We may receive an affiliate commission from anything you buy from this article.
In his memoir, “Time to Thank: Caregiving for My Hero” (Post Hill Press), actor Steve Guttenberg writes about his hero – his father, Stanley – and the relationship they shared, from childhood, through his Hollywood career (in such films as “Cocoon” and the “Police Academy” series), to their final years together, once Stanley was diagnosed with kidney failure – and Guttenberg dedicated himself to becoming his father’s caregiver.
Read an excerpt below, and don’t miss Lisa Ling’s interview with Steve Guttenberg on “CBS Sunday Morning” January 19!
“Time to Thank: Caregiving for My Hero” by Steve Guttenberg
Prefer to listen? Audible has a 30-day free trial available right now.
It was the tail end of June 1968; the air was starting to get humid. Fourth grade was ending, and I could feel the three months of delirium that was coming.
And I was ready. Because I’d been collecting. I had enough fireworks to last the whole summer. I took every penny I made from my Newsday delivery route and poured them into “belts,” these macho configurations of 144 firecrackers. These particular belts came straight from China, with Chinese calligraphy on the wrapper, and to my young perspective, they were the ultimate asset. Better than gold.
I bought belt after belt from Andy Mahoney, who was notorious in my neighborhood for lighting my neighbor’s garage on fire with a chlorine bomb. He was an anti-hero, a rebel with a cause, five years older than I was. The only reason he talked with me was because I was buying from him.
Initially I kept all that gunpowder in the ingenious hideaway I’d devised: the side drawer of my desk. By some miracle, my mother never found them. But they couldn’t just sit in that drawer forever; I had to see if they would work.
So I decided to get a pack of matches, lock myself in the family bathroom, and throw lit firecrackers out the only window. My father was down in the den, my mother in the kitchen. How could I possibly get caught? I proceeded to create my own personal preview of the Fourth of July.
And wouldn’t you know it? Someone noticed.
“What the hell is going on?” I heard my mother say downstairs. “Stanley, I smell smoke.”
“Check the air conditioners,” my father said. “I’m going to look at the attic.”
I heard my father’s footsteps as he rushed up to the attic, praying that he would skip past the bathroom I’d turned into my private gunpowder studio. But then he started banging on the door.
“Steven? What the hell are you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice extremely calm.
I dropped another lit belt out the window.
“Open this door, now!“
I looked around the family bathroom: Where could I hide these suckers? Where could I hide myself? Nowhere seemed promising. So, after a moment, I opened the door.
A plume of smoke billowed out into the rest of the house. I was covered in soot. My father looked me over, and as he stood there for what felt like a very long time, I was sure he was going to hand me my head. And not on a platter.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said. I started to sweat. “How many firecrackers do you have?”
I went to my trusty desk drawer and slid it open. He was the only human to ever see that cache—other than Andy Mahoney.
“That’s a lot of gunpowder. How did you get all these firecrackers?”
“They’re called belts, Dad,” I said. He raised his eyebrows—not the right answer. “I got them using my newspaper route money.”
He reached into the drawer and, with one giant hand, grabbed the bulk of them.
“Follow me.”
We headed outside. I was sure that we were going to the garbage pails, but he walked right past them.
“You and me are going to light every firecracker in these belts and finish them off.”
I was going to light firecrackers with my father? These were contraband, but he—an ex-cop—was willing to put himself in harm’s way for me? That’s a dad. That’s a father.
We stood on the patio, and as the sun started to set, we handed each other single cylinders of gunpowder. My father had his Zippo lighter—he lit each one carefully and then threw it onto the lawn. Pow! Bang! My dad was lighting firecrackers, and it made me delirious. I carefully twisted a cracker off the belt, handed it to my dad, barrel first, and within seconds it had exploded into a green cloud of smithereens.
Then my father started to get creative—he’d light the firecrackers and then throw them high so they’d explode in mid-air, nipping the edge of the mimosa tree. After a time, he turned to me.
“Here, you light some,” he said. “I’ve got an extra Zippo.”
I started slow, lighting the wick and then running as I dropped them on the ground. But I saw my father’s confidence and started to throw them onto the lawn too. Dad threw one. I threw one. Our explosions echoing one another: call and response, question and answer.
“What the hell are you two doing?” my mother said, her head halfway out the bedroom window.
“We’re lighting firecrackers, Ann. My partner and me.”
His partner. Dad called me his partner. It was like I’d joined the Yankees and the Mets all at once.
There we stood, for hours, as the sun set over the mimosa tree. I looked up at my dad: my hero, my partner. We lit every last one. Of course, one blew up between my fingers; the pain was spectacular, but I didn’t dare tell. This was too good.
It was dark as we lit the last few. They unwrapped and exploded in the air, illuminating the backyard with blasts of light.
“That’s it, Steven. We’re done. Good job.”
I walked back into the house a little changed. A little more trust from my dad. A little bit more like a man.
Excerpted from “Time to Thank: Caregiving for My Hero” by Steve Guttenberg. © 2024 by Steve Guttenberg. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission from Post Hill Press.
Get the book here:
“Time to Thank: Caregiving for My Hero” by Steve Guttenberg
Buy locally from Bookshop.org
For more info:
Source : Cbs News
