My beloved Kathleen. It has been so long since we've spoken, so I know you are on one of your L O N G ministerial tours. I hope your health is good, that your travel plans go without hitches, and that you meet the people who need your presence and your messages most, at this moment in time.
I continue to pray for the health of your parents, (for you, always) and for Georgie-Porgie (he tossed up a Mendoza reminiscence, which too me back to a simpler time - Gene Mendoza was the Choctaw Indian Lee Milligan hired as his trouble shooter for the bag room, the caddies, the carts, and the range. Gene had recently gotten out of jail (murder), but Lee had worked with him in San Antonio, and knew him to be dependable, with a very watchful eye, that didn't miss a trick that a caddie might attempt to pull off (stealing golf balls from the bags of members, comes to mine). Gene was probably the most interesting human being I've ever met. I thought back years ago, to when I encountered him, 20-odd years after the fact, "Injun, I knew you was always a hustler," said Gene to me, complimentary, let me assure you - in that I could figure out what to do when I was broke, in thread bare clothing, and it was winter in Chicago. Gene was a father figure, and he NEVER, in all those years (7 of them) in all those hours (approximately three hours a day, five days a week, six months a year) he NEVER once repeated a story. And Gene was not the shy silent retiring type. Some of the caddies would make up poems to honor him:
Mendoza, we knows a, is a wine oh za!
Gene always had the most pithy sayings, and was a marvelous subervise:
I knows what I knows,
don't confuse me wid duh fax! Was a superlative put down that he would make, even within ear shot of some pompous member, or, even Lee Milligan Jr, Head Golf Professional, his-self!
It was a great learning experience.
Chuck Meroni hired both George and me (in vastly different capacities) to help him around the house: George was tend the bar for the big swinging parties of the 60's and 70's, and Chuck would come up to George, and say, "George, if you had your pick of any woman in the room, which one would it be?"
And George would reply, "Your wife, Mr Meroni."
It was, as I mentioned, the 70's.
I worked around his house as a handy man for a couple of weeks. And he also hired me and Bill Gregg to work security detail at the HS graduation party, hell, it MIGHT have been the 8th-grade graduation party, of one of his kids. We were to patrol the perimeter to make sure no beer was being drunk by the under-aged. WELL, we DID patrol, but, if they were drinking, we'd check 'em out with some kind of field sobriety teset, and usually let 'em keep drinking.
Bill shot up heroin (so like him) and I was just glad to have gotten my driver's license back after a one year suspension (station adjustment) from the BArrington police - hmm, so, it would have been the summer of 1970.
I had been at a party at Rich Stone's, and Marta Jones comes up to me wailing, "George doesn't love me any more."
"Okay, Marta, let's go talk with a friend of mine."
So I drove us over the Marge Luke's and Marge played listening ear, and probably counselor to Marta. I passed out on the floor of the Luke home. When I was awakened by Marta, somehow or another I was behind the wheel of my parents' automobile, and Officer Harry Crass of the Barrington Police force was driving a squad behind me, with its lights flashing.
Marta was saying, "Mark, pull over, it's the police."
"Whaere's the party?" Harry asked.
So, being drunk, and always a people pleaser, I led him to the door of Rich Stone's mother's apartment. Harry scoped out the situation, then took me to the station. Someone asked, "Can we get you anything?"
"Cigarettes," I answered.
The skies opened up and rained down cigarettes upon me.
I talked with Harry at the station. They didn't really care about me, they were hoping to bust King Bash for pot. They asked me if there was any pot-smoking going on at the party. I didn't know, and answered as much.
Then I burnt my high school picture of Donna Littwin. I guess when she dumped me it hurt more than I remember. She had dumped me at least six months before!
They police let me call Hank Phannsteihl to take me home, thinking somehow or another that my folks were out of town. Hell no! I just didn't want to get caught (as if I could make THIS one go away!)
Hungover himself, Hank came and picked me up (George and I used to caddy for Hank when he'd play in those oh, so big, money games that "the usual lsuspects" played - Chuck Meroni, Carl Mason, Jack Lageshulte, Hank Phannsteihl. The other members at BHCC, in talking about their stakes, called it, "house, car, wife," and it might have been an inronical acknowledgment of the wife swapping thing that went on, "back in the day."
Actually, they didn't play for THAT much, compared with what the guys at Biltmore would play for. They played a six-point scotch game, starting out for one dollar a point, BUT, they were forever doubling the bet (2, 4, 8, 16 a point - the biggest "score" I ever saw on one hole came when I was caddying for Chuck Meroni, and on the 8th hole (their 17th, they had started on the back nine) he aske me what club to hit. Six iron, I boldly reply. He hits it thin, it barely lands on the left front edge of the green, and rolls up to the hole, a scant 4" away. That mis hit shot was worth $96 to Chuck and his partner (each), so, now he thinks I'm a good caddie. Fact of the matter is, I WAS a good caddie, but that was not particularly good caddying on my part, that was just LUCK!
As in, it is my good fortune to have come to know you better, to have had the pleasure of your time, your insights, your company, your compassion, your empathy, your intellect, your knowledge.
And these are, indeed, extraordinary gifts you bring (to the manger).
Happy birthday, Angel!
Happy birthday John Franklin Ganzer too!
Smile up in Heaven Johnny boy,
We still remember you!
I love you, and always will.
Mark
