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In his memoir, A Time of Gratitude: Caring for My Heroes (Post Hill Press), actor Steve Guttenberg talks about his father, his hero, Stanley, and his career from childhood to Hollywood (filmmaking). He writes about the relationship they have shared throughout their careers. When Stanley was diagnosed with kidney failure, Guttenberg devoted himself to being his father’s caregiver.
Read the excerpt below and don’t miss the interview with Lisa Ring and Steve Guttenberg. “CBS Sunday Morning” January 19th!
“Time of Gratitude: Caring for My Heroes” by Steve Guttenberg
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It was the end of June 1968. The air was starting to get humid. As my senior year drew to a close, I could feel the chaos of the next three months coming.
And I was ready. Because I was collecting them. We had so many fireworks that it lasted all summer. I put all the money I earned on Newsday’s delivery route into “the belt,” a macho composition of 144 firecrackers. These special belts came directly from China and featured Chinese calligraphy on the wrapping paper, and from my young perspective, they were the ultimate asset. Better than gold.
I have purchased belt after belt from Andy Mahoney. He was notorious in the neighborhood for setting his neighbor’s garage on fire with a chlorine bomb. He was an anti-hero, a rebel with a cause, and he was five years older than me. The only reason he talked to me was because I was shopping from him.
Initially, I stored all my gunpowder in an ingenious hideout I devised: a drawer next to my desk. Miraculously, my mother couldn’t find them. But they can’t sit in a drawer forever. I had to see if they worked.
So I bought a box of matches, locked myself in my family’s bathroom, and decided to throw a lit firecracker out the only window. My father was in the study, and my mother was in the kitchen. How can I get caught? I started creating my own personal preview for Independence Day.
And don’t you know that? Someone noticed.
“What the hell is going on?” I heard my mother say downstairs. “Stanley, I smell smoke.”
“Check the air conditioner,” my father said. “I’ll take a look in the attic.”
I heard my father’s footsteps running up into the attic, and I prayed that he would pass by the bathroom that I had turned into my private gunpowder workshop. But then he started banging on the door.
“Stephen? What the hell are you doing there?”
“Nothing,” I said in a very calm voice.
I dropped another lighted belt out the window.
“Open this door now!”
I looked around my family’s bathroom: where could I hide this sucker? Where should I hide? Nothing seemed promising anywhere. So, after a while, I opened the door.
Smoke billowed into the rest of the house. I was covered in soot. My father stood there looking at me for what seemed like such a long time that I was sure he was going to offer me his head. And not a platter.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said. I started sweating. “How many firecrackers do you have?”
I went to my trusty desk drawer and slid it open. He was the only person other than Andy Mahoney to see that cache.
“That’s a lot of gunpowder. How did you get all these firecrackers?”
“It’s called a belt, Dad,” I said. He raised an eyebrow, but that wasn’t the right answer. “I got it using newspaper route money.”
He reached into the drawer and grabbed most of them with one giant hand.
“Follow me.”
we headed outside. I was sure we were going to the trash can, but he walked right past the trash can.
“You and I are going to light every firecracker in these belts and call it a day.”
Were you planning on setting off firecrackers with your father? These were contraband, but he was an ex-cop and was he going to risk it for me? That’s my dad. That’s the father.
We stood on the patio and handed cylinders of gunpowder to each other as the sun began to set. My father had a Zippo lighter and carefully lit each one before throwing them on the lawn. POW! Bang! My father was lighting firecrackers and I almost went crazy when I saw him. I carefully removed the cracker from my belt and handed it to my dad from the barrel first. And within seconds it exploded into a cloud of green wood chips.
Then my father began to show his creativity. When he lit a firecracker and threw it high, it exploded in the air and clipped the end of a mimosa tree. After a while, he turned to me.
“Now light the fire,” he said. “I have leftover Zippo.”
I slowly lit the wick and started running, dropping it to the ground. But seeing my father’s confidence, I also started throwing them on the lawn. Dad threw one. I threw one. Our outbursts echo each other. Call and response, question and answer.
“What the hell are you two doing?” my mother said, sticking her head halfway out of the bedroom window.
“Lighting the firecrackers, Anne. My partner and I.”
his partner. Dad called me partner. It was as if he had joined the Yankees and Mets all at once.
We stood there for hours until the sun set behind the mimosa trees. I looked up at my father. My hero and my partner. All lights were on until the end. Of course, one exploded between my fingers. The pain was tremendous, but I didn’t dare to say anything. This was too good.
It was pitch dark when I lit the last few lights. They were unwrapped and exploded in the air, illuminating the backyard with a blast of light.
“That’s it, Stephen. It’s over. Thank you for your hard work.”
I returned home feeling a little refreshed. I gained a little more trust from my father. I became a little more manly.
Excerpt from “Time to Thanks: Caregiving for My Hero” by Steve Guttenberg. © 2024 by Steve Guttenberg. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited. Reprinted with permission of Post Hill Press.
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“Time of Gratitude: Caring for My Heroes” by Steve Guttenberg
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