Genes

My grandfather was a gentleman,

always proper in his dress for one thing,

after all, he owned a haberdashery,

a men’s clothing shop, in times when hats

were required attire, ties, and jackets too;

but he was more than that he was a gentle

man in that he always had a kind word, or

a word of advice, or a word of sympathy.

He held my hand as we crossed the city

street on our way to River Park to swing

me on the swings. He held my hand as

we boarded the Clark Street streetcar

taking me to see the Chicago Cubs

play at Wrigley Field. He was a gentle

man. He had Parkinson’s disease.

My father was a fix-it man. He could

fix anything. He was a boilermaker

in his youth, a Seabee as they say

in his Navy Construction Battalion days,

fearlessly he’d climb the highest towers

welding steel to forge something to

stand the test of time. He

was a man to be reckoned with.

He taught me to do what

needed to be done. To never

quit, to do things right. He

was a fix-it man. He had

Parkinson’s disease.

I am a music man. I write

the words for stories, songs, and verses.

I try to make some sense of things

and then I share that song,

that story, or that poem

and if the melody is clear, if the

words ring true, it might get

a point across or two about

who we are and what we do.

It must be in the genes. I am

a music man. I have

a form of Parkinson’s disease.