How "El Gato" Got His Name...

Teddy, Teddy, Teddy,

You leave behind a lot of very sad friends. I'm one of them.

Well, I didn't get to meet Ted until the mid sixties. I was pledging Phi Sigma Tau at the old SFVSC. Ted was always nice to me as a lowly pledge. Lowdown, maggot, worthless, scumbag pledge. See, I still remember those good ol' days.

I was only 19. Boy, is that possible? Nineteen? Yeah, I guess so. As most of Ted's fraternity brothers will attest, there were bonds forged then that are still as strong as ever. Who would have thought that over forty years could pass and the "bros" still stay in close touch? Amazing.

One of my fondest memories of those days was when Ted and I were roommates in our fraternity house. Why, I can remember those halcyon days at the dinner table. I remember one time the butter dish was just slightly out of my reach and to my left. I, trying to use my best table manners, asked if someone could pass me the butter. Sure they could. The brother on my left picked it up and took a big hunk out of the butter and passed it to his left. I said, HEY! I just got a grin from all the brothers as I watched the butter plate travel further away from me.

So, after the butter dish made the rounds, it finally got back to me. Empty. Ahhh. Fraternity life. One for all and all for one! Actually, I thought it was pretty funny. Even at the time. I got punked.

And as I mentioned, Ted and I were roommates. Actually, we shared the room with a redhead. Murphy. Ted's dog. Good ol' Murph. If my memory serves me correctly, I do believe that Murphy was so popular around the campus, that he got onto the Homecoming Queen ballot as a write-in. And WON! Ahh. Fraternity hijinx.

Even back then as a student I had a penchant for, ahem, staying out late. Yep, most nights after I got through with my catting around I would head back to the fraternity house late and tippy toe in, shoeless, hoping to disturb no one.

As I tippy toed into our room, once in awhile I'd actually step on Murphy in the dark. Good dog. Nary a whimper. Good dog. Its really a funny feeling to be in your stocking feet and step on a dog with ample amounts of loose skin. Kind of like stepping on a banana peel, but furry.

I could usually sneak in without awakening Ted. I think. But occasionally he'd pry open one eye and muster up a friendly welcome home greeting for me.

The point here is that after so many, many times of habitually coming home in the wee hours after catting around, Ted dubbed me "El Gato". The Cat. The name kind of stuck and that became my nickname. It is on my fraternity mug. Every time I catch a glimpse of that mug up on my shelf, I always think about Ted. Always.

Owen, did you know that it was your dad that gave me that nickname? True story.

So, Ted, I'll miss you a lot. Your legacy is a fine family. I know you're proud.

Larry Ruiz
El Gato

The early years

I met Eddie in the early 1950's at St. Cyrils grade school in Encino. We were the graduating class of 1958 (from eigth grade) and went on to Notre Dame High School where I failed religion after ten years in Parochial school. I remembered Mary and Joseph - but couldn't remember the kids name. This is where I lost track of Eddie. But going back to the formative years I remember him as a freckle faced guy with reddish brown hair. Lots of energy and always looked a little unkept because he was so active in everything (particularly recess). He was a good kid, an average student and well liked by all. There is some irony in how I finally found Eddie. In 1990 I organized the first reunion of our 1958 graduating class. I was living in Granada Hills on Tilford Court - about one block from Nugent. I was able to locate about 55 of the 70 former classmates (pre internet and zabasearch). Eddie was among the missing. In 2000 we had another reunion and again we were unable to find Eddie. Then on August 2, 2008 we had a 50 year reunion. We thought we might have located Ed at that time (on Nugent) but no response to our letter. Then unfortunately three weeks after the reunion I was forwarded a notice from someone who was still in Notre Dame's good graces - that Ted Peterson had passed on. I inquired further and found out the particulars. Yes indeed Ted (we called him Eddie back in the day) and I had almost been neighbors for close to 30 years in and around Granada Hills. I went to his memorial service and passed on to his wife a picture of the 1958 graduation ceremony. I left the memorial with mixed feelings. A sense that I had failed in finding Ed who had lived so close - yet a happiness in meeting Eds wife and son Kyle. In that brief moment I felt that Ed had a very nice family and had probably had a very happy and fulfilling life. I still keep in touch with about 45 of Ed's former classmates and have notified them of his passing. I would like to have a nice family picture that I could forward on to our classmates so that they too might know that Ed had a great (but far too short) life. My condolences go out to the Peterson family. Just remember that Ed still has many friends from his formative years at St. Cyrils. Rest in Peace Eddie, your friend always - Mike Duffy

Malarkey: a definition...

Malarkey --speech or writing designed to obscure, mislead or impress-- was one of my dad's favorite words. Any time he doubted the veracity of what Owen or I was saying, he'd cock his head to the side and give us that look: "Ah, you're so full of malarkey it's comin' out your ears," he'd bellow. Malarkey? What is this word that dad keeps using? I wondered. Of course, I understood its meaning from the context of his refrain and especially from his body language -- the sideways look, his hands shooing me away like so much hot air. For the longest time, I thought the word was Irish and that dad had no doubt acquired it from a long line of aunts and uncles, grandmothers and fathers, who liked to tell tall tales and pull each others' legs. But I recently looked up the word and the dictionaries tell me that "malarkey" is an Americanism from the 1920s. Maybe this is a bunch of malarkey, right? Who knows? What are Americanisms anyway except words, like Americans themselves, that come from all over the place. You see, there's a problem of origin here, the idea that something is true because it comes from an original source. Is there ever an original source to anything? Especially when it comes to words and stories?
I've started this blog as a memorial to my dad who understood well the value of storytelling and, equally, the gold in bullshit. My dad loved to tell stories and I, for one, loved to listen to them. I happen to believe that we are actually made of stories --the stories that we tell each other about each other and the stories that we tell ourselves about our "selves." In his last days, when my dad was only a shell of himself and unable to speak, I knew for certain that people are much more that the flesh and bones that they inhabit, the brains housed in their skulls. They are words put together, one after another, making meaning out of this "stuff" called "life," and as long as the stories are alive, then so is the person.
So you see my purpose in starting this blog. It's a memorial in the truest sense of the word. Sit down. Sigh. And tell a story about my dad. Make it long and sour. Make it short and sweet. Fill it with enough malarkey to turn the page brown. Above all, be yourself. And the rest of us will do our best to ignore that stuff comin' out your ears.

--KP, August 30, 2008