TomFlannery.com

(Eulogy delivered for my Father on April 5th, 2010 at Saint Mary’s of Mount Carmel Church, Dunmore PA)

Whenever Pop gave a speech my mother used to get worried that he’d go on too long. We’re Irish after all. The most apt thing the Irish have ever been called….and we’ve been called plenty….is “word hungry”. I like that.

 I’m word hungry. So was Pop.

 But do not fear. My Mom always gave my father the ‘wrap it up’ sign when he got long winded, and I’ve got a perfect view of her from here. However, I can’t see the bishop very well from my location, so if somebody could alert me if he’s giving me the signal, I’d be grateful.

 We’ve all been places where one person starts to yawn and it starts a chain reaction. Tears are like that too, so let’s dry them now, for my sake at least. Pop is at peace, and that’s surely something worth smiling over.

 Laughter would be even better. You want some?

 I’ll tell you things you may not know.

 His belting out endless versions of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” to wake us up each day for school, a moment that made us forever grateful that he chose journalism as a career.

 His staggering ability to get lost every year on our vacation trips, even though every year we went to the same place. Got so bad we actually started recognizing the places that told us we were lost.

 “Dad, isn’t that the same restaurant we stopped in last year to ask directions and the guy said we were ‘way off’”?

 He once dropped us off in front of the FBI building and went to find a place to park. While we enjoyed a chance meeting with Ted Kennedy and his wife, Pop ended up in Virginia. There’s getting lost, and then there’s finding yourself in the wrong state. How the man ever found the stories he covered is a mystery.

 He charmed everyone. From the thief in Camden New Jersey who gave him perfect directions back to the expressway (yes, lost again) before stealing my mother’s necklace, to the big wigs at Disney World, who were so charmed by one of his columns that they gave him what I like to think was their first “fast pass”. He’d flash this thing at every ride and to the front we’d go, like royalty.

 No waiting, as was the case when he drifted off in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Into the arms of his beloved parents, and his brothers, and met by the slobber of the world’s most beautifully ugly dog…Candy. That breeze you feel right now is powered by her tail wagging.

 And of course, Pop’s best friend. Joe Smith is there, anxious to pass along the answer to the perplexing question asked at many of their council meetings.

 Yes, there is vermouth in heaven.

And best of all for a couple of Irishmen who could pinch nickels with the best of them…it’s on the house.

 Old school. That’s what he was. Found something that worked and he stuck with it. He never changed for change’s sake. Worked the same hairstyle for 82 years. Over the last few days Brylcreem stock has plummeted. The same Royal manual typewriter that sounded like sleet hitting the roof of a tin shed. Electric typewriters frustrated him, and computers made him speak in tongues. He never quite grasped the “save file” concept, and “lost” as many columns as he “wrote” on the computer. But he adored deadlines. Once told me they were his favorite part of the business, so I half expected he was doing it on purpose just to have a bit of fun with the editors.

 But the ultimate old school?

 His first kiss? My mom. His last kiss? My mom. Every kiss in between? My mom. For over 60 years he was a teenager in love. Theirs was a love story increasingly rare in a world grown cynical. Today, career changes and divorces are as common as rising gas prices. But my father loved every day as a newsman…..a love only surpassed by who was waiting for him when he got home.

 And always…without a paper. The man worked at a newspaper and came home and bought one everyday. So, if the Lynott’s are here, know that you got an even bigger bargain than you know. Those nickels and dimes and quarters would have added up. If you’d like to reimburse him, a check made out to the National Alzheimer’s Association would certainly suffice.

 He found large stories in small, quiet places, and he was always on the side of the angels. From his genuine love of a special needs kid named Bobby Walsh to his willingness to inform his readers of the horrors of war as seen through the eyes of a scared Jessup kid in Viet Nam…at a time when such frankness wasn’t always welcomed….or even tolerated. Pop’s moral courage was exceeded only by his inherent decency.

 And for every good deed he did publicly through his writings, there were 100 that nobody knew about. Even this week my family got calls and letters from people we never knew, thanking us for things Pop did for them that we never knew about. We surely took him for granted. To us, he was just “Dad”….the guy who’d let us sit on his lap and “drive” the car up the driveway.

 I am one of 6. Flannery and Loftus blood. An interesting combination to say the least. At times, we can try the patience of a roomful of stoned saints. We put the “function” in “dysfunction”. Our vices require a calculator to keep track of. Yet Pop never once gave up on any of us. He’s given us so much more than we’ve ever given him. Instead of this reflecting badly on us, I prefer to think it illuminates his own grace. Gets us off the hook too. Useful, that.

 Pat, Maureen, Erin, Timmy, Beeny…and Mom. It’s been a rough road. We’ve bent, sometimes at right angles to each other, but we’ve never broken. I love you all.

 My father never accepted injustice. In his quiet way he railed against it his entire life. Alzheimer’s Disease is the ultimate injustice, and he raged against that too for 5 long years. He never gave up. He never gave in. He simply ran out of time.  So now it’s up to us to shake our fist at this dreaded disease. The way he did. Sometimes, quite literally. It would have awed you too.

 There is no stigma attached to Alzheimer’s Disease. There is no shame. Me and my family want it front and center. It took away Pop away from us. It has become our enemy. Our fight has not ended with my Dad’s passing. It merely continues. We ask for your help.

 A final thought. The night Pop died we all gathered at my Mother’s. We stayed with her. It was still dark when we went to bed, but just barely. I heard the birds chirping. Certainly not the first time I’d stumbled to bed to that soundtrack, but this one time I knew exactly who they were singing for.

My guitar rests in its case, leaning up against the back of my office door. Every time I look at it I feel guilty, because I haven’t touched it in nearly 2 months. Haven’t stayed away from 6 strings ever, and I’m probably in for some serious finger-tip bleeding when the fast ends. But, like religious fanatics who flog themselves, I’ll feel I’ve earned the pain.

Sitting here now listening to Martin Sexton and wondering what could have been if the cards had been shuffled a different way. There’s so many things I’ve wanted to do but couldn’t, and so many things I should have done but didn’t. And now I’ve reached mid-life with graying hair on my head and face and a huge mortgage and driving a Toyota.

As my father’s illness progresses, it both saps my strength and forces me to become stronger…..which is an interesting scenario that I don’t wish on anyone but thought it worth passing on regardless. Alzheimer’s is the second most feared disease in America after cancer, and the fucking thing earns its high ranking.

Eventually, I’ll return to music, and surely with a vengeance. If only for my own peace of mind. I want to scrap everything I’ve done and start from scratch. I want to write different songs, not just new ones. If I can’t get out to play live shows I’ll schedule live streaming performances using a webcam. I’ll invite you all into my lair. How’d that be? Things are changing. Change or be changed.

Is this really me talking about change?

I guess so. And why not? Fear of the unknown has ruined all kinds of potential fun in this world. Tip your glass to what the Blues Brother’s called “ramming speed”.

In a bit…

–tf

I’ve become a haphazard diarist at best. Sometimes what you want to say does not jibe with what you’re willing to say….so you fight that battle by turning tail and running like hell.

But here comes a wall, so what the hell. My father is suffering from the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease, and as his memories are slowly (and not so slowly) erased, I’m warmed by the fact that he still knows me. He still can see my face, and recall my name. He allows for the touch of my hand…something he won’t grant to just anybody mind you. Take too many liberties and he may show you the back of his. Such are the types of things this horrifying disease can do…..turning the most gentle of men into something not easily recognizable at times. But he’s still Pop. I don’t care how much the disease steals…..it can’t take that away. He’ll fight to his last days for moments of clarity…..and when they come he can force my normally grumpy face into twitching. Something like a smile some might call it.

I can’t pretend I’m doing well with all of this. But I also can’t pretend that I’m alone. Alzheimer’s is an unchecked epidemic, and myself and my family now have a ringside seat to a fight we never wanted. Our situation is worse than some, and better than others. We’re stuck right in the middle, trying to balance the pain with the good fortune we’ve had to be raised by a man with the most agile mind I’ve ever known.

Time doesn’t heal a fucking thing. But it allows calluses to spread over wounds so you’re not so reminded of them all the time. Our long goodbye has begun, but nobody is ready to put their coats on yet. Pop will eventually revert back to a child….and then an infant. But there is still a delightful, devilish quality to him that pulls us like moths to flame. He can still fix me with a frightfully clear gaze and zing the shit out of me….leaving me muttering to myself….”ok, I walked right into that one.”

I’m not sure how much he’s aware. Awareness is not always something to wish for. I can admit to breathing sighs of relief when I see him sleeping, and I’m pretty certain this doesn’t reflect too well on me. But then I’ve had no preparations for Alzheimer’s. Outwardly I get better every day. The insides continue to churn though. Not sure they’ll ever stop. Myself and my mother and my sister’s and my brother’s learn more and more, and knowledge gives one courage. We laugh with each other and we scream at one another and we cry on each others shoulders and we assuredly all cope in different ways when we’re alone. But we get up in the morning and face this fucking thing all in one piece, so we’re thankful for each other….even though we may be loathe to admit it sometimes.

Soon the songs and the words will come again, either leaking or pouring forth. My schedule will return to relative normalcy. My family will learn to live in a different way. With Pop, I trust.

In a bit…

–tf

No details required, let’s just say I haven’t been having the greatest time lately. Certainly nothing inside the whirlwind has me reaching for my guitar. Yet. That’s the beauty of music. I know it’s gonna be there when the need for solace replaces the need to be in 14 places at once.

And I need it more than ever now.

On the plus side, just procured the new release from the Len Price 3, a band that sounds like the reincarnated Who circa the ‘Sell Out’ period. It’s positively glorious noise, right down to the ‘Can’t Explain-ish’ backing vocals. Comfort comes from the most bewildering places.

In a bit…

–tf

The other day my garage door broke. I’m not very useful when things break, and even less so when somebody asks me for specifics, like why or how it broke. All I know is that I used to hit a button and the door would open. I hit the button now and it won’t. And the manual override doesn’t work either, apparently because when I break something I really break it.

So I’m locked in. Not a bad thing considering that my car is a….wait for it…a Toyota. This is what I get for not buying American I suppose. Depending on who you listen to, if I take my car out of the driveway I’ll either mangle myself or make the head of the department of transportation look bad. I just bought the car a year ago, and now if I open her up on the highway I may never be able to slow her down. Kinda like riding a wild horse. All in all, better to be stuck on the side of the road in an American car than shaped like an accordion in a foreign one.

I don’t mind house arrest actually. There’s no place I really want to go. I have my books here and my guitar and my legal pads and plenty of pens and I have a nice TV and it’s college basketball season so it ain’t like I’m being tempted by anything. And of course my girls are here. All 4 of them.

Recently discovered 2 great bands. You Me at Six and The Wonder Years. The music continues to fall down like hail. IPOD at 7000 songs and counting.

At least I don’t have to get up to go work for Toyota tomorrow. That would suck.

Not that I’d have a way to get there.

In a bit…

–tf

It’s breathtaking the way the world comes together to help when a crisis hits. The earthquake in Haiti was biblical in its destruction, although faith in a deity never helped Haiti in the past, and it’s not gonna provide food, water, and shelter now. It takes people to do that, and thus far the response has been overwhelming. Almost literally so, as the roads are clogged with supplies trying to get in…at time hampering the relief effort itself.

But it may be useful to stop for a moment and ask ourselves why we are so generous now, yet blithely allow poverty on a scale of Haiti’s to grind on unscathed in the first place. Isn’t this the very definition of putting the cart before the horse?

I have no answers surely. I’m as guilty as anyone when it comes to self-centeredness and faux liberalism. As long as my internet access doesn’t get interrupted and I’ve got new books to read life is tolerable…if not even pleasant on occasion. I can text the Red Cross $10 and feel good about it.

But there are pangs now and then. We can see it all on TV if we wish. New Orleans. Now Haiti. Most of us couldn’t even conceive of the day-to-day trials of these people before mother nature decided to fuck with them some more. We look now, and it’s like something from the mind of a warped Hollywood screenwriter. This isn’t water in the basement. These are dead bodies on the road, being scooped up by dump trucks. In the year 2010.

I don’t know. I guess I just wish we could all come together before the storm next time.

In a bit…

–tf

Playing a gig this weekend with good friend Josh Pratt. Should be a blast. Josh is a kindred spirit who writes the shit out of a song, (check out our West Memphis 3 project to see what I mean) and he’s up for anything. We’re planning all kinds of surprises, including a group of cover songs that aren’t generally heard in folk-song circles. Hopefully the weather cooperates and we’re not stuck playing to a bunch of empty chairs. I once played a show to 2 people, who were sitting at a table in front of the stage playing a loud game of Scrabble. Those were good days. Played a show with Lorne Clarke one time, and his front-row father-in-law fell asleep rather loudly during a somewhat longish coal mining ballad, which I’ve made sure never to play since.

Endless stories when you drag your guitar on-stage and try to keep people from talking amongst themselves. Opened for a polka band one time, which was interesting. Grateful Dead fans are more sober than polka fanatics, let’s just put it that way. When a 70 year old polish woman built like a pulling guard and filled with way too much Genesee on-tap starts giving you the evil eye, believe me, you cut short your set. I once played a show in which 2 ladies were using my on-stage monitor as a table to hold their plates of vegetables. Another time, when I was sure nobody was listening, I sang the “Barney” theme song with filthy lyrics. Nobody noticed.

I’m getting a bit old for that kind of thing these days. I hardly ever play live anymore, unless I’m paid way more than I should be, or guaranteed a captive audience. The latter is more fun, the former easy to get used to, if a bit rare. Deep down we’re all whores. We just have different asking prices is all.

Music is a wonder. I’ve played shows for hundreds of people, and played private shows for myself where I’ve strummed until my finger-tips bled and sent red dots spraying all over my pants. Both shows made the heart beat a little faster, even if I play lousy.

In a bit…

–tf

Taking a break in the action….sitting here listening to an old Mike Scott solo record called “Still Burning” and contemplating what comes next. Scott’s music is a good soundtrack for this sort of rumination, because the man staggers to and fro like a drunken man on a sidewalk. You never know if you’re gonna get something genius like “Fisherman’s Blues” or some bloated overproduced pile of gargantuan 80-ish shite with overbearing and even cultish religious overtones. But you’re always gonna get something different, and that’s more than you can say for most. So I’ve always been in Scott’s corner, even though it can get kinda snug there.

Besides, what’s the use of pondering your future in silence? That’s the height of boredom. And it can get scary too. Nothing like the sound of your own breathing to make you feel insignificant in the overall scheme of things. You can tell that Scott ain’t the kind to spend his time kicking his own ass, and that’s the type of guy I want to hang with, if only because opposites attract. That plus anybody who can write songs as good as “Fisherman’s Blues” and “This is the Sea” may still be scrounging for the rent (such is the lunacy of the music “business”), but ain’t ever gonna be insignificant again. Music lives longer than landlords. Thank your deity of choice for that.

So, there it is. Whatever any of this means. I’ve got good intentions nearly every time, but I do tend to allow myself to be battered…..like a Kansas weather vane. What I need to do is hunker down in the barn until the wind passes, then emerge and work like hell before a new storm starts forming on the horizon.

Easier said than done. Especially with the Waterboys bouncing around in my head…..a head that’s full of half-formed ideas and fully-formed air pockets.

In a bit…

–tf

Grabbed the new record from Chris Richards and the Subtractions. Power pop trio out of Detroit. It’ll cure what ails you…..even if you’re not sure what that is. Also picked up the latest from Michael Carpenter, which is one of those jangly gems that nobody but sleep-deprived late night web crawlers ever hears about. I’m becoming insanely jealous of guys who can write these songs. My head has been swiveling like an office chair and my foot-tapping is wearing grooves in my floor. I guess this is the definition of infectious. And it all comes down to a guy and a girl. I mean….what else is there to sing about really? Ship wrecks and stuff like that, but they generally aren’t toe-tappers.

So whadda you think about that? Life’s too short to not immerse yourself in such medicinal things.

Happy New Year to anyone who ever pounded on a guitar, or had fun listening to someone else do same.

In a bit…

–tf

I’ve started to play again. Haven’t reached for the pen and paper yet, but at least I’m strumming G, C, and D chords again….along with trying to get my voice into the same area code as the pitch that’s called for.  When I put the guitar aside, it’s my voice that inevitably suffers the most.

So what to do? Listen, that’s what. So I pull out my BoDean records and go through them all, which is kinda like sitting in the back of a very interesting lecture on what rock and roll was, sometimes still can be, and should be going forward. It may sound like I’m expecting too much from two fairly anonymous and criminally underappreciated dudes from Waukesha, Wisconsin, but when a large part of your life consists of a Gibson jumbo acoustic and dollar-store pen and legal pads, inspiration ain’t gonna come from the usual suspects.

It’s back to basics time. Melody. Harmony. Rhythm. Fucking competence. Short stories. Love lost….and maybe even found. Playing music for the same reason you breathe. Because you have to. And you don’t want to turn blue. Literally….and figuratively too.

I don’t care what happens. I care what I do amidst the chaos. I don’t care what I sell. I care about what I’d buy. I’m getting too old keep up with the gray hair. I just want to write about what brought it on in the first place.

Growing old but never growing up in the key. Nobody who grows old can play rock and roll. It is a young man’s game. But old age is a state of mind, which is why the BoDeans continue to be the signpost along the road that I’m always searching for when I start to grow weary. Like a blinking vacancy sign along a seemingly never-ending stretch of drab highway.

In a bit…

–tf