David T. Music And Stuff

Hello to friends and family,

As I said last week, I have found more stories from my dad that were not entered into his unpublished book, “It’s a Wonderful World”. Here’s the first one I came across.

I like this one because it shows dad’s wonderful, ironic sense of humor. His best humor was always directed at himself. The story is also quite contemporary even though George Bush was President and Donald Rumsfeld was Secretary of State. You can draw parallels with today’s headlines although, I’m pretty certain our current president will never apologize for anything . . .

In this story, my dad gets a little personal, too. I’m glad he didn’t mention any of my exploits as a youth. I’d probably have to edit them out. My brother, Bob may not be happy with the revelation’s of his youthful follies. And, Kevin’s adventure is worth a whole article on its own. I don’t think I ever saw dad so mad as when Kevin nearly burnt the whole neighborhood down when playing with matches in the field next to our house in the Rio Grande Valley of Albuquerque, New Mexico. All the neighbors, myself and some of my brothers worked very hard with shovels, rakes and buckets of water to put out the fire. The fire trucks couldn’t reach us because an irrigation ditch bridge wouldn’t hold their weight. It really was a very dangerous situation as the brush was dry and burned very fast and hot. I’ve never seen dad so mad at any of us (except maybe me) as he was at poor Kevin. I don’t remember Kev’s punishment but, I’m sure it was fair because Kevin was still alive afterward.

So, here is the start of what I hope is many more stories from my dad, Don Tschirhart. Please leave comments in the ‘Comments’ section at the bottom of the page. I also want opinions on what we should do with all these stories. I’m thinking of publishing the stories in book form but, I believe the book needs something more.  Perhaps comments from family and friends. Anecdotal stories about dad/Don. A short biography. Maybe turn dad into a modern-day mythical writer figure like  Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway? Should we self-publish the book? I would really like to make this book readable and entertaining to many persons. As it is now, I don’t believe just a compilation of news-type articles would sell past immediate family and some friends. Ideas and inspirations will be appreciated.

Thank you,

David T

Oh . . . . . . I’m sorry I didn’t publish last week . . .

 

“Apologies Are In Style”

By Don Tschirhart

Excerpted from the unpublished book “It’s a Wonderful World II: A Retired Reporter Looks At Life“

 

Everyone seems to be getting into the act these days. Day after day someone is having a change of heart and apologizing.

“I’m sorry” is a repetitious quote public and religious officials for sins of commission or omission.

I wonder. Could it have started when Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver, changed his mind, said he was sorry and threw the coins back at the Sanhedrin before hanging himself?

I wonder if Lewis and Clark told President Thomas Jefferson after their three-year trek across the country to the Pacific Ocean and back, “Sorry it took so long.”

It was Nazi sympathizer Oskar Schindler who changed his heart half way through World War II, said he was sorry and went on to save thousands of Jews from the Auschwitz gas chambers.

A few years ago Pope John Paul II said he was sorry for all the trespasses his church committed throughout the ages against non-Catholics and especially Jews.

And Catholic cardinals are falling all over themselves to say how sorry they are for the actions of some priest-child molesters.

Most recently we have President George Bush and Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld saying they are sorry for the misconduct of war prisoners by a few soldiers in Iraq.

So I decided to get into the act. After all, Don Tschirhart is far from perfect. If the president and defense secretary, the pope, Schindler and Judas lay bare their souls and say they are sorry, should I not do likewise?

Here goes:

I’m sorry, Julie, for pulling your pig tails in our fourth-grade class. I’m sorry, Sister James Marie, making you lose your cool in your fifth-grade art class (I can’t remember what I did) forcing you to crack me across the head with your hand and scream, “You boob!”

I’m sorry, Father Timmins, for making you angry enough to smack me across the backside with your wood paddle for not doing my ninth grade algebra homework.

I’m sorry, Mom, for making you angry after seeing me, a 15-year-old, walk down the street with a cigarette in my hand. And at the same age getting home from a date at 2:30 in the morning. Also, I’m sorry for not visiting you as often as I should have when you were alive. Now I visit you often in my prayers.

And I’m sorry, Dad, for making you so angry as a teen that you had to apply a belt to my back side. I forgave you long ago and also talk with you daily.

And to my late oldest sister, I’m sorry for wrecking your almost new car when I slid on ice and hit the guy in front of me and for being a pain in the butt at times.

I’m sorry, kid sister, Rosemary, and brothers Frank, Pat and Paul, for being too busy to visit you guys often enough. I do miss all of you. Why isn’t there a sibling’s day as well as Mother’s and Father’s days?

To my late brother-in-law Marv I’m sorry for beating you so often on your basement Ping-Pong and pool tables — on Christmas Eve, no less. Practice in heaven, my friend. I’ll be there to beat you again.

I apologize to my six sons for not paying more attention to them while they were growing up. But I get sick on ferris wheels, guys.

I’m sorry it took my wondrous wife, Margie, and not me to make them all hard-working and delightful friends and fathers of our 17 grandkids.

Others have also said, “I’m sorry.”

As a reporter I watched a murderer of three say he was sorry. He wasn’t sorry for the killings; instead he was sorry he was caught. A former neighbor boy plugged out the eye of another youngster with a dart gun. The mom exclaimed in her boy’s defense, “Well, he said he was sorry!”

And I remember my late son, Kevin, who during one of his devilish periods when he was eight started a grass fire near our house. “I’m sorry,” the crying kid said as he got a crack across the behind.

My oldest son, now living in Virginia, said, “I”m sorry” when he nearly wrecked two of my cars. I think he was more sorry when a few years later he totaled a couple of his own cars.

But, you know, these “I’m sorry” statements from my kids were always followed up with, “I love you, dad.”

I wonder how many other “I’m sorry’s” ever had such positive results.