Changing the world, one mind at a time, For What it's Worth...“For What it’s Worth” is an interview-based podcast series which focuses on exploring innovative ideas for a changing world; ideas related to people, culture, business, education, science and more. The show features well-known guests from across a variety of industries and disciplines, each presenting their views, theories, and predictions about issues related to new ways of thinking, working, and learning. From education to technology, social justice to the future of work, from politics to culture change, "For What it's Worth" explores where we are, how we got here, and whether or not we want to continue along these same paths in a post-COVID 19 world. The show will also feature “The Space [in Between]” co-hosted with Cameron Brown. “The Space” is an opinion-based exploration of a broad spectrum of cultural issues from current events, entertainment and the Arts. “The Space” is a free-flowing, non-scripted dialogue between Blake Melnick and Cameron Brown, and may appear as a stand-alone episode, or as an episode segment, you just never know... To access resources mentioned in the episode or to comment on the show, please visit: http://forwhatitsworthpodcast.blogspot.com
Situated in San Diego, California in 1988, Ken’s mind gets pulled backward by one simple question that never stopped echoing: Where’s Mom?
We trace that question to September 1961, when a high school football concussion leaves a fifteen-year-old foggy and frightened in a dark hospital room. The injury heals, but the emotional wound deepens as answers turn evasive and a mother’s disappearance becomes a kind of unspoken family embarrassment. Later, a father reveals a hidden story about Ken’s birth that creates deep confusion about being wanted, being protected, and what “love” even means inside a stoic household that doesn’t talk about feelings.
Death World also comes with chores that don’t wait for anyone’s readiness: wills, debts, possessions, burial choices, and the bitter arguments around money. A walk through Mission Bay sparks a realization about “proof” through photographs and the lifelong desire for evidence that love was real. That need collides with a late confrontation where Ken asks his mother why she left and hears an answer shaped by women’s limited options, financial control, and survival.
If you’ve ever navigated end-of-life care-giving, family estrangement, or the aftermath of hidden family secrets, this chapter will feel uncomfortably familiar. Subscribe, share this with someone who gets it, and leave a review. What’s the one question you still wish your family had answered?
On arriving in San Diego, I entered an undiscovered hole in the fabric of everyday life, a suspension of time. I've taken to calling it Death World. It's what happens in the period leading up to the death of an immediate family member and the weeks afterward, the middle ground between light and shadow, the way I remember Rod Serling saying it at the start of each Twilight Zone episode. In a dysfunctional family where grief and anger form a toxic brew, resentments surface, unfulfilled desires surface, and the memories flood over the dam.
Blake Melnick
This is Out of the Fire, a serialized memoir adaptation from For What It's Worth. I'm Blake Melnick. In this chapter, Ken is in San Diego in April 1988. But Death World bends time. The present becomes porous, and a single question, simple, primal, pulls the past through like a rip current.
In four days, beginning on a crisp afternoon in September 1961, my young life unraveled. That Friday I suffered a concussion playing high school football. My father had urged me not to play. But David, my brother, my idol, had played four years before me. And I was fifteen. I was damn well gonna play too. Nobody gets out of life alive, Les Brown said. Either live up in the bleachers or down on the field. My coach, aptly nicknamed Stump, but only behind his back, pasted that wisdom in the stinky locker room. What I now think it meant was this no one plays football and escapes without a wound that lasts a lifetime. A rite of passage more significant than the wins and losses. My brother broke both front teeth and hobbled around the field much of his senior year. Sixty-five years later, he still has chronic back pain. I lost a tooth, too, one that has kept me in dentist chairs for over half a century. My father was right to object. Not just because of the bills, but to his credit, he signed the form that allowed me to play, and when I was injured, he didn't complain. Throughout my life, if I really wanted to do something, he never stood in my way. Playing scared me, but it earned me respect. As a defensive guard, a lowly position akin to a mud wrestler, I tried to look and sound fearsome, so opposing linemen would hit someone else. On that day, I collided with a big fullback from Unionale High. The world looked strange, as if I had donned a green plastic visor. I signaled to Stump, pointing at my helmet, and took myself off the field. He was furious. We were losing by two touchdowns. The team doctor questioned me on the bench. Where are we? What day is it? How many fingers? Seeing my blank stare, he ordered me down to the locker room.
My father, who'd come home early to see the game, took me to South Nassau Community Hospital. He visited Saturday, bringing me newspapers and a book. I didn't want to read. I couldn't read. The hospital room was darkened. Where's Mom? I asked. She'll be here tomorrow, he said. She had some things to take care of. What kind of things? Her son is in the hospital. My father shrugged. Come Sunday. Mother wasn't there. Where is Mom? You need rest. They're letting you out tomorrow morning. Further answers were evasive. My father sat there for hours trying to read the times in the half-light. Monday morning he picked me up. We entered the house. I could see Florine, the housekeeper, but not my mother. Dad, I said, where is mom? I waited through my father's long, memorable silence. I think your mother went to Chicago. Chicago? You think? My father looked stricken, searching for a better answer. When had he ever been indecisive? I thought the worst. Could my mother have died in my absence? No, you idiot, I scolded myself. David and Joan would have been home by now. Dad, I said, What's happened? I've got a detective on it. A detective. I fought to put my memory in gear. Friday morning, hadn't Miriam and not Florine made me something sweet, pancakes or French toast? I remember her tatty old house coat, blue flowers with brown stems on a white background, like icing on a birthday cake. Did that mean anything? The rest of Friday had been almost normal. My father planted the commuter's kiss on her cheek and left for the Long Island Railroad. I finished my milk, brushed my teeth. My goodbye kiss was as unthinking as my father's had been. Then I turned back. Wish me luck today, Mom. Why? I've got a game after school. I wanted encouragement. How could I forget? she said. Good luck, Kenny. You were already absent. On my way down the front stoop, I heard a scream. I rushed back inside. Miriam was on the living room floor. I helped her up. You can go to school now, Kenny, she said. I tripped. She was crying. Unusual. Aside from shingles, I'd never seen her acknowledge pain. Dad, I yelled. Don't worry, Kenneth, the detective is working on it. Did he offer solace? A hug? No. He was hurting too. I'm late to work, he said. You have to lie down, keep the bedroom dark, and take aspirin. He paused. Florine will take care of you. I still couldn't release him. I'll be back this evening on the 545. I shut my bedroom door. I sat at my desk, weightless and short of breath. I put my face on the blotter. My tears stained the soft red surface. My father yelled goodbye from the front door. I went out on the landing, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Dad, I called, where is she? I told you not to worry. Don't let your imagination run wild. Dad, I want you to stay. I'm running a business, Kenneth. Call my office if you need me. As he opened the door, he looked up one last time. Stay in your room. Keep the shades down. And he was gone. We had both been abandoned, but he found comfort in a routine. For me, it felt like the hilt of a knife protruding from my gut. I circled my room like a caged lion. My head throbbed. How would I explain my mother's disappearance to my friends? None of their families had broken up. I'd heard the phrase broken home. Broken home. The shame. Florine opened the door, holding out aspirin and water. Anything else you want, Kenny? I shook my head. You be okay, she said. That small kindness made me weep again. She closed the door softly. I laid down in the dark, whimpering until the pills kicked in. Then I slept. A
week after Mother left, my brain was still addled. I sat on my bed trying to dress for school, pausing at each step, deciding whether socks came before t-shirt. Downstairs Florine clattered dishes and pans, sang church songs. Otherwise the house felt hushed. An air of embarrassment pervaded everything. Closets, landing, bathrooms. My father knocked and entered without permission. He spoke as if he'd rehearsed. I've never told you this, Kenneth, he said. But I think you should know. He paused, always the storyteller. About your birth, you should know. I had never felt so confused. What? When your mother told me she was pregnant again, she wasn't happy. What are you going to tell me, Dad? She didn't want another child. I waited. I insisted, he said. I want you to know I insisted I would not let her he trailed off. But the landmine had been set. My father's face showed regret, rare for him, but I was too well trained to tell him what I felt. To which of them should my rage have been directed? The mother who wanted an abortion or the father who forbade it? I must admit, despite my pro-choice beliefs, being alive has its advantages.
Blake Melnick
Death World doesn't move in a straight line. It pulls the most charged elements forward, not in order, but in force. In San Diego, Ken is 42, but the past is right there beside him, and the need underneath it all is the same. Proof.
Walking over the bridge to Mission Bay, I was struck by a sad realization, one that had been flickering around my unconscious mind since arriving. As a child, I used to pour over our family photo album, looking for pictures of me. There were a few, me with my brother and sister, but none of me alone, except on my fifth birthday, wearing my presents, a cowboy outfit with gun and holster. Conversely, the album was studded with brownie photos. My parents, courtship, their old friends, David and Joan from babyhood to youth. I did find half a dozen photo proofs of me as a jolly fat baby in a pocket inside the front cover. I didn't know what the word proof meant, printed in large letters at the bottom. On that bridge, I understood. The photographer was never paid to complete the job. As a child, I was looking for proof that I was loved. In Death World, I was still searching.
Scores of tasks await the citizens of Deathworld. The will, the pot of gold guarded by a snake with fangs. Who gets what? With my father later, the list was endless. Burial or burning, arrangements, notices, debts, policies, accounts, clothing, jewelry, shoes. Maxine was right about one thing. When my mother died, she left little behind. Aside from expensive clothing that only fit Mary Ellen, she left little. Years ago, she had given us the $15,000 she got from her ex for half the purchase value of the family home. Never mind that it was worth ten times more. My brother, sister, and I split it evenly. Now Maxine spurred David into fury at Miriam for agreeing to such a paltry settlement. Maxine was always convincing because, unlike us, she was never in doubt, always adding to the residual anger David and I carried. Resistance is futile in Death World. Days are full of demands and surprises. We shrugged and accepted them. Sometimes it feels like penance. Sid was helpless with grief, grief and howling I hoped never to witness again. Joan became executor of a will that contained little more than a dozen Chinese artworks from the Hartman Gallery in New York, where my mother had worked during the middle years of her marriage to Sid. The day
after we arrived, Joan, David, and I sat with Miriam on the balcony. Maxine and Mort stayed inside, pumping the hospice nurse for gossip. For me, this was supposed to be the moment of truth Mary Ellen had warned me against pursuing. I started off badly. Mom, I've wanted to ask you something for all these years. My mother stared at me, her face a sphinx. Don't people generally leave a note behind? She shrugged, like, yeah? Why didn't you leave me a note when you left? She looked annoyed. I wasn't following her script. People, women, they didn't leave home then, she said, if that's what you mean. I didn't know if you'd been kidnapped. A memory flash. The old house coat she wore that day. In Death World, I suddenly understood. The newest one had been packed away for the escape. What would I have said anyway? she asked. I don't know. I shifted. Why did you leave when you did? My relationship with your father had deteriorated. Deteriorated? When was it ever anything but bad? She said nothing. Before I was born, no doubt. Again, quiet. You carried on an affair with Sid for ten years. How moralistic I sounded. I'd read Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina and sided with the heroines. I'd seen her reading Flaubert and the Second Sex, A Flash from Childhood. I'm sitting at her feet while she reads. Do you love me? I ask. You always said yes. I never believed you. I left, she said, because I couldn't get a divorce in New York. Ken, Joan interjected. Can't you see how tired she is? This isn't the time. When do you propose we do it? No, Miriam said. It's okay, Joan. I had no option, she said, and I'm not sorry. I survived because of that. The hope Sid gave me that I could escape your father. Your father wouldn't let me take a job. I had no bank account. He wouldn't even give me money to buy you kids' clothes. A faded ad rose in my mind. A woman in a white apron, ultimate happiness, owning a new appliance. How limited their options had been. I'd never attached my mother's decisions to the dawning of women's liberation. David interjected, his voice constricted. Bullet points, as if rehearsed with Maxine. Are you sorry you took me with you to Washington when I was a child? It was for my education. That's what you told Dad. Are you sorry you introduced me to Uncle Sid at the Lincoln Memorial? I knew there was no Uncle Sid. Don't you feel guilt about that? He stopped out of breath. Was he about to cry? My mother certainly wasn't. Yes, she said, it was wrong. Hearing her bland voice, I realized how little either of my parents used the word feel. They expected us to enter into their stoic conspiracy. If you felt sick, tired, sad, you kept it to yourself. You didn't stay home. You didn't ruin plans. My father used to say, if I wake up with two heads, I take both of them to work. Neither my brother nor I could ever say how much she hurt us. Instead, I felt sorry for her. And sorrier still for being part of an inquisition. She held out her hand to me. You don't know what it is not to have a life. Okay, I said. I understand that part. But why did you leave when you did? You haven't answered that. David and Joan were away at college, she said. I thought you kids were grown up enough. I wasn't, Mom. I really wasn't. Joan was right. This was not the time. The time had passed years ago.
Blake Melnick
In Death World, the world keeps insisting on normality. The sun is bright, the grass is trimmed, everything appears controlled. But control is an illusion. And sometimes the most violent thing in a family isn't what's said, it's what gets revealed when the script breaks.
Bay Park is man-made. Even Mission Bay is man-made. The whole project was made possible by destroying a valuable wetland. The area is stagnant, the grass like a putting green, the silence broken by lawnmowers nearer or far. Trees selected and designed to be in clusters, far from other trees of a different ilk. It shrieked of control. So did the Hilton Hotel at the center. Benches, pseudo-cement, hard and light, with plaques memorializing seniors. Led by Joan, Mort, and Sid, we had already purchased a bench for Miriam. Mort showed us where it would be placed, where a ficus tree would be planted behind it. The ficus, like Miriam and Sid, could thrive in the moderate climate of San Diego.
Maxine picked up a scent of rot. Do you smell that, David? I want to leave. We're going back to the condo in a little while, he said. San Diego, she said. We just got here, Maxine. Let's wait until she dies. Why should we wait? We've seen her. You've always been afraid of death, Maxine, I said. And you're not, Kenny, I suppose. Not enough to fly away, I said. How can you leave before mom dies, David? This was a direct challenge to Maxine. She brought out the long knife. She doesn't love you, David, she never did. I wasn't sure what my brother believed. He never objected out loud. I once believed he corrected her in private. Her behavior never changed. Twenty years later, after he left her, finally, I asked him why he put up with her all these years. His long hesitation told me he faced that question daily. In tears he blurted out, I'm a weak person. Maxine turned to Joan. She doesn't love you either. Look what she left you. Miriam never cared about money, Joan said. Money is love, Maxine replied. Like my sister, I came to believe my mother was thankful to Sid for the independence and happiness he brought her, and for the certainty that he loved her. Unlike my father, Sid had no objection to her earning a living. You have some nerve, Maxine, Joan burst out. We're leaving, David, Maxine said. Tomorrow. Goodbye, Maxine, my sister hissed. Go ahead, Joan, Maxine said. Believe whatever you want. I couldn't let it pass. Just like you say whatever comes into your head. Maxine went on. Your mother criticized you all the time, she said, for everything. Like how you left your hairs in the shower. How your clothes made you look like a hippie. My ears burned. We're leaving, she said. Aren't we, David? Mort cut in. You won't be missed. Maxine turned to David. Are you gonna let him speak to me that way? David squeezed something out of his throat. Don't speak to her like that. Then the purple lips blurted out a non sequitur. Do either of you want that ceramic elephant in the living room? Silence. We like the ceramic elephant. Is that all right? Do you mind? I exchanged a glance with Joan. Neither of us protested her commandeering the valuable artwork. Like it or not, she was our brother's wife. Nor was David prepared to protest her premature exit. Joan, Mort, and I would be left in Death World to do the heavy lifting.
In chapter one, Ken's childhood opens in the Bronx, a world shaped by violent secrecy, and what people carry home from history. Here in chapter two, Death World compresses time. It reveals the family system under pressure. Who holds, who flees, who controls, and who collapses. And it returns Ken to the oldest deed beneath all these questions. Not justice, not explanation, proof. Proof that love existed, or proof that it didn't. Next time, we leave San Diego and move into the years that follow. The places, the rituals, the injuries, the small salvations. For what it's worth.
