Category: Al

My Parent’s 67th Anniversary is Today – Memoir From My Mom

Published on by Andy SmallmanLeave a comment

(I’ve been editing my 92-year-old mother’s memoirs in hopes of having them ready to be printed and given to family members as holidays gifts this year. It’s a big task, but a thoroughly enjoyable one as I’m getting new insights in her life by reading them. You’ll learn about her interest in ladybugs in this story. In honor of the fact that my parents were married 67 years ago today, I present this one. –Andy)

Engagement and Marriage

by Carib Smallman

Obviously, Al and I decided we would marry. We agreed we would like to pick out our rings together. With Al’s busy travel schedule and my job at Colorado State, weekends were the only time that would work. Al called early one week and said, “Be ready on Saturday. I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive to Denver to look at rings.” I replied that it would work for me.

The jeweler asked, “Do you have anything special in mind?”

“I have small hands. I prefer white gold. A small diamond would be nice,” I answered.

“The emerald cut is in fashion now,” the jeweler told me. “This is a set you might like.”

The engagement ring had a small emerald cut solitaire. The wedding ring nested snugly into the engagement ring. It was perfect for me. Holding out my hand, I asked, “What do you think, Al?”

“Whatever you like, I like,” he replied. “A plain gold band is fine for me,” he said, answering the jeweler’s question.

The jeweler explained, “It will take some time to size the rings. You may pick them up next week. That will be xxx dollars for the lady’s rings and xxx dollars for the man’s.” Al, having been on the road with no credit card as yet, didn’t have quite enough cash. I put the extra charge on my credit card. What a good tease to say he married me for my money. I owned a TV, a car, and, because of my dad, some good stocks. He had just returned from the army and was fortunate to have a job.

“Next weekend is the Fourth of July. We can pick up the rings and then have dinner at our favorite restaurant in Loveland,” Al suggested. That we did. After dinner, we drove to a high spot outside of town so we could see the fireworks. Al put the engagement ring on my finger as the first fireworks burst in the air. We were really going to marry!

Al was working further west most of the fall. We talked often and agreed that we did not need a “wedding.” “How about we meet in Seattle and marry there?” Al suggested. “If we do it around Thanksgiving, we can travel to meet our families at Christmas time.” I agreed it was a great idea.

We each called our parents to explain what we were planning, and they agreed to our schedule. Both sets sent me a list of who they would like to receive an announcement. Al managed his schedule so he would be in Seattle for Thanksgiving. After letting me know, I asked Dr. Wayte if I could have ten days off, starting the Monday of Thanksgiving week. He agreed as long as I would be back to babysit his kids the following week, which I had agreed to earlier.

Al set about locating where we would marry, somewhere for pictures, and a special place for dinner. He talked to the Seattle First Presbyterian Church minister who agreed to his request to be married in the office on Saturday, November 22, 1958. A reservation at a fancy restaurant was next on his list.

Meanwhile, I ordered announcement cards to send to family and friends. I received them in time to address and stamp them. We would mail them from Seattle. I purchased a fancy blue dress and a pair of shoes dyed to match for the auspicious occasion.

On November 21, 1958, a Friday night, I was to fly from Denver to Seattle. I needed to finish my work before driving to the Denver airport. I finished and hurried to the airport. I had a difficult time figuring out where to leave my car. At that time, all the parking at the airport was in a grassy area in front of the terminal. I finally left it there. I hustled into the terminal just as my flight was leaving! I missed my plane!

The clerk at the desk was very calm and helpful. “We’ll get you on the next flight,” she assured me. Oh no! I phoned my good friend, Sue. She and her husband hurried to the airport and accompanied me to a bar where we had a bite to eat and quite a bit to drink. The plane, with me on it, took off some time after midnight.

At 5:00 am, Saturday, November 22, I arrived in rainy Seattle, bleary-eyed and exhausted. Al met me and drove me to the motel where I napped until time to grab a bite to eat and to dress for the big event of the day. First, Al had scheduled picture taking in Pioneer Square where I ruined my dyed-to-match shoes walking in the rain. Next, we drove to Seattle First Presbyterian Church where the minister married us in his office with the custodian and his wife as our witnesses. Lastly, it was on to a fantastic restaurant on a boat anchored on Lake Union where all the waiters wore tuxedos. I floated through it all, hardly realizing we were actually married!

We spent the night in Seattle and then moved on to Portland as Al had to work Monday through Wednesday. As we drove down I-5, and, it seemed, the whole time I was with Al, when we turned the radio on in the car, the same song was playing, “Lucky Ladybug.” Although we couldn’t understand all the words, the chorus stuck in our brains. Reading the words as I am writing this, I have to agree, “our love is lucky.” Starting in that first week of our marriage, Al has called me his “Ladybug.”

Thursday, at an elegant restaurant in Portland, sitting at the bar in front of a large picture window framing Mount Hood, we had our first Thanksgiving dinner. I stayed with Al until Sunday, then flew back to Denver, found my car was still in the parking lot, and drove up to Fort Collins. Back to the real world!

A few weeks later, Al joined me. We each had a break for Christmas and New Years. We flew to Grand Rapids, Michigan, for him to meet my parents and grandmother. Then we flew to Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, for me to meet his family. After the first of the year, I quit my job and we moved to a long-stay motel in Denver. Finding we were pregnant, we stayed there through April, then moved to an apartment on Xenia Street in Denver.

August ninth, I delivered our first son, Scott. Much as I love Scott, I didn’t want to have him quite so soon, but my gynecologist at the time would not provide a diaphragm for our protection. Scott was close to one when we moved to a comfortable, two bedroom duplex near the airport in Aurora, Colorado. Quite a start to our marriage!

If it hadn’t been for Al’s continuing to track me down, my life would have taken an entirely different direction. I might never have married. How happy I am that he was so tenacious.

Marriage Certificate:

Telegram from Al’s brother, Bob:

THE Finish Line at Emerald Downs (my dad’s final resting spot)

Published on by Andy Smallman6 Comments

You may recall that my dad died last year, almost exactly a year ago. Yesterday, my mother, my brothers, and I, along with three of my dad’s racetrack colleagues, honored his life by spreading his ashes on the racetrack at Emerald Downs. But not just anywhere on the racetrack, like in a tiny corner where the horses don’t run, but at the finish line.

In fact, we made my father’s final resting spot to be THE FINISH LINE. How poetic is that, especially for my dad, to become a visible line across a racetrack at the point where every race ends?

The photos below, I hope, put this in even better perspective than my short description here. As my mom said soon after we walked through the Winner’s Circle on our way out of the racetrack, “This was perfect.”

Indeed.

Spreading my dad’s ashes across the racetrack at Emerald Downs, we made a new finish line.
My mom, with a little help from me, gets THE finish line started.
Steve adds to the line.
Scott’s turn.
I moved over to the inside rail and connected the line to the center of the track.
My mom standing with her back to inside rail, the ashes remains of her husband now a line across the racetrack.
Soon after we had finished spreading the ashes at the finish line, the tractors came and my dad’s remains were more thoroughly merged into the racetrack.
Before opening up the box containing my father’s ashes, we posed for a picture in the Winner’s Circle, an apt place for my brothers, my mother, and me to pose with my father.

Before spreading the ashes, we stood in the Winner’s Circle and listened to legendary track announcer Robert Geller’s “race call” of my dad’s life, an obituary in the form of a track announcer’s call of a horse race:

“Don’t Turn Your Head,” a Song About “Goodbye Moments” At the End of a Date

Published on by Andy SmallmanLeave a comment

I’m fairly convinced that my family and friends think I’ve gone off the deep end with the amount of time I’m spending on Suno, the AI-music generator. I know I keep saying it but it’s so true. Doing this really brings me a lot of joy.

I’m spending the most time adapting my Tao of Kindness poems into pop songs. As a refresher, over 81 consecutive weeks beginning in 2018, I adapted the 81 verses of the Tao Te Ching into kindness-themed poems. After discovering Suno in March, I had the idea to take those 81 kindness poems and make them into pop songs. So far, I’ve completed 48 of them, all of which you can find on Bandcamp.

Here I am, 1985, age 22.
But I’m just as enamored with taking song lyrics I’ve written over the years and using Suno to make them into full-blown songs. About the lyrics, I wrote most of them in the 1980’s, long before getting married, having kids, and starting a school. And most of those songs are about my romantic plights at the time. It’s kind of remarkable that through all of the moves and changes of the last 40 years I held onto the lyric sheets. But I’m a sappy archivist at heart and these songs serve as a kind of diary or journal, much like this blog has been serving as a memory jog for me over the last 14 years.

With that long introduction, I offer a song that I first wrote in June of 1985. I’m 22 years-old and know I’m heading off to Olympia and The Evergreen State College in a couple of months. My job as a statistician at The Daily Racing Form had been automated, meaning I had been laid off (truthfully, I was offered the opportunity to continue with the DRF but had to move to Los Angeles to do it, which didn’t really interest me). In short, I had a lot of time on my hands.

My apartment in NE Seattle, called Executive Estates, had an outdoor swimming pool. I spent a lot of time that summer out by the pool (well, in the pool, too). I also spent time with Matt, my “little brother,” part of the Big Brothers program. And I had a couple of women friends that I hung out with that summer, too. One, Janet, would come over to the pool quite regularly. We went to the Puyallup Fair in September to see Three Dog Night. She was a security guard at the time and we drove to Puyallup in her patrol car that had lights on top, like a police car. Driving down Highway 167 to Puyallup, it was fun seeing the drivers ahead of us slow way down when they caught a glimpse of Janet’s car in their rear view mirrors.

My other female friend was Cynthia who I’d known since my family moved to Washington State in 1974. She was in the combined 4th/5th classroom I was placed in upon our arrival in March. We went onto the same junior high school, Tillicum, grades 7th-9th. I remember being in the same English class in 9th grade, the year she was a cheerleader. We became more casual friends in high school although by the time we were seniors I had a pretty serious crush on her. Late in the school year, I asked her to the senior prom although we both had said we didn’t plan to go. She turned me down, perhaps because of that earlier pledge. I don’t know.

My feelings for Cynthia remained fairly dormant over the next couple years, during which I had the first adult romantic relationship of my life (Suno has helped me develop a whole album of songs dedicated to that relationship – stay tuned). But it had long ended and by early 1985 my feelings for Cynthia had rekindled. We hung out fairly often and my desire to be more than friends increased significantly.

After doing something together (what, I don’t remember – maybe a movie, a walk in the park, whatever), we’d say goodbye. And it was in these awkward moments of saying goodbye that I’d get flustered. I wanted the friendship to blossom into a romance so in each of these “goodbye moments” I’d imagine that we’d have a romantic kiss. Clearly, though, she wasn’t interested. So we’d say goodbye and she’d turn her head, offering me her cheek to kiss. Very European, a French bissou.

After one of these goodbyes I went home and wrote this song in which I imagined a time in which she wouldn’t turn her head, that instead of her cheek I’d be offered her lips.

Original lyric sheet from 1985 (click to enlarge)
Maybe it’s kind of sappy, maybe it’s kind of sweet. Over the years, I still remember the feelings of it.

Finding the lyric sheet in a notebook after discovering Suno in March, I tried a number of different genres and AI prompts, more than any other of my old songs. In the end, the one that I like best is as a country song. I rephrased a couple of the lines and got this final result.

If you like this one, I created an entire album of similar songs, all country-sounding and using my original lyrics, and posted it on Bandcamp. One of those, “Off Course, Of Course,” was also inspired by me wanting to date Cynthia.

The Longacres Mile, My Dad, and Me

Published on by Andy Smallman1 Comment

In 1974, my dad was transferred from the city of my birth, Omaha, to the Seattle area by Brach Candy, his employer. I sometimes say to people in the northwest, if you’ve heard of Brach Candy, my dad likely had something to do with your awareness.

Legendary jockey Willie Shoemaker after winning the 1978 Longacres Mile – photo credit: me!!
What also transferred from the midwest to the northwest was my dad’s love for horse racing. Not far from SeaTac Airport was a racetrack called Longacres. I’ve written about this place many times as it has significant memories for me and they can all be traced to my dad.

As a kid, I watched him pore over the Racing Form, interpreting those little numbers into something that pitted his intellect against that of others. The intellectual challenge of this practice, what’s called handicapping, has always had a great appeal to me. In fact, beginning in high school and beyond as I made a career in education, I’ve often said that the best standardized test question I ever encountered is this:

“Pick the winner from a field of ten going six furlongs for a claiming price of $6250.”

The showcase race event of every Longacres season was the Longacres Mile. Taking place in August, it often brought the best horses on the west coast to Seattle, along with top jockeys and trainers. In 1978, my brother Scott & I stood at the finish line all day so I could be in place to take a picture of the finish and maybe get a photo of Willie Shoemaker. I got both as you can see here.

Longacres Mile Finish 1978 – photo credit: me!!
The Longacres Mile was an important event for my dad and me for reasons that I hope have become obvious. We shared the joy of Trooper Seven winning the Mile in back-to-back years, 1980 and 1981, the first horse to ever do so. I’ve embedded the video of the 1981 race below, as called by legendary track announcer Gary Henson (who, incidentally, became a friend of mine when I worked at Longacres in 1988).

Longacres closed in 1992 but racing stayed alive with the opening of Emerald Downs in 1996. And I was more than pleased to see the new track officials honor the old traditions by keeping the Longacres Mile alive. In August each year, the famed race has taken place. As you might have watched in the video embedded in my blog post three posts back, my dad predicted the winner of the 2005 Mile for the local and national publications he wrote for. The winner, No Giveaway, went off at 60-1.

This is especially poignant for me today because a few weeks before my dad died, we had put on our calendars today’s date. Yes, it’s August, Yes, the Longacres Mile was run today at Emerald Downs. I thought about going by myself but instead went over to help my mom with some organizing in advance of my dad’s upcoming memorial.

Of additional poignance for me is this – The last (and final) time I took my dad to the racetrack was a year ago for the Longacres Mile.

Broken Heart Syndrome

Published on by Andy Smallman1 Comment

First, let me preface this post by saying that my mom is fine and after a night in the hospital is back home, resting comfortably.

Everybody good? Okay, then…

My mom with Remy last week, a few days after my dad had died.
Yesterday morning, my brothers & I received a text from our mom that said, “Having a bad morning physically after a bad night. Think it’s a food reaction but it isn’t going away. I really don’t want to call 911.  Keep you posted.”

I immediately called her and after she described chest pains and tightness of breath, we agreed she should call 911. I had just arrived at work so I quickly packed up my stuff and returned to my car. It was going to be a slow drive from Northgate to Mercer Island at 8:30am so I knew I had better get going. Fortunately, my new co-workers were again understanding and said they had me covered.

As I was crossing the I-90 Floating Bridge from Seattle to Mercer Island, my cell phone rang and the caller ID indicated it was my mom calling. It wasn’t. It was a paramedic who said, “Your mom is having a heart attack. Instead of coming to her place, meet us at the ER at Overlake Hospital.”

Simple enough to do physically. A little more challenging mentally.

Upon arriving at the ER, I saw four or five people attending to my mom, inserting lines, changing her into a hospital gown, speaking with reassuring tones, but acting with the utmost urgency. Within a couple of minutes, a cardiologist arrived who explained to us both, “Okay, you’re having a heart attack and what we need to do is called an angiogram.”

A coronary ultrasound.
As he’s explaining this, another person arrives with consent paperwork and a pen. He is holding the form over my mom as the cardiologist continued, “We’re going to insert a probe into an artery, either through your wrist or your groin, to see what’s happening in your heart. There is a 1 in 1000 chance of something bad happening during this procedure, a stroke, or a heart attack, or the artery may break.”

Let me say that that’s a lot to take in. But he wasn’t done, “If we discover a blockage, we’ll be able to do an angioplasty and hopefully clear it. But there is a 1 in 100 chance of something bad happening during this procedure. But it’s much riskier to do nothing.”

My mom turned to me, “What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should have the procedure.”

At that point, the pen was placed in her hand and she signed the form. Almost immediately, her gurney was moved from the ER to wherever they would do this procedure. I hurried along after her, walk-jogging with the cardiologist, carrying my mom’s purse. The cardiologist repeated some things and told me she was in good hands, then took me to a waiting room with these words, “While the procedure is pretty quick, please don’t assume the worst if I’m not back out to update you for a little while. No news is good news.”

I sat down, updated my brothers and others via text, and wondered what a person is supposed to think about at times like these.

Just before my brother, Scott, arrived, a different cardiologist came out and invited me to sit down (is that good or bad when you’re invited to sit down?). She said, “We didn’t find any blockages; in fact, I hope I have the coronary arteries your mom has when I’m 90.”

Exhale.

Back in her apartment today having lunch.
“What we think your mom is experiencing is something called ‘Broken Heart Syndrome.’ It’s when a person has recently experienced a significant loss or some other kind of trauma and it impacts their heart. We’re going to admit her for observation but otherwise I think she’ll be just fine. Expect one or two nights in the hospital.”

It turned out to be one night.

About Broken Heart Syndrome, learn more at the Mayo Clinic website. It’s a pretty interesting read.

Continuing to Process My Dad’s Death

Published on by Andy SmallmanLeave a comment

On Friday last week, I attended a meeting at the school I’m now working for (I’m the new principal at Spring Academy in North Seattle – want more detail, ask). While still in France, I had informed the leadership team that my dad had died and that I might need some extra time away than I had already been granted for Melinda’s and my France trip. They’ve been extraordinarily generous with time off, given my status as a new employee. And they responded to the announcement of my dad’s death with continued generosity – “Take as much time as you need.”

Anyway, there was a meeting of the leadership team on Friday and I thought it was important for me to attend. It turns out that they weren’t expecting me so it was a surprise when I walked in. I first saw the retiring principal, Frank, who greeted me with warmth and kindness. He’d read the two previous posts I’ve made here about my dad and after the first sent me a very supportive message. Having read the second, the one with the video of my Dad at the local racetrack, Frank said, “I didn’t know you had a connection to horse racing.”

My dad and me at Emerald Downs in the late 90’s.
“Yeah,” I said, “It was a major connection for my dad and me. I even worked for The Daily Racing Form on multiple occasions back in the 80’s & 90’s.”

“My father-in-law was a trainer at Longacres back then,” Frank said. “Maybe you heard of him. His name was Marion Smith.”

“You’re kidding me? Smitty, Million Dollar Smith? Everyone knew him!”

So there was one of those small world connections, the kind that make you think there is more to this world than just random coincidences.

Our school meeting got started and I was still basking in the connection Frank shared. Knowing I’d be heading over to my parent’s apartment after the meeting, I compartmentalized the story, saving it to share with my dad when I arrived at my parent’s. I knew he’d really appreciate it.

Seconds later, I thought, wait. I can’t tell my dad that story…

That’s what’s going on right now.

Al Smallman : Angles From Experts

Published on by Andy Smallman4 Comments

Processing my dad’s death is like how imagine it is to ride a roller coaster (I say imagine because I don’t ride roller coasters). The ups and downs, the feeling of celebration in one second followed by confusion or something like fear in the next. I suspect that anyone who has experienced the death of someone close knows what I mean.

My folks at Chloe’s & Alex’s wedding celebration – July, 2022.

I’m back home in Seattle and spent yesterday with my mom, along with my brother Steve who is up from the Bay Area, working on those menial transition tasks that you don’t really think about before someone dies (like how the credit cards were all in my dad’s name). I spent a couple of hours connected to his email account unsubscribing him from the many mailing lists he followed. Each click of an unsubscribe link had a little pang of pain, like I was deleting part of my father’s reality from the present. But it also brought a feeling of clarity, like removing a veil that allows me to better see his true essence.

See what I mean? Roller coaster.

I’m adjusting back to the Seattle timezone which after being in France for a couple of weeks takes some doing. As such, I get tired at odd hours and am wide awake at others, like 2am Seattle time (11am in France). This past night, at 2am when I was wide awake, I remembered a fabulous video that Emerald Downs made of my dad in 2017. I looked for it and found it on YouTube and am embedding it below. Playing it, it’s the first time I’ve heard my father’s voice since he died.

That’s another of those roller coaster moments, believe me.