"Happiness is not having what you want.
Happiness is ... wanting what you already have."
Happiness is ... wanting what you already have."
I recall hearing an excellent sermon delivered some years ago by the famed Moody Church (Chicago) pastor, Erwin Lutzer, during which he recalled the many, many funeral services he'd officiated over the years, "and I don't remember - no, not once - seeing a U-Haul hitched up to the funeral hearse." Alas, those people who live their lives as though they'll be able to take all their accumulated earthly possessions with them when their life on earth is over are without number! Sad.
Anyway, I am the youngest of four boys in the Velez clan (my sister Elsa is the youngest of the lot), raised by a full-time Mom (Elsa) and her brown-boot Army career husband (Luis) - which is to say that, the Velez children didn't own many, shall we say, luxuries. Mom, who was a whiz at stretching pennies, nickels, dimes and an occasional dollar - just didn't have the financial resources to allow
the material wants of her children to cause her any great anxiety - nor would she have gone that route at any rate. I don't know that a more happy giver than Mom has ever walked the planet (let's leave Jesus out of this; that's simply not fair), but she wasn't into spoiling her children that way. Mom did the very best she could with the limited budget she had to work with. She did good. That was good enough for us.
I didn't own a bicycle until 1977, when I purchased the Schwinn "Suburban" five-speed that you see pictured above; just like the one I'd always wanted (except these were three-speeds back when I coveted the bike. Oh, and I don't think they were called "Suburban" when I was a kid. Maybe. But I doubt it.). I made these pictures only this past weekend. You'll notice the word "Chicago" beneath the Schwinn emblem. Yep! Still made in the good old USA back then. Ironically enough, I put together the "Dislocated Workers Program" for members of a United Auto Workers local union (can't remember which "local" union just now) back in 1980 when Schwinn's Chicago operations were moved to Taiwan and workers at the Chi-town facility were put out of work. But, hey, America had to protect itself from the "damn unions" that were responsible for stifling our "competitive advantage" against our "global trading partners." Incredibly, untold number of Americans still buy into that capitalistic deception to this very day! But --- don't get me started.
See the black Wilson A-2000 relic pictured above? That mitt was a gorgeous "Cubbie Blue" color when I first bought it in 1972 (Take note of the "Made in USA" circular emblem embossed upon it. You'll have to strain your eyes a bit to see it, but it's there. See it?). I slept with, oiled and spit on that mitt and shaped and molded it with tender loving care until it felt "just right." God, I loved the smell of that glove - just like I loved the smell of everything associated with baseball!
I played prairie ball, semi-pro level baseball, 12-inch softball with that now-legendary mitt through the years - hundreds and hundreds of games worth! - and its original color, beyond beautiful, did over the years turn into something like a sickly shade of green and, when it threatened to turn into some other shade of something, I decided to dye the mitt black. During that time, too, despite my wholehearted devotion to my mitt's upkeep, its leather lacing tore a couple of times. I would immediately head out to Sportmart and buy a lacing kit in order to "make it new" again. Throw it away? Perish the thought! Man, I loved that glove! Still do. We made hundreds of dazzling plays together (and some not-so-good, but those were my fault). Wilson and me. We were good!
Guess what. I paid $9.99 for that "professional-quality" A-2000 in '72. I remember - vividly - the claim Wilson spokespeople made when they decided to move their operations to Japan. To paraphrase the corporate thieves, it went something like this: "The savings this necessary shift will mean for American consumers at the market place will be realized within two-three years." Right. Try buying a "pro-quality" A-2000 today. If you find one for less than $380.00, let me know. I won't hold my breath. My friends, we're being lied to. We've always been lied to.
But I digress.
I remember my first mitt - a first baseman's mitt, it was. Mom got it for me with a few books of S&H green stamps (I told you, she was a whiz!). How I wish I still had that mitt! Unfortunately, my father liked to travel light. Real light. When our family moved from Lebanon, Missouri to Chicago back in '65, a few articles dad deemed to be "necessary losses" stayed behind. My extensive collection of baseball cards, which would have fetched me thousands of dollars today became my buddies' treasure. My first baseman's mitt also stayed behind. (I'm not likely to get any sympathy from my siblings. We all left pieces of our lives behind in Lebanon.) Do you remember the scene in the movie "Castaway" when, after finally escaping the tiny island that had held him captive on the raft he'd made, Tom Hanks' character woke up from his slumber to find his beloved volleyball - "Wilson" - gone? Remember his anguish? Well, I know a little about that. How I hated the thought of Chicago!
Some time after the Velezs settled in Chicago, I saw the Beach Boys, clad in their signature white, wide black-striped, short sleeved shirts. The Wilson brothers, along with singer (cousin) Mike Love and lead guitarist Alan Jardine were performing "Dance, Dance, Dance" in the popular Dick Clark's "American Bandstand." I saw Brian Wilson faking it on a white Fender Precision bass and, well, that was it! I fell in love with the deep sound of the electric bass (I'd never actually seen an electric bass guitar before; the Rock 'N Roll music I was brought up with almost always featured the Double-Bass, or, the "Upright."). The sight and sound of that white Fender Precision was a revelation! I had to have one!
There was one minor hitch. Over the years Dad - whose love of music was second to none - had made real financial sacrifices of buying guitars for my brothers, an accordion, a clarinet and a violin. None of my siblings had even hinted at wanting to play such instruments as Dad had picked out for them, mind you. I have supposed that where my oldest brother was concerned, Dad's expectation that Alvar would end up becoming something resembling a guitarist was not without merit. I mean, Alvar lived and breathed music. He won vocal competitions throughout his Lebanon High School years to the point of monotony. He listened - 24/7 - to Elvis, Elvis, Elvis - with a bit of Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison and Ricky Nelson thrown into that mix from time to time.
Well, Dad had this notion that Alvar just might become the Puerto Rican version of Chet Atkins or Duanne Eddy (in retrospect, a slight snicker should not be thought by my readers to be an over-the-top response to such a notion. I mean, like 90% of the masses, my oldest brother simply didn't want to have to work at learning an instrument.). And so Dad bought "The Fortunate Son" a jaw-dropping kind of beautiful cherry sunburst Gibson Les Paul! (A Gibson Les Paul, people!) Before that, he'd purchased Alvar an arched-top, f-hole Silvertone acoustic. Both guitars were marked for to be nothing more than wall decorations - strategically placed between the suitable-for-framing, 8x10 black-and-white photographs commonly featured in the monthly Hit-Parade and other teen magazines of the early 60s era; pictures of Elvis (but of course) and Roy Orbison, Ricky Nelson, Jackie Wilson, Bobby Rydell, Dion and others. Hiram? He never expressed an interest - nor asked for - his guitar ... or violin. Hermes? As a chick magnet, Hermes' pursuits had little to do with music during this particular point in time, although, some time later, he fell in love with drums (which Hiram bought for him). Dad, however, more or less (actually, "more") brought his budding musical endeavor to a grinding halt with his continual tamtrums whenever my brother had pounded on his drum kit for more than five minutes. Elsita? Nope. No, thank you. No clarinet for me! But - thank you. Thank you very much.
And so when Mom, having had her fill of my shameless, infantile whining and begging, asked me to take up my demands for an electric bass guitar with Dad, I felt utterly defeated. I'd counted on Mom to plant seeds in Dad's heart during the many weeks I'd badgered her. Like I said, Mom was never one to be easily swayed by her children's whims. But, lo and behold! One fine day, out of the clear blue, I happened to be within earshot of my parents, who were enjoying music in the living room (Dad was forever playing music on his stereo), and overheard Mom standing in the gap for me with Dad! She pleaded my case as best she could, although in the end her valiant effort proved unavailing. Dad was done with the purchase of musical instruments ... and that was that! Still, Mom's heroic deed was never forgotten - and always appreciated.
Within a year or so of saving nickels and dimes from my paper route and working at the "Economy Dinette" down the street, I'd saved enough money ($90 if my memory serves, but it doesn't always) to buy a white, Made in Japan, "Kingston" short-scale bass guitar (let us not lose sight of the reality that this was 1967; Made in Japan was synonymous with "junk"). I later sold the bass for a fraction of what I paid for it in order to upgrade to a semi-hollow body Hagstrom, which I then traded even-up for a Rickenbacker bass (that was ruined by a friend to whom I'd loaned it). In the by and by
I became the manager/bassist for a very popular Chicago band called Junction (brother Alvar, he of the coffer full of vocal contest awards, was the band's lead singer). I used a Gibson "Ripper" bass early on with Junction, then switched to a gorgeous, walnut "S. D. Curlee" that I eventually gave away to a missionary/musician from Africa who'd announced during a Faith Tabernacle worship service that he desperately needed a Bass guitar and, well, if anyone in attendance that morning was moved by the Lord to donate a bass for his missionary cause, it would be greatly appreciated. Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Bye, bye, S. D. Curlee!
On May 12, 1979 I purchased the Peavey "Rudy Sarzo" Signature model pictured here. It's the only bass (my electric bass arsenal numbers six these days; love them all!) I've given a name to: "Red." It somehow felt right. Appropriate. Am I making sense? As you can see from the images I made of Red only last week, the bass is, nearly thirty years on, in impeccable condition. It was, as I remember it, the first electric bass to offer passive/active electronics. Red has a beautiful voice and looks every bit as good today as when first I brought it home.
I remember the one and only time my Dad came to see and hear Junction. How can I forget? That was the only time in my life that Dad ever showed genuine emotion and pride where I was concerned. Dad was impressed with the band's performance in general (I put a lot of stock in his opinion. The man knew his music!) and, in particular, was awed at the skill level I had attained as a bassist and performer. Now he wanted me to know that he was "so sorry" that the one child he'd refused to buy an instrument for had become an accomplished musician; in fact, the only one in the family. For my part, I never held that against Dad. In my inward parts, I supposed that my high level of commitment to my instrument was a result of my desire to show Dad that I'd been serious about my music from the start. No hard feelings, Dad. Rest in peace.
What is more, having to work hard to obtain those things I dreamed of as a kid gave me a larger-than-life appreciation for my "toys." I've enjoyed them to no end through the years - and am happy knowing that I still want them!
And that's what happiness is!
