My grandfather passed away just before midnight on April Fool's Day. I knew I wanted to write about him here. But I've been struggling with it, because the man was just too big an influence on my life to ever do him justice in a single post. I could write entire books about my Grandpop Lou. Parts of him have already appeared in the novels and comics I've done, and I'll probably continue writing about him until the day I die.
So instead, let me share of two Grandpop Lou stories that immediately spring to mind. For one, I was present; the other, not.
When I was about seven or eight, I was sick. Throwing up. Fever. And it just wouldn't stop. My mom decided okay, maybe this just isn't the flu, and decided to bring me to Children's Hospital. I remember mom being worried I had something called "Reye's Syndrome," a disease that hits the brain and liver. So she called her father, my Grandpop Lou, who came along with us.
Strangely, I don't remember the illness so much as being in the backseat of my mom's car on the way to the hospital. I had a blanket draped over my shoulders, and I had a little plastic container in my hands, in case I needed to throw up again. (Which I'm fairly sure I did.)
And back there with me, with his arm wrapped around me, was my Grandpop Lou.
He didn't say much. He didn't say everything would be all right. He didn't tell me to be brave, or strong, or any of that stuff.
He just held me.
I swear to God, I recall that moment with almost perfect clarity because I knew, being in his arms, I
was going to be all right. My Grandpop was going to take care of me. He didn't have to say a word for me to believe it.
(He was also on hand at the hospital when the nurse came to take a blood sample, and I went absolutely fucking crazy with fear; my father and Grandpop literally had to hold me down for the nurse to stick the needle in my arm. The idea of giving blood still makes me nauseous and jittery. But that's another story.)
Anyway, it strikes me now that my Grandop Lou was like that with the entire family -- he was a kind of human bedrock that let all of us know that everything was going to be all right. Even when it wasn't. Even when my Grandmother died at a ridiculously early age (60). Even when my Grandop Lou had to bury two of his daughters, also taken at shockingly young ages.
Even in his last days, he was reassuring all of us: everything was going to be okay.
Even when it clearly wasn't.
But I know that if I somehow absorbed even a
fraction of that ability, to be strong against all odds, then I'll be doing pretty well in this life.
Now the other story.
I wasn't there for this one.
It was Spring 1971. My dad, a Vietnam Vet who played in a rock band, was in love with my mother, a Catholic high school senior. That night, he'd decided to do the honorable thing and ask my Grandpop for his daughter's hand in marriage. So he walked up to my Grandpop's rowhouse, and knocked on the metal screen door.
My Grandpop was confronted by a man who looked fresh off a tour with Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention. He had long hair that curled in places. A wispy moustache. Deep-set eyes. Extremely questionable fashion sense.
Despite this, my Grandpop let him in.
I don't know if there was much small talk, but at some point, my dad expressed his intentions toward my future mother.
My Grandpop, the story goes, looked at him.
After a long silence he said, "You want a beer?"
My future father said something like, sure, I'd like a beer.
My Grandpop shuffled to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Took out a can. Probably a Schaefer, or a Schmidt's. Walked back to my dad. Handed him the can.
Then my Grandpop walked upstairs.
And never came back down.
Eventually, my father left. He married my mother anyway. A while later, I showed up.
And despite the fact that my very existence hung in the balance here... I mean, my dad could have been freaked and said,
okay, screw this... it's one of my favorite stories about my Grandpop.
Any fool can fumble around with hundreds of words, struggling to express a point.
Real men can do it with utter silence.
(About the photo above: that's my Grandpop Lou holding me, during my first Christmas, at his house. Note my questionable early-1970s fashion sense, passed down from my father.)
According to legend, [Spillane] wrote his first novel I, the Jury (1947) in nine days, in order to get $1,000 for a piece of land. Once, he told the house painters, he had been taking a manuscript to the publisher and lost it. That must have been awful, said the painters. “No big deal,” said Spillane, “I just typed it out again.”
Mickey Spillane's The Twisted Thing and Fritz Leiber's You're All Alone; both have this freaky mid-1960s black/purple horror vibe that I love.
After hitting New York Hammett completed The Glass Key in what he claimed was a whirlwind of typing—the last third of the novel composed in something like one thirty-hour session.
There's a particularly violent five-page preview of this week's Punisher MAX: Frank Castle #69 at the CBR.com website. Sharp-eyed Philadelphians will note the use of the iconic PNB building in the right panel above. There's also a sequence set in one of my favorite Philly bars in this one. Too bad that Frank completely des-... well, you'll see. Hope you'll check it out this Wednesday.
My grandfather passed away just before midnight on April Fool's Day. I knew I wanted to write about him here. But I've been struggling with it, because the man was just too big an influence on my life to ever do him justice in a single post. I could write entire books about my Grandpop Lou. Parts of him have already appeared in the novels and comics I've done, and I'll probably continue writing about him until the day I die.
This is from James T. Murray and Karla L. Murray's Store Front: The Disappearing Face of New York (Gingko Press), featured in this Sunday's New York Times Book Review. This is how all bars should look. Sometimes, I think I was born 50 years too late.
