Seize the Day / In Memorium

[Paul Moos]

In memory of Joseph Heininger and Rick Vynhelic

I recently lost two very important people in my life; one was an uncle who practically raised me, the other was a guy I knew two weeks who refinished our wood floors. As I sit here and meditate on the platitudes to which we nod; life is short, seize the day, etc., my eyes blur with tears of regret.

I had written a letter to my uncle describing to him how I thought he had made a positive influence in my life. He was a hard-core ball-buster for sure -- as a kid you crossed his line with the trepidation of a kindergardener crossing the autobahn, and that included sitting in HIS chair -- but Big Joe's heart was as large as his bark, and I can recall a couple times his bespeckled eyes misting over as he explained how important we were to him (...And that is why you aren't allowed to 'ride the ice' on the Scioto River").

My father had a stroke and lost his speech, so when my well of advice ran dry, my Uncle was there. I called him more than a few times as an adult. At one time I was contemplating leaving my job. I was young and insecure, having so many thoughts banging around in my head, wondering whom to please, whom not to offend. "Did you go to church today?" He asked. "Uhhhh... " Typically he wasn't a bible-thumper, so I was on guard. "Do you remember the second reading?" "Uhhhh...." He continued "Son, life is hard, not because of the things we have to do, but because we make it hard. I can tell you didn't go to church, but I'll help you out. I know you're looking for some general advice, but I'm going to tell you EXACTLY what to do, and it's the same thing we heard in church today: Walk upright, and fear no man."

He was a "simple man" -- cliche -- but he was. He never had to have the latest car, or the flashy clothes or any other trappings which comprise modern life. They never did without, though. Vacations every year (to which I was invited), cars that were clean and ran well, a house with a yard for us kids and the dogs, plenty of kisses for my Aunt Mim. And of course his chair, iced tea and some Cheetos thrown in. And Tareytons.

He smoked ever since I could recall, tried quitting a more than a few times, but failed on each attempt. He knew it was a bad example for us, and at times I could see in his posture that particular self-loathing which comes from inadequate will. Emphysema, bronchitis, COPD all did him in just a couple years after he retired, a slow-drowning death which meant the end of golf, OSU football and long conversations about James Michener.

As I said, I had written him a letter, a long, reminiscing ramble concocted one night I had been at a wedding where the mother of the groom had died two hours before the ceremony. I was drunk, and the words flowed like the champagne and cabernet had hours before. I told him what he meant to me, and that I loved him, and respected him, and confided that it was really me who bashed in the storm-door that one time, not my cousin Greg, which was partially true.

The next morning I awoke and read what I had written, self-conscious even alone as I regarded my emotional outpouring with humor. I decided not to mail it immediately, you know, polish it up a little bit, correct some minor grammar points, embellish a story or two.

It sat on my hard drive. The next Saturday my wife woke me up early. She was crying. She said Uncle Joe was dead.

...

I met Rick when he and his wife were buying new phones for their business. "Floor One" read the card, and as any Lakewood-ite knows, a business card like that can come in handy. True to form, I lost it, and were it not for seeing him in Home Depot many months later I would have never remembered. But HE remembered my name.

We hired him to do roughly half our wood floors (he charged an arm and a leg) and when he was finished, the sections he had not done looked so ridiculously beaten that we asked him to return and do the rest (the other arm and leg). I was at home during the two weeks he was working this second time, and I swear it was like meeting a long lost friend.

He would arrive promptly at nine then I would talk him into taking a break, during which he would educate me on the finer points of Rock and Roll. The Audience, Brewer and Shipley, Brian Auger, Glass Harp, old Jeff Beck and Jorma Kaukonen, McKendree Spring, Poco -- I scroll down my ITunes library and half the stuff I have now is influenced by him.

And he could PLAY. He did his best to show me some tricks, but I would mostly just stare slack-jawed admiring his talent. The guitar was like his second voice.

He was a raconteur as well as he did floors, and my mind swirls with his stories. A chihuahua who weighed thirty pounds from eating chipmunks. Secrets of the Masons. Making my neighbor Jim appear at a lodge meeting. His cat (a Kurat?) that was like a dog. He said the only thing he regretted in life, seriously, was cursing some lawyer. The lawyer died and he swore he would never wish ill on anyone again.

He was quite possibly one of the last Old World Craftsman left. His work was without par and will outlast you or I. Anyone who has had work done by him can attest to that. But mostly it was his attitude. He was completely "there." When you talked, he listened. When he worked, he worked. Like a zen-master who knows no distraction, he wholly lived in the moment.

I asked him about this. "Well, you see, Paul," he said, "I'm supposed to be dead." I laughed and said something like "Aren't we all." He continued, telling me that he had had cancer. And had it again. He described working despite a thalimide buzz (like being under water). Crying with his wife. Dealing with hospitals, doctors, insurance, bills. Facing the blackness. The fear of losing everything. And then the realization that everything is now.

His work here lasted a couple weeks then he packed up his tools. He wouldn't do it, but I wanted him to permanently seal one of his business cards into the floor ("would ruin the floors." He countered.) I promised we would have him and his wife over for dinner when we finally finished working on everything else. I hoped to learn more guitar from him, and I wanted our wives to meet. I wanted him to see how big a difference he made. I never saw him again. The reminder note to myself quietly sat a day, a week, a month, a yellow Post-It with red ink -- RICK V. /DINNER. Then I saw his face in the Obituary.

Seize the day.

--
While Rick was working on our floors, I joked with my neighbor Suzanne that I was going to write a book called "Everything I need to know I learned from Rick the Floor Guy." Here are some excerpts:

Love your wife.
Listen to your wife -- she is probably right.
Volunteer.
Don't spend your whole life working.
Don't take your work home.
Do everything you do the absolutely best you can, then charge an arm and a leg.
Take your time.
Phil Keaggy is the greatest guitarist of all time.
Have cats.
Make things of beauty.
Enjoy things of beauty.
Do what you can.
You can have dogs or wood floors, but not both.
Be kind -- then when you aren't people will understand you're having a bad day.
Anyone can offer an opinion, but sometimes it's best just to play your guitar.
If it is truly a serious job, do a mock-up.
Today may be the last day of your life, really.
Love your wife. She is still probably right

I know this is pablum to some but my heart truly sinks when I think could have / should have / would have.

Seize the day.

Sincerely,
Paul Moos

[Gary Rice]

Paul,

Great remembrance.

Rick was a truly great person, and a friend of mine. During my "guitar history talk" for a fraternity that we both belonged to, we jammed together for the people. It was a great moment.

His wife asked me to play his now-silent guitar at the evening funeral service, and I did. It was difficult to do, but I'm sure Rick loved it.

I'm also sure that the one thing that Rick, and your uncle, would want you to do, is move forward. The past, even the past of 5 minutes ago, is gone forever, and cannot be changed, or even replicated.

If you are still breathing, you must not only look forward, but live and live to honor Rick, your uncle, and all those who came before you, and, as my dear late mother said, you must MAKE yourself be happy. To do less would really make Rick unhappy.

Take a look at my Mother's Day column in the Observer this week, if you will. Losing Mom was one of the toughest things I've ever experienced, but in a larger sense, we never lose these people. They will always be with us, and they are guiding us even now.

The only was we can honor them, is to continue to guide and inspire others ourselves.

Oh yes, and to do so with fond remembrance, smiles, and even laughter, as hard as this will be for you.

So please go forward. As these inspired you, you must now inspire others.

Hey, this morning, you even inspired this response to you!

[dl meckes]

Paul-

My condolences and my thanks for a reminder for Memorial Day - and every day.

[marycoleman]

Rick truly was one of the most unique, talented, engaging people I'll ever know in my lifetime. Time spent with him was nothing but delightful, even watching him work was interesting because he had great stories to tell and there was always something to be learned. He worked hard, adored his beautiful Lynn, and lived life to the max. He had a heart of gold, and his memory will always make me smile.