A Greg Story
“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
posted by Glen Creason at 6:13 PM
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