It was my tenth birthday, my first double digit celebration at our summer weekend destination on Catawba Island on Lake Erie. We spent every weekend there and most of our vacations and I hated it. I hated having to pack and then drive two hours, on a good day, to the island. My father had a boat and being the avid fisher family, we spent a lot of time on the water fishing, swimming and just hanging out.

A typical weekend started Friday night arriving pretty tired from the drive and going to bed early. We were awakened really early much to our discomfort and dragged to breakfast. I usually had two eggs sunny side up and two pieces of whole wheat toast with no butter. Then came the hard part, we would drive to the boat and then ma would get the dope ready, Dramamine. She would crush up the bitter white pill in a spoon with “Slice”, a citrus 7-Up concoction that my brother and I grew to despise forever with or without the pill. We were pretty good at being on the water after being drugged and either slept or played games. As we got older we took the rods and began to fish.

There aren’t many fish tales in my background, but I remember winning a Fish Ohio award for a White Bass that I caught with my dad and Uncle Kenny. The fish was 15.5 inches long from tip to tail and the award was for any fish longer than 15”. That fish stayed in our freezer for years to come uneaten and completely whole tucked beneath countless Ziplock baggies of sauce and meatballs.

When it was time to reel ‘em in and head home my brother and I would tear up the remaining sandwiches into small pieces and feed the seagulls that followed us all the way in to the dock. It was there that the carnage began. My father and whoever accompanied us, my Uncle Kenny or Randy, would begin to clean the fish in a precise, professional and bloody way. Meanwhile, ma and usually us kids would go down the street to the local farmers’ stand and get sweet corn on the cob, peaches and tomatoes for the upcoming dinner. Dad would bread the filets and deep fry them to a perfect golden brown. The corn was shucked by me and the sibling. I remember I always took great pride in husking the corn and making sure that every single thread of silk was taken off and the corn’s speckled kernel skin was left shiny and smooth.

We all gathered around the wooden picnic table waiting for the day’s catch to be presented. Soon there was plates of fresh fish fillets with corn on the cob that hours before was still on the stalk. Ma would prepare a salad of fresh tomato wedges, red onion and fresh basil all dressed with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. I remember this meal so well I can almost taste it and chances are before I blew out the candles on that zucchini cake, that’s what we had for dinner. My Uncles had places on either side of us and became quite close to us and our parents. We spent a great deal of time with them on and off the island. Their wives and kids soon became our “adopted” cousins and Aunts. On that particular dinner, for my 10th birthday, they were there to help cut, bread, serve and celebrate.

I would give anything to have that back. All that bitching and moaning I did when I was a kid was all because I did not want to go to my family’s weekend getaway on the lake. You really have no idea of what you have until you grow up and find that you dearly miss what is long gone.

When I walked into my local coffee shop the other morning “Same Ole Layne Syne” by Dan Folgerberg was playing. It reminded me that he left this Earth last week. Mara called me the day after to ask me if I had heard. I had not and was devastated by the news. I was glad it was her as Mara and I have been through a lot together - like August 18, the day Jerry Garcia died. Even though we only ever went to one show we lived the life of Gratefully Deadicated, barefoot, pot smoking, acid dropping hippies 20 years too late. Dan did not represent a movement or provide the soundtrack for a generation, but he represented a time for me and Mara that was simple and innocent; our formative years.

Dan Fogelberg was part of my world before I was part of this world. He blared from ma’s 8 Track during my time in the womb and while I sat sucking strained peas from a yellow Pyrex bowl. Even when I started to wear ripped flannel and eye liner Dan Folgelberg, Jackson Browne, Gordon Lightfoot and the like remained in my cassette bag next to Nine Inch Nails, Stone Temple Pilots and Concrete Blonde. There was a station in Cleveland, Ohio called WDOK, 102.1. It was our favorite station; Mara and I used to call Nancy Alden, Cleveland’s Lady in Red, and dedicate songs to each other all the time. Ma listened to that station religiously and it was the backdrop of being with her at home or in the car. Every corner of my childhood was accompanied by the sounds of AM Gold and the 70’s.

Mara and I would sit in the park and many times Dan would be playing from the Skiv and some of our hippie friends would cock a curious head. It wasn’t usual to hear something blaring other than the Dead, Buffalo Springfield or Janis. Amazingly there were quite a few that did not recognize Dan and his soothing, melodic music that Mara and I had come to love.

We got older and exchanged our shag throw rugs, flip flops and KB’s for Keds, checking accounts and coffee shops. Our lives were very different, yet Dan’s music provided a familiar sound to alleviate the stress from our new, unfamiliar way of living.

Soon Dan and his music would accompany me on a difficult journey. My father died of cancer and at the close of his funeral, I chose “Leader of the Band” to play. It was absolutely the most perfect song for my Dad. To this day when I hear that song I stop, close my eyes and say “Hi Dad”; I somehow think that that was what Dan was saying.

That music has been with me for my entire life. No other artist has been so closely associated with so many aspects of my experience and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve lost something. Although he is not of this Earth he lives here with Mara and me, an arms reach and USB cord away.

Download Same Ole Layne Syne

I can’t say that I remember too much from my 5th birthday, but I can recall that cake and the basement of the house that sheltered me for my first 12 years.

Note the shag carpet. I remember that carpet like it was yesterday. I adore shag, I have a large shag area rug in my own house and if I had the room I would have more of them. I also remember the smell of the carpet. We had a poodle named Charlie for a very long time that preferred the texture of the carpet to the elements of the outdoors. Perhaps it was his own spiteful behavior; I think he knew that my Dad didn’t care for him too much. There were always small dried turds embedded in the fibers that I guess ma missed when cleaning up the last delivery. Nobody ever seemed to mind or if they did they didn’t vocalize it to us. We always had birthdays, football parties, holidays and general get-togethers in that basement and we always sat there, on the floor among the soiled shag, beer, cake or present in hand unaware of the matter beneath our feet and knees.

Now the cake, my mother was famous for this cake as it became the bona fide birthday cake for both my brother and I for a very long time. It was a zucchini cake with chocolate Cool Whip as the frosting. We were definitely Midwest and boy did we love this cake. My father grew the squash in the garden as did my uncles so there was always plenty of it around. That was probably how the cake came to be, lots of squash and nowhere to put it. I remember the labor involved. The zukes had to be grated and the pulp pressed to release the water inside the stringy flesh. It was hard to imagine watching ma elbow deep in zucchini guts that it would be transformed into a delectable chocolate cake that would be chock full of Hershey’s chocolate chips and topped with that light, airy cocoa topping that complimented the richness of the cake better than anything I have yet to taste.

Later in life I realized that that zucchini did more than just free up fridge space it gave the cake lasting moisture that kept it perfect for days long after the party. I also came to find that it benefited from a couple days in the fridge after it had time to sit much like a stew would be.

I cannot remember the last time I had the cake. I should’ve asked for it to be FedExed to California for my 30th. Oh well, there is always next year.

We were raised Catholic but that did not seem to last long. We did the Sunday School thing and I remember being totally consumed with fear in and out of Sunday School. I was afraid to touch the walls or do anything without permission for fear of going to hell; from an early age the nuns and priests took great strides to make it painfully clear that all us children knew about hell and what a terrible place it was. We were all promised that if we did not obey our parents or them for that matter that that hot, terrible and frightening place down under would be our home for all eternity. I get sick thinking of how many children had been abused and were forced to keep it secret under the threat of hell. Had they known that what they were experiencing was in fact hell itself in its most terrible form, perhaps they would have the chance and strength to speak up and rid them selves of the evil dressed in contradiction, lies and white collars.

My Father never went with us. As we got dressed and complained he sat silently in the kitchen or on the sofa. I do not remember whether or not we asked why or even if we got an answer but later I learned the my Father had been married before and had gotten divorced; it was a very bad thing to do in the church those days. I doubt that my Father had chosen not to go based on religious respect and saw it more as a perfect excuse.

Before I could really grasp the religion and form my own opinion about it, we seemed to have stopped going. But not before I received communion. It was a real whoop-de-doo in my school as it was in any Catholic school.

There was lots of preparation; classes, rehearsals and lots of drilling home the idea that this was a great spiritual gift and we should be happy and grateful. There was of course the underlying threat of eternal damnation that was always lingering behind the chalice, before the prayer, after rehearsals and all throughout that year at St. Pius X in Bedford, Ohio.

I do not think I was nervous as much as I was excited. A large portion of my family had showed up in suits and fancy dresses to the church. There was going to be a great party at my house after the ceremony and I was stoked to hear that money would be given to me in lieu of presents; it was later that day I learned it would be put into an account far from my reach.

I do not remember much about the party, the ceremony or how much money I got. But man do I remember that suit and how much I liked it.