over and told me he had to pee. Since I also needed to relieve myself, I figured we were going to have to give ourselves away, which meant losing the game. I positioned my body so that I could start my descent out of the tree, when I see John unbutton his pants and pull his junk out.

   I leaned over and whispered, "What are you doing?"

   "I told you, I have to pee!" He smiled and began to pee on his brother's head.

   Well, you would think that would be that. The game was sure to end since John was peeing on his brother! Incredibly, Stevie didn't look up. Instead he asked the other kids if they felt raindrops. Everyone on the ground stuck their hands out testing for rain. I thought I was gonna die from holding in the laughter threatening to explode from my gut!

   They all agreed that no one felt any raindrops. Stevie insisted that the top of his head was getting wet. Finally, my brother looked up and spotted us in the tree above their heads. Not able to keep it in any longer, I burst into loud, uncontrollable howling.

   Tony's team was screaming at us. Stevie was screaming the loudest. We shimmied down the tree and started running as fast as we could. The only ones that followed us were Tony and Stevie. We ran all the way back to John's house with them hot on our heals.

   Their mom was not happy. How mad was she? She grounded John for a month for peeing on Stevie. She told me and my brother to go home. She had called our mother before we got there, and I too, ended up grounded for a month. Pretty harsh considering I wasn't the one peeing on my brother! Guilty by association.

   That was the last time we ever played "The Game Around the Neighborhood". Probably for the best. We certainly didn't want to give our brothers the opportunity to revenge the pee incident, as it came to be known.

   My friend John now lives on the other side of the country from where I live, and although my brother lives on the same coast as I do, he is eight hundred miles to the north. The pee incident took place forty-five years ago, and it's still one of the first stories that we all reminisce about whenever we talk. It was funny to us as kids. Now, it's a story that helps us fondly remember Stevie. He passed away due to severe liver damage when he was just thirty years old. He was a troubled young man, but he was a good guy, and his death hit me pretty hard. Even though being peed on was probably not one of his fondest memories as an adult, it had become one of mine. And that story always leads to other interesting, fun, and certainly, fond memories I have of him. The pee incident story certainly helps put a smile on my face whenever I think back to those days. And as long ago as it was, as I sit here and write about it, it feels like it all just happened yesterday, rather than yesteryear.

Well, that's all I've got for this installment of my childhood memories. Now, if you'll excuse me... I need to go pee.😉

More to come in a few weeks.
________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading... Full disclosure - I did change some of the names to protect the privacy of my friend. 

Meanwhile... I encourage you to please explore the sites below -

Find my books here amazon.com/author/joecongel
Follow me on Twitter @JoeCongelAuthor
Like my Facebook page: JoeCongelAuthor
Visit my Web page: Here

 


     

 

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• Dead is Forever: A Tony Razzolito PI Story •

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A Short Story

So if you've read the other couple of short stories I've posted on this blog, you are already aware that they are in a different style than what I use to write my books. And on the off chance that you haven't read any of my books (shame on you!😏), I write Mystery/PI Detective stories featuring Tony Razzolito. I write the detective stories using past tense first person and alternate to a third person POV when needed to advance the story. The short stories are written in third person POV and tend to be a little bit more on the strange and slightly unusual side.

I use this blog to post my thoughts on writing in general, personal stories about my life, information on my books, and the occasional short story. And when I do post a short story here, it's something I'm experimenting with since I'm trying to stretch myself beyond the Mystery/PI genre. So the stories may have some flaws, and probably even need more tweaking, but I look at them as a work in progress. A way for me to work out the kinks, so to speak, and get some feedback in the process. What I care about most is that they are fun, entertaining, and maybe even leave you wanting more.

So here is a little short story (around 1100 words) I've been working on --

The Secret  

   Samuel J Potts was a family man. He had a wife, Jessica, a twelve year old son named Daniel, and a ten year old daughter, Melissa.

   The Potts were an affluent family by most anyone’s standards, and as such, lived in a very nice house in a very nice neighborhood. They lived in a sunny state located in the southern part of the US and enjoyed the typical outdoor lifestyle that area of the country allowed.

   Sam, as his wife called him, worked hard over the last fifteen years building the business that provided the existence they’d all come to appreciate. He had taken over the funeral home his father owned, and that he had worked in as a boy, and turned it into a chain of six across the three surrounding counties.

   His father had been known for his kindness and his compassion, and it had ensured a marvelous reputation for the business. So when his dad retired and turned it over to Sam, he was able to easily secure the investors needed to grow the one funeral home into six.

   Life for Samuel J Potts appeared to be wonderful. He had a nice home, a loving family, money in the bank, and a thriving business to pay for it all.

   But the magnificent life that he built was not all it appeared to be, and the anxiety he felt that it could all come crashing down at any moment was real. He feared for what would happen to him and, more importantly, to his family if the truth were to come out. But he wasn’t sure if he could prevent it from happening, he wasn’t sure if he could change.

   Samuel J Potts had a secret.

   The panic was already starting to set in. She had been awake for about ten minutes or so—long enough to realize that she was trapped. Trapped inside of some sort of box. Darkness enveloped her and she could hardly see her own body as she lay flat on the hard wooden bottom. Sweat dripped from her forehead down the bridge of her nose, some of the droplets veering off into the corners of her eyes. Others rolled off the tip, landing on her top lip, causing her to taste the saltiness on her tongue as she licked around the opening of her mouth.

   She tried to push up on the top of the enclosure, which was about eight inches above her head. It didn’t budge, causing her breathing to become heavier and more labored as she realized she could not sit up. She frantically pushed out to the sides and hit the walls before her arms were able to straighten.

   She knew she wasn’t just in a box… she was in a coffin.

   Samuel J Potts looked up from the body he was embalming. He pulled off the rubber gloves he was wearing and pulled the headphones from his ears. He stood there with his head slightly cocked, listening.

   Thunk!

   There it was again. He was not hearing things.

   Shit! He thought. She woke up. I guess I didn’t use enough chloroform.

   He usually used a sedative, administered intravenously, but it had been an unusually busy few weeks and he didn’t have enough of the good stuff left.

   He rolled the body he was working on back over to the freezer and shut him inside. Then he walked out to the main parlor and approached the casket sitting in the middle of the room.

   Samuel J Potts leaned over and spoke to the woman inside. “Shhh,” he said, as he softly rubbed his hand in a circular motion along the mahogany top. “You’re only making it worse.”

   The woman was hysterical. “Wh-why are you doing this to me?” She was crying uncontrollably. "Who are you? P-please get me out of here,” she pleaded.

   "You know I can’t do that.” He sighed, and then said, “You weren’t supposed to wake up—at least not until the heat became unbearable.” He closed his eyes as he thought about the sweet, panicky screams he knew would come later. He opened his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Try to relax and let yourself go to sleep. It’ll be much easier on you... for now.”

   The woman was frantic, but she tried to calm herself down. She began to take in slow, deep breaths. And it was working, but not for very long. All of a sudden she could no longer take in a deep breath, it would not come. She couldn’t inhale as deeply, and realized that the oxygen in the box was almost gone.

   As soon as Samuel J Potts stopped hearing any noise from the coffin, he smiled. Finally, he thought. It was time to finish the job.

   The casket was already sitting on a set of rollers so he maneuvered it from the parlor down to the room in the basement where the big furnace sat.

   He lined it up to the doors, swung them open, and pushed the box inside. He punched the ignition switch and a big whoosh let him know that the incinerator was on and heating up.

   He pulled up a chair and waited. Soon he would get what he needed. Soon.

   Jessica Potts waited up until her husband came home from work. She loved her husband. They had been together for close to twenty years. Married for sixteen of those years. They had built a wonderful life together and she was happy. He had been a good provider for her and the children, and for that she was grateful.

   Over the years she had gotten used to him working late a couple of times a month, but the last few weeks had been busier than usual, and Sam had been away twice a week instead of twice a month.

   The lights moved across the interior walls of the house as her husband pulled his car into the driveway. The front door opened and the love of her life entered their home.

   “How are you feeling, Sam?” She met him in the doorway and kissed him passionately.

   Samuel J Potts sighed. It was a deeply satisfying sigh. He smiled at his wife. “Better. I feel better,” he said.

   She looked at her husband lovingly. “So, you got what you needed?”

   He smiled. “I did… for now.” He kissed his wife, took her by the hand, and led her down the hallway to the bedroom.

   Jessica smiled coyly as they made mad, passionate love. Her husband had a secret, and she would never tell.
_____________________________________________________________
Well, there you have it - another short story from my semi-warped mind😎

And... I encourage you to please explore the sites below -

Find my books here amazon.com/author/joecongel

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Over the next few months, I’m going to chronicle a bit of my childhood and my upbringing. Not every week, but every so often I’ll add another piece. But before I saunter down this road, I want to make it clear that I loved my parents very much. Oh, we had our moments, and being the time period that I grew up in, some things will seem a little strange or maybe even unforgiving to some of the younger folks who read this, but it was a different time. As a society we’ve learned and changed a lot over the years about how we should be raising our children—some of it for the better, some of it perhaps a little too politically correct for my taste, and some of it that I just don’t understand or agree with at all.

So I’m going to tell a little bit of my story over time. I think it’s a good story, perhaps a little crazy here or there, but nothing earth shattering. It will give you some insight as to who I am, how I came to be the person I am today. You may agree with what I am writing or you may not, but most of you have never met me, and most of you probably never will, yet here you are reading my blog. Whether you visited through my twitter or facebook, or perhaps even bought one of my books, you are here… and I thank you for that.

I grew up in a time when we rode in cars with bench seats and without seatbelts or baby car seats. Station wagons with roll crank handles for the windows. Air conditioning? In a car? Are you serious??

It was a time with TV, but black and white TV. Color, at least in my house, came along later. And cable, well let’s just say that I was a teenager before we got that first wired, push button cable box. And programming signed off for the night, leaving a test pattern for your viewing pleasure.

Playing sports was all about winning and more importantly, learning from the pain you felt from losing—any trophy I had on my shelf was earned because of my ability to excel and not my ability to simply show up. When I lost, sure I felt bad, but then I was able to learn and grow from that experience. It made the eventual win much more meaningful. It taught me how to handle rejection and how important it is to work hard and not just expect things to be given to me.

We ate dinner as a family every night, with balanced meals that included meat and potatoes, bread and vegetables. We drank whole milk and ate eggs—no one was telling us to cut out any of the food groups, or to fast every other day… we simply exercised… outside in the fresh air.

All I can say about raising a family back in the ‘60s and ‘70s verses today is that overall, I turned out okay, as did my brother and sister, as well as the friends I grew up with. I’m healthy, well adjusted, and respectful to people. Now don’t misunderstand me, I see a lot of young people today that are being raised right, but I also see a lot where things could be better. And I don’t believe in the idea that just because you may be having a hard time economically, making it harder on you or your family, that it gives you permission to disrespect the rest of the world. But then again, what do I know? When I grew up it was a different time.

So, here we go—

My Childhood – Part One: The Parents

I was born in the last year of the sixth decade of the twentieth century. My parents were married the year before that, and for the most part held to the traditional roles of that time. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, but of course, back then it wasn’t referred to as being a stay-at-home mom. It was just what moms of the sixties and early seventies did. The fathers went to work and the mothers stayed home and raised the children.

I guess you could refer to me as a hell-raiser as I certainly did test my parent’s patience. Since my mother was the parent that was around the most, she carried out most of the disciplinary action. I was almost always getting myself into some kind of trouble, and she felt it was her duty to get me back on track. Her favorite weapon of choice during those times of discipline was the hairbrush. She claimed that she used the hairbrush instead of her hand, because her hand got sore when she needed to spank me harder than usual. She used her hands too, but if I needed a harder swat, the brush provided that extra oomph.

There were times, however, when she thought the crime severe enough for her to pull out the big guns, the ultimate weapon, which was a verbal promise of what was in store for me. She would stare me down and say, “You just wait until your father gets home, young man!” Those ten words would instill a fear in me that would cause an immediate turn around in my behavior.

Waiting for my father to dole out the punishment meant a swift smacking on the backside with the dreaded belt. I only had to have the belt strike my butt one time to understand that I needed to avoid any future encounters with that leather whipping torture device. My mother knew that, so the power for her was in those ten words. She knew it would straighten me right out.

Now, if you're starting to think that I was constantly getting beat with either a belt or a hairbrush—don't. These tools were only used in extreme situations that were usually brought on by myself. Also, keep in mind that it was the late sixties and spanking your child was not a reason to call out the National Guard back then.

My mother seemed to have this elaborate punishment system consisting of different levels depending on how bad the behavior was, according to her. If my brother and I were at odds, either verbally or physically, we would simply be grounded. If we hurt our younger sister in some way, we got spanked. If we mouthed off, we got the back of her hand across the mouth. If we continued to mouth off after the hand, we were also grounded. If we knowingly ruined or broke anything that belonged to either parent or the whole family, we were grounded. If we swore, the back of her hand across the mouth. No washing your mouth out with soap threats here, the hand was quicker than the eye. If we lied about anything, the brush made an appearance. If we combined crimes, such as ruining something and then lying about it, Dad was conference in, and the belt would make an appearance. The system must have worked, because none of us ended up in jail or in therapy.

As the oldest child, I think my parents were harder on me than on my brother and sister. But, I'm sure that if you asked either of them, each would say our parents were hardest on them. And, if they want to get a blog of their own, they can tell their story. Until then, we go with my version.

My mother kept me on a pretty tight leash as a kid. For a while, it seemed like anything that was in fashion or trendy went against Mom Company Policy. I couldn't grow my hair long when it was in style, I wore the more economical no-name brand sneakers instead of Converse or PF Flyers (Nike and Reebok have not always been the popular shoe, it just seems that way), and my bed time was always a little earlier than most of the kids I went to school with. As I grew into adulthood and had kids of my own, I had a better understanding as to why these Mom Company Policies were put into place. It’s not easy being a parent, but trying being a kid just entering Jr. High—as a pre-teen some of these policies could be devastating.

I was constantly getting phone calls from friends after I was already in bed. You can only explain it away, the next day in school, saying you went to bed early because you were not feeling well, just so many times. After awhile, they know you're lying. It's hard to get a reputation as a cool guy, if your mom keeps telling your friends to stop calling after eight, because that's when Joey goes to bed.

As I look back on it now, I know my mother meant well. It's not like she purposely would try to humiliate me—it just worked out that way. But, considering the alternative, I'm glad she was like she was. At least I knew she cared… At least I know that now. Back then, I wasn't so sure.

And then there was my father. Dad worked for the same company for over thirty years. Because it was blue collar shift work, his schedule was always changing. There are some people that would use that as an excuse not to spend time with their kids. That was never the case with my father. He always made time for us. He did like to go to the occasional clambake, and he bowled every Friday night, but that was the extent of his outside world contact. He spent most of his free time with us.

Even on bowling night, he never stayed out late drinking with the guys. Instead, he always stopped for pizza and came right home. It became sort of a tradition. Every Friday during bowling season, we'd eat pizza on the living room floor in front of the TV. He always had it home in time for Tarzan.

The only real time I ever knew my father to cut loose was when he was going to one of the clambake parties his company held each year. Those were the only occasions I can remember him ever coming home juiced. I guess it was one of the few places he felt he could break out of the "dad" mold and have a good time. No kids, no wife, just the guys. Every man needs to have a male bonding experience once in awhile (although, they would never think of labeling it as such back then). It's that, "boys will be boys", mentality. It's something all men carry into adulthood. The need to be with people who completely understand their thought process… other men.

Mom couldn't stand these rare outings. He really only attended once or twice a year. It wasn't the idea of him going that bothered her as much as the condition he would arrive home in. What bugged her was the fact that he was driving. My mother knew that his place of business provided a bus to and from the party, but my father always seemed to miss it. She suspected he wasn't even trying to make the bus.

He would come home trying to act as sober as he could. We'd all be in bed. Nobody was asleep, but we were all in bed. He would come in, go to the refrigerator, get a beer, and watch the tube. He would then tell my mother that all he drank was 7-Up, and now that he was home, he was going to enjoy a few beers. Good plan, dad. The only problem was that he had that, "the more I try to be quiet, the noisier I am" syndrome one develops when experiencing a slight buzz. My mother knew… she always knew.

It made for some interesting conversation between the two of them. You could hear a pin drop in our bedroom as we strained to hear what was going on. I'm sure they fought about other things at other times, but these were the only times we ever heard the festivities.

The next day it would be as if it never even happened. Business as usual in the Congel household. My mom and dad truly loved each other, and they loved us. It was important to both of them that we were insulated from any arguments or issues they might be going through. Whether that was as simple as a spirited night out that my father would have that my mother did not appreciate, or something heavier like a financial issue. We never had a clue if there was any kind of concern or rift between them. Ever.

My parents are both gone now, and it hurts me a little to know that the greatest appreciation and admiration I had for them as people, not just as my parents, but as individual people, didn’t happen until I was an adult, and they had passed on. When they were alive, I was too busy living life, raising my own kids, and getting over hard feelings from long ago issues. But I’ll save that until another time. 

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