Memories of Mike
He can turn the tide
And calm the angry sea
He alone decides
who writes a symphony
He lights every star
That makes the darkness bright
He keeps watch all through
Each long and lonely night
From the song "He", the most beautiful lyrics on the grace and mercy of the Almighty
From the song "He", the most beautiful lyrics on the grace and mercy of the Almighty
This will be the hardest chapter I will write because it concerns somebody who was easily the greatest person I ever knew, I have known thousands, great and small, rich and poor..To most people, Mike Syrylo probably fell somewhere in the middle on both counts. I don’t know why, exactly, he was that important. It is probably as simple as him being the one constant in an ever changing world, or at least the piece of real estate that I called "my youth"..Small town America used to be a place to enjoy peace and serenity, a place where, for better or worse, everybody knew everybody and would look out for each other. That’s the place I come from, and while I lived there, I didn’t notice the erosion of that idealic Norman Rockwell America..More and more "city folk" were moving in and slowly changing that quiet and serene little town with a bunch of relatively well behaved teenagers cruising up and down main street, trying to catch the girl, and if you caught her, not knowing what to do with her..That was where I came from, and that’s where Mike lived all his life. He was the epitome of what was good with those times..When I left, it was to find fame and fortune. No regrets, never look back, turn my face to the wind, and search for my own identity..my own destiny, because there was no destiny to be found in that place I called home. It took over a quarter of a million air-miles and 13 years to come back to where the journey began. And in those few times that I would find myself back home for a few days, the changes in my "Small Town" became more and more apparent, and they weren’t for the better..But there was always Mike. He never changed. And he always welcomed me like the prodigal son. And many times he helped me overcome challenges I was having trouble facing alone..And he never even knew he was doing it.
I always made it a point to stop by whenever I was between countries, because, although I loved facing the challenges that lay before me, the uncertainty of the changes was very real and very intimidating, to put it mildly. Unless you have picked up all your belongings and moved thousands of miles from home, to a new culture, a new world with exciting possiblities, it’s hard to explain. I had probably the best job Uncle Sam had to offer, but I had to work hard to prove I was worthy of one of those 3 airshifts everybody coveted..and I had about two weeks to do it. So I knew where I wanted to be..The trick was how to get there quickly.I always succeeded beyond my wildest dreams but the downtime at home was difficult at best..The worst was in the fall of 1974. I had taken a month to come home, meet old friends and get prepared for the next chapter in my life..except old friends were gone, and the town no longer had teenagers cruising up and down mainstreet..The feeling of belonging I had had just 5 years before was gone. I even went to "The Nutshell", a dive of a dance hall where I used to go when I was young and foolish.. I knew I no longer belonged when the bouncer and the owner came up to me while I was minding my own business and asked me if I was an undercover narc.
But there was Mike. I made a pest out of myself, sad to say, because there was nobody left I could talk to. And that includes my own parents. My mother was usually in the hospital or drug rehab whenever I came home, and my father would toss me his car keys and I wouldn’t see him until the wee small hours, if I saw him at all. He was fighting his own demons. I wasn’t thrilled at driving around in a 72 Dodge Monaco, but my car was on the ocean somewhere. Not exactly a chickmobile, but then again, I wasn’t in a chick mood.
I saw Mike rarely. Most of the time I was out of the country for 3 years at a time, and would stop in to say hello while passing through. I tried not to overstay my welcome. And I always wondered why I was treated so well, as I had forfetted the right to drop in unannounced. Mike would always run to the refrigerator to get a beer even before I had a chance to sit down, We’d talk and I’d go, and when my wanderlust brought me back home, whether it be 3 years or 5 years, in my eyes he never got older, and there was always that cold beer.
When I finally realized I had done enough traveling and wanted to stay in one place for awhile, I moved back to the very area I had tried so hard to escape. The changes by that time were profound. Wherever I was on the air, I would often speak with pride of Scranton, a city with many good memories, and a city I believed in. When I returned for good, it was a depressed city that was on the verge of dying. It was in the middle of Jimmy Carter’s economic mess that Ronald Reagan was trying to clean up, and the resulting recession hit the area hard. The unemployment rate was staggering and people who had a house couldn’t afford to keep them, and people who wanted a house couldn’t afford to buy them. And I came home to that? I had given up a career where I was on the fast track for THIS. My father said it was the dumbest thing I had ever done and for a time I thought he may be right. Again a visit with Mike helped me focus on what avenue to take. Even though I was offered a cushy job with PennDot in Harrisburg, I was not somebody who would be happy sitting behind a desk writing press releases..That definately wasn’t me.
When I moved back to the area, I was a total unknown. It took time but by the time all was said and done, I had one of the most recognizable voices in Northeast Pennsylvania radio, and that brought a lot of television freelance projects as well. And during those 20 years, I had many days where I just wasn’t in the groove, didn’t want to be there, felt like crap..the usual feelings you have with any job. The only problem was, tens of thousands of people would know you were having a crappy day. If you sit behind a desk and shuffle paper, nobody knows how you feel, much less care. But when the very survival of your employer depends on you being at your game at all times, that is a differant story. Your "customers" have many choices, and my having a bad day could have serious consequences for me and my employer. But I found a simple phrase that would get me out of my funk.."Mike and Helen may be listening". I knew that wasn’t true, but then again.. maybe…It worked wonders many, many times. And some of those times there was such a turnaround where I achieved something I had set as my goal, but seldom achieved..Perfection.
When my daughter was born, I had to take her to meet him. I told him I wanted him to meet my new "girlfriend" and he had that "what did the cat drag home this time" look. I still remember he and Helen holding her and me hoping my rugrat wouldn’t dump a load in her Pampers. There were other times, equally memorable, where I was searching for direction at a crossroads where just sitting at the kitchen table made the decisons at hand more clear. As I said, I don’t know what it was, or how it came to be, but at times, Mike was my rudder in the storm, and for that I will be eternally grateful. My only hope is that my days on earth were good enough that I will find Mike, a kitchen table and a cold beer in the next life. To me, that would be the perfect definition of Heaven.
I never told Mike on any of those occasions, why he had been such a strong influence in my life. And it was as simple as I just plain enjoyed his company. He was the father figure I never had. With Mike the weekend was a time for a loud, happy family get-togethers, as the memory of the work week fell by the wayside. Everybody converged on Mike’s house, and by the time Saturday or Sunday night rolled around, Mike and his brothers, though somewhat tipsy, (sometimes more than somewhat), would play some of the worst Polka music on the face of the planet. As a musician of sorts, I found Polkas broke every rule of writing and playing music. But they grew on you. I was invited to join in the "merry music making" for the lack of a better phrase, and early on I was given a stack of sheet music to learn. I took one look and brought it to school for my music teacher to look at. If I could hear how it was supposed to sound, I could probably play it, although badly..He took one look and said "I’ll get back to you on that"..He never did, the music was lost and a budding Polka musician’s career was over before it began.
I hadn’t seen Mike or Helen for about 10 years, but I learned that Mike wasn’t feeling well. Something I can’t explain made me call. His number was one that I remembered so well that I didn’t need to look it up. That is quite odd as I have to stop and think to dial my own number. Helen answered and said Mike was in the hospital but she said he was doing O.K. Two weeks later I learned that he had passed away and the sadness I felt was numbing. I was glad I lived 700 miles away because I would have faced a dilemna. Should I go to the viewing and funeral and see him as he was now, or not go, and remember how he was then. I was seriously thinking of flying in for the funeral, but common sense prevailed and I chose the latter, but a part of me wishes I could have paid my final respects.
As I said, this is the hardest chapter I will write, and it probably reads that way..When it comes to my memories of Mike Syrylo, it is very difficult to express what is in my heart, and that is--Mike was THE guiding influence in my life, and his place on this earth was far too small. Everybody should have known him..If they had, their world, like mine, would be a much better place. RIP dear friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment