A Greg Story

     

     I would like to begin by repeating one of my favorite stories from Sheehy lore. It involves a teenage Greg being lectured by his depression generation father who was hammering him on the necessity of hard work and sacrifice. The wise fifteen-year-old Greg lowered his eyelids like Ricky Nelson and told his Dad  “I’ll find an easy way.”  Imagine if you will, the face of the old,  World War II vet and man who got up a 4 am to go to work when he heard those words. Looking back from this sad day, however, I think the kid may have been right. Or maybe it was just that Greg made it look easy. However, as a song he liked says.

“All good things have  got to come to an end.

All good times, all good friends

All good things have  got to come to an end.”

      Going forward without Greg seems impossible to me since he has been my treasured friend literally since I was embraced by the Sheehy family in South Gate more than seventy years ago. Remember that the bond between our two families was forged before either of us were born. My Dad was Greg’s godfather and Greg’s Dad was my much-loved mentor. I loved him like a brother. This bond knew no boundary, it followed from Annetta,  to McNerney, Seminole, Midvale, San Francisco, Veteran and Ohio, Palm Desert, Church lane, Club Virginia, Lemon Grove, the Dump house, Tremaine, Holly Knoll, Dillon, Lavell drive and finally to Francis avenue. We also had special places away from home in section C of the coliseum, sitting in Lawry’s cozy booths listening to Christmas carols, annually gathering as a dozen fans in the reserves at Dodger stadium, on Orchestra east at Disney Hall or playing ball on dusty old diamond 2 at South Gate park. We both loved Downtown and one of his favorite gigs was delivering flowers for his Uncle Johnny Tassano for the Athletic Club Flower shop. Even when he wasn’t working he did ride-a longs with Cousin Kevin. The man loved LA with no apologies.

     Greg was a superb storyteller; about half of my best ones, I stole from him. The great part of his gift was his appreciation of the small moments in life that make it delightful. The heroes of his stories were not actors or athletes, but they might be a sincere panhandler, his elderly aunt, the guy  next to him at a ballpark urinal or his black sheep Uncle Al. What people might think was mundane Greg made wonderful in the way he described an experience. That might include the way another Uncle tamped a lucky strike on his thumbnail or how a retired professor from Metcalf Road described the birth of Loon chicks with big vodka tears in his eyes. My dear friend had the soul of an artist. In another life he could have been an actor in Summer stock or a cast member with a solid baritone in any musical. He had an uncanny knack for remembering dialogue and he could recite the entire “Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allen Poe word for word. Not only word for word but in the exact recreation of Basil Rathbone’s version we listened to  on records borrowed from the library. He had fine voice that was used to belt out the best of Rogers and Hammerstein without flubbing a line. He just adored Dick and Oscar. He often prophetically crooned the last stanzas from Carrousel “Walk on, walk on/ With hope in your heart/ And you'll never walk alone.”  

     No one could imitate the unique speech patterns of my Dad or describe the idiosyncrasies of his own father with affection like this good son. The deepest and most sad part of his early departure is the loss of a treasury of wit and knowledge possessed by this extraordinary teller of tales. But…“We’re all immortal, as long as our stories are told.”  Despite his earthy demeanor he was a cultured and sophisticated gentleman who knew all about literature, music, and the theater. Yet, he also knew how to curse like his father at the failures of his heroes on the gridiron or diamond. More than anything he was the best friend you could ever have, and all here knew his warmth and generosity. He was not always warm about the rest of the world and was astoundingly critical of the Little League world series, Quentin Tarantino, other drivers, Father Gregory Boyle, Fathers and Mother’s Day and the hot mustard at Phillippe’s. He was not an animal guy except one best pup named Clairie who won him over.

Greg was a perfect match with Lissy. The luckiest day of his life was a forlorn Saturday when he decided to go to MOCA and found the love of his life. They both hit the jackpot in a gallery full of fine art. After a casual courtship they swore to share their lives for “better or for worse” and up  until the last year it was better and better. Lissy completed the man. If it were up to him he probably would have sat in his chair drinking red wine and watching PBS forever, but she got him up and visiting museums, attending concerts at Disney Hall, going to an occasional movie, playing golf, and travelling on airplanes like most people run to the market. He also did go to the market, Vons that is. He was a very skilled cook and was as good as it gets at roasting and carving meats and making mashed potatoes. Vegetables…not so much. He took great pride in his grilling skills and provided many a fine barbecue on the beautiful patio at Francis. He made a glorious potato salad in the tradition of his Mom. The secret was plenty of mayo. His medium rare rib-eyes were legend at the Opening Day post-game feast. He never ate dessert, preferring to get his sugar from whiskey I guess but boxes of See’s candy were often seen around the house. Lissy would give advice and he would plow ahead on his own course like an ocean liner. This couple created a wonderful life for their two extraordinary children and offered more happiness in the home they designed than anyone I have ever known. My heart feels like a cannonball thinking of those times when they rescued me from loneliness and sadness. Greg was my lighthouse when the sea of life got rough.

He had little ego for a man who was so learned and accomplished. He did not waste time on junk social media or television, but he did on computer solitaire and Law and Order reruns. He never tweeted, had no Facebook, did not know a Tik Tok from an Instagram but thoroughly read three newspapers each day. He was astute when it came to politics and was a proud liberal Democrat. He had  very strong opinions not suited to this gathering. Greg spoke to the television when he watched the news and often cursed like his father before him. If you took a drive with him you would probably hear the word “asshole” more than once or maybe worse. I believe every driver he cursed or flipped off deserved it, but he was my best friend, and I am prejudiced. Greg probably holds some kind of record for the most times threatening to kick somebody’s ass without ever throwing a single punch. He played a role that made us laugh but did truly disdain false emotion. He did not own a pair of jeans, never wore a t-shirt as an outer garment and was very fond of wicked-good slippers from LL Bean. In many a photograph you will see his glasses case in his front pocket.

 He loved social gatherings and was an excellent, engaged listener. He made every such gathering better with his presence. Plain and simple he was my favorite company for an entire lifetime.

For decades I visited him on Francis, and we listened to songs and sipped wine while going on and on and on about the old days in South Gate. We had a recurrent theme of  our existence as part of what John Cheever called “The glittering and stupendous dream. “  He put aside regrets or worries and let gratitude flow out for the place he had found himself at the end of his “easy way.” Late on those nights he might quote his literary idol Fred Exley “pouring out the dark, secret places of his heart .”  We did not need to fret about being judged by each other and bore our longings and dreams along with a deep gratitude for the great fortune we happened into when we were brought home to our families on Annetta avenue in  South Gate. We had wonderful childhoods and it made us soft in the heart despite the transparent curmudgeons we pretended to be. Our common theme for this fortunate journey is what Maya Angelou called “the rich tapestry of life” comprised of threads good and bad that must be included in the big picture. With the gold and silver threads of love and birth there were the heartbreaks and grim reality of our inevitable deaths. The rich tapestry was subject to the stains of living and the tears of loss. Today there is a prominent and tear-stained black thread present. We sometimes sat in silent thought together pondering the mysteries of mortality and mourning for Ed Carroll or Tim Balderama. Our fathers died weeks apart and his gentle understanding made the profound loss bearable. That terrible void has now come to be profoundly personal.  

So…

As a lonely swing-shift whistle echoes across South Gate park.

We will find that box at the Rose Bowl will be a little lonely for Bruin games.

The kitchen at Francis will no longer host his meticulous preparations.

The empty leather chair bearing his imprint  will lack that boisterous laughter and shouted curses.

The stars won’t shine as bright in the night sky over squam lake.

And our hearts will ache from time to time.

but his legacy and the stories will live on