tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78904030496683033972024-03-14T05:37:42.929-04:00Ring WritesGrowing Up DavidUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-66113750200952098592011-02-25T12:28:00.001-05:002011-02-25T22:04:57.771-05:00What If?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.theinspiredclassroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/00414035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.theinspiredclassroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/00414035.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>Worry. Angst. Stress. Regret. Lament. Bemoan. As Frankie Goes to Hollywood sang "Relax, Don't Do It.<br />
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According to Merriam Webster, the origins of the word <i>worry</i> come from the Old High German verb <i>wurgen</i> which means to <i>strangle </i>and from the Lithuanian word, <i>veržti,</i> to <i>constrict</i>.<br />
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</div><div>Strangle, constrict - that's what worry does. It restricts flow. Think about the times when you've worried about something. Perhaps it was how you were going to fare on a test or in a game. Maybe it was about how angry something you did - or were about to do - was going to make someone. Maybe you're worried about something right now!<br />
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Many of us worry about our finances, our health, our career, or our children. That tightening in your gut - that's worry. Worry is a natural and sometimes useful emotion. Worry can alert you to impending danger and prevent unnecessary accidents. Worry can stem from pathos and compel you to acts of selfless kindness. However by and large, worry simply constricts your ability to live in the present, strangles your brain's potential, and shuts off and out things that truly matter.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Worry is about living in a world of what <i>might</i> happen as opposed to what <i>is</i> happening. You never worry about what <i>has</i> happened (that's regret - we'll come to that later). Worry is about projecting a distasteful experience that could happen. In fact you're more likely to project scores of potential scenarios and worry about all of them! The very few times something does go as badly as feared we kid ourselves, saying something like, "I knew it," falsely cementing in our minds that we were justified in worrying. We then use those few instances to convince ourselves that our worry is well placed. Though we far more frequently think, "What was I so worried about," but forget that when we start to worry about something new.<br />
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When we worry, we often viscerally feel the emotions of that projected event (or a multitude of them) even though it's not occurred. We shut out the moment we're in; we miss the value of the fleeting moments of our lives and, incredibly, exchange them for something imagined and fear inducing. The brain has the amazing capacity to project the mind into a circumstance that's pure conjecture. In short, what you're worrying about is not real!</div><div><br />
</div><div>If worry is about transporting the mind to a painful imagined future, regret is about feeling the pain of the past. And even though one thought is about a false reality and the other is a real event, the effect is very much the same. Regret is grief about what you <i>suspect</i> might be different today had you done something different yesterday. If I had studied more in school, if I wasn't such a selfish jerk, if I had decided to do x instead of y. The idea is that if you had made a different decision, acted in a different way, your life would be different. Regret means living your life with the belief that it would have been better if only....</div><div><br />
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</div><div><div>Merriam Webster says that the origin of the word regret comes from the Middle English <i>regretten</i>, from Anglo-French <i>regreter</i>, from re- + -greter (perhaps of Germanic origin; akin to Old Norse <i>grāta</i>, to weep.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i></i>To weep. We shed tears and feel pain over something that is in the past, that has happened, that is unchangeable. The only way to generate that kind of emotion is to take that event from the past and bring it into the present, into your mind's eye. And of course by doing that, we once again push the <i>now</i> right out of the frame. Just as with worry, regret removes us from the present and causes unnecessary pain - and sometimes even physical illnesses - high blood pressure, indigestion, ulcers to name but a few!</div><div><br />
</div><div>I was reading my <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/08/dave.html">Chronicles No. 1</a> post from August of 2009. In it I starkly listed several things that would easily cause many to worry, my first marathon, job loss, bankruptcy, and child loss. And similarly there is plenty I might have regretted that brought me to that point. Yet for all that I might have been worried about, I have endeavored to remember that worry and regret weren't and aren't places I want to be. In spite of what had happened and an uncertain future, I focused instead on the potential of the moment. <br />
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I don't mean to imply that you shouldn't learn from mistakes or that you ought not concern yourself with making prudent plans for your future. Doing those things is simply a practical matter. Worry and regret are <i>not</i> practical. Worry and regret are not your friends, however long they've been your companions.</div><div><br />
</div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The ability to shed the weight of regret or dismiss worry is not something that's especially natural. As with any craft, it takes practice and I've been practicing for most of my life. The best advice I ever got came when I just entering high school. Mired in some kind of teenage angst, I was told by a sage that if I had a problem, that's was <i>one</i> thing. If I worried about it, now I had <i>two </i>things with which to contend. Just focus on the problem. The advice rang true and I've employed and shared it countless times since.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Worrying about a problem or having regret about a past choice does not serve you in resolving your issue; it is nothing other than a second condition with which you must struggle. If you are worrying about or regretting something you're constricting and strangling your ability to deal with the issue itself.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><div>"Don't worry about a thing, cause every little thing gonna be all right." <br />
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<i>Listen</i> to what those three little birds are singing to you.</div></div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/CY6A5arNCQQ" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-62909591319540418432011-01-21T12:48:00.002-05:002011-01-22T08:43:38.544-05:00Two Steps Forward<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://embracingthedetour.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/bigstockphoto_Road_Closed_Detour_3115485-e1269365654879.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://embracingthedetour.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/bigstockphoto_Road_Closed_Detour_3115485-e1269365654879.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Embrace detours</span></i></div><br />
By all rights Max's little brother Leo should be a year and half old now. Instead, his ashes are in a box on the top shelf of our closet. His headstone, which should have been erected in the Pomfret Street Cemetery this past fall, is carved and waits for a spring thaw to be put in place. Leo was stillborn on July 20th, 2009 - an event that seems as fresh to me as it is distant. Few days pass when there isn't some reminder that brings his name, memory, and absence to the fore. Last week, when I dropped Max off at daycare a teacher was holding a young infant in her arms. That's about the size Leo was - and in my memory - will be forever. Indeed, I can't look at any newborn without Leo coming instantly and reflexively to mind.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDVINE-QyW3Cmi8yF7Wn-hFiR9bVQF7N2n21QVGIQQDH6K1OCgPPsmq1d4T-aUETGB1O5fFLsRJnFtZSaxMb6P5gP0IjUvdwfqSAysQ36hVqFAWHqS1oifKwFqJ1oBwU5-fftkBk7J6nf/s1600/IMG_0075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikDVINE-QyW3Cmi8yF7Wn-hFiR9bVQF7N2n21QVGIQQDH6K1OCgPPsmq1d4T-aUETGB1O5fFLsRJnFtZSaxMb6P5gP0IjUvdwfqSAysQ36hVqFAWHqS1oifKwFqJ1oBwU5-fftkBk7J6nf/s400/IMG_0075.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Where Leo's gravestone will be</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><br />
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When we learned that Leo had died in utero, we had the further miserable duty of having to tell people. The calls to parents and siblings each went similarly. I'd calm myself before I dialed. I'd steady my voice as I heard the call connect and the phone ring. When my mom or dad or sisters answered, I'd say something like, "I have some bad news." (<i>Massive understatement.) </i>And as soon as I began to say, "We lost the baby" I'd dissolve into choked tears, unable to fully catch my breath, but somehow managing to convey the sad facts.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp42vKFX29RmvL8WQcwaUAnTFGXXP3UzezCrk-bpOsNj4C2lYcbSxlHZQqyVv90XUAwJ3C8K1FgJbyyZ54bY5y6DARnglV9v5ECm2zInsRUyOPHDs2H1fsAtLla-DFdgOmk7khnl2-OeA/s1600/IMG_0085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinp42vKFX29RmvL8WQcwaUAnTFGXXP3UzezCrk-bpOsNj4C2lYcbSxlHZQqyVv90XUAwJ3C8K1FgJbyyZ54bY5y6DARnglV9v5ECm2zInsRUyOPHDs2H1fsAtLla-DFdgOmk7khnl2-OeA/s400/IMG_0085.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">The Mathewson plot</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><br />
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Tragically, my good friend's sister lost her baby in much the same way some months before we lost Leo. When I told him our news - I could hear and sense his anguish - anguish for us, but also again for his sister. (It's the same anguish I feel when I learn of others' similar losses.) He told me that it might sound weird, but he advised us to take pictures of Leo - as his sister had done of their lost child. It would be, after all, something to remember him by. He was right. From time to time I look at the photos of Leo, but the photos are far from the only remembrance I have. I can easily recall the weight of his lifeless body in my arms. I can put myself in that hospital room where Linda and I spent the most bizarre 3 days of our lives. I remember sitting next to Linda and holding Leo, unable to comprehend that this was our reality. I can still see our family coming into our room, each as grief stricken as we. And I remember how outlandish it felt to leave that hospital without our baby.<br />
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This post was not intended to be about Leo or about the loss we still feel. And true as that is, it's almost as if all my writings are filtered through him. Indeed, for all that Leo's death took from us, he also gave - and continues to give - us much. I've written in the past how I feel that whereas we might have a lifetime to learn from people who are in our lives for years, I have learned a lifetime's worth in the relative instant that Leo lived in Linda (See <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/09/strength.html">Strength</a>). I know that we are far from alone in having suffered a tragedy. Leo's death is something that happens to others everyday. Loved ones are lost every moment the world over in places far less accommodating than a hospital. I began this blog post as a way to process the unusual and unexpected means by which our family will grow.<br />
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Around 4 years ago, after several failed fertility treatments (all of which provided no identifiable reason for why we even needed them), we began to seriously consider adoption. The doorway for me was a question that a thoughtful doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital posed. "What does it mean to be a parent? If it means bearing a child for you, okay. If not, then adoption is a perfectly viable means." In hindsight, it's clear to us that being a parent is so much more than giving birth to a child. I'm quite positive that every moment's blessing and challenge with Max has been mirrored by those that bore their children. The process to get that child, however, is most assuredly <i>not</i> the same.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JthNtuh7AuDGVXFHlY1vKSV0q3bywKAVDBcAEwDdD13mUswG6AnrIE-po2kE4Ae3BbARY2nehvw_mj7rY6odjV4xarwVhHyRP7u9cGRdi5fhSoaWzK36LIsGEId7x332ox3josb7E-JK/s1600/IMG_5802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JthNtuh7AuDGVXFHlY1vKSV0q3bywKAVDBcAEwDdD13mUswG6AnrIE-po2kE4Ae3BbARY2nehvw_mj7rY6odjV4xarwVhHyRP7u9cGRdi5fhSoaWzK36LIsGEId7x332ox3josb7E-JK/s400/IMG_5802.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><i>Linda and Max (about a week old)</i></span></div><br />
And <i>here</i> is where I meant to start. Linda and I had always intended to have more than one child. When we adopted Max we meant for him to have a sibling. Because our situation was diagnosed as "unexplained infertility" we knew and hoped there was a chance we'd get pregnant. When we did - on our own with no help from hormones, injections, tubes or turkey basters, we were elated. And while Max's first sibling will always be Leo, let's face it - it would be a little weird for Max to 'play' with Leo on the jungle gym. We needed some time to pass. We needed to get our feet under us again, figure out a way to integrate Leo's loss into our lives, but we both knew that we wanted another child.<br />
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Truism: Having sex is a lot more fun than filling out adoption forms. And so that's where we started. There was - and still is - a chance that we could get pregnant (the collective we, but yes, just Linda). We also knew that based on past experience it's not a given or even especially likely. That said, it sure is worth trying (<i>awwwww yeaaaaaah</i>). But just as we learned before, just because we're trying, doesn't mean we have to wait. And so sometime last fall, we began again to get our heads around another adoption.<br />
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Unlike the vast majority of people who thoughtfully plan a family and copulate with that in mind - or even those who just get drunk and screw without birth control - our process is considerably less romantic. Instead of a lobster dinner, our efforts begin with humble pie. As most will surmise you can probably have at least 300 lobster dinners for what adoption costs. For us that means relying on the kindness and generosity of family. No one relishes having to ask family for money, especially large sums of it. While I know well that it brings our family some joy to be able to help us have another child, I can't help wishing I didn't have to ask. However, the fact is, unless I depleted long term savings earmarked for future education and retirement expenses, we don't have the money. I looked in the mattress and in the pockets of pants long not worn. It's not there. After we solicit and confirm that we have the funds to finance an adoption, comes the effort to find an agency.<br />
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Though we very much liked <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=3&ved=0CCwQFjAC&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.adoptionresources.org%2F&ei=jL45TeOpJ4a8lQfnvfHtBg&usg=AFQjCNErke6cG7ldlIgpKzoZhwLyIgZMwA">Adoption Resources</a> in Waltham, Massachusetts, we don't live in Massachusetts anymore. This means a new agency in Connecticut. Having done this once before, we already eliminated some options. We knew, for instance, that we preferred an newborn/infant - which basically means we were going the domestic adoption route. We knew we didn't care about the ethnicity of the baby, but were primarily concerned with the baby's health. After web research, phone calls and an in person meeting we settled on an agency with offices in Norwalk (far away) and Hartford (closer), <a href="http://www.familyandchildrensagency.org/adoption-overview/content/view/43/62">Family and Children's Agency</a>. We left the office with our materials and once again set forth in laying our lives out in blue or black ink for review. It's when I'm filling out forms with our assets and liabilities, addresses and employment history for the past 10 years and writing a multipage biography that I can't help but think of the ironies of all the babies born to wholly unsuitable parents. It's the old 'you need a license to fish, but not to have a baby' line.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cjuX2mWXrk_VFbCpRrI6n6PyZZdyK18McdNIH44Fd4seQ5c9Anbg-8bD5XPsbDVfbAbWdnAmWHmhOBK0RAumv7b7pa5udjaO5qiDnsHus71rYzf5rDPlWlzKUARVOwZFnGbhRhjnE_PQ/s1600/IMG_6729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cjuX2mWXrk_VFbCpRrI6n6PyZZdyK18McdNIH44Fd4seQ5c9Anbg-8bD5XPsbDVfbAbWdnAmWHmhOBK0RAumv7b7pa5udjaO5qiDnsHus71rYzf5rDPlWlzKUARVOwZFnGbhRhjnE_PQ/s400/IMG_6729.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><i>Max's adoption finalization hearing</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><i><br />
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In addition to our finances and employment, we have to get our doctor to fill out health forms for us and Max. (After I finish writing this, I have to get my tuberculosis test read.) We have to get federal background checks, provide references, provide copies of birth and marriage certificates, income taxes, documentation that our well yields potable water, verify that our pets have been vaccinated, provide criminal history releases and child abuse clearance forms. Then there's the fun part of assembling your profile packet. This is the book that is provided to birth moms/parents to consider adoptive parents. Here's where you get to 'compete' with other hopeful adopters. Our book has a letter to the birth parents, pictures of us, Max, our family, our pets, where we live. It's twenty plus pages of everything that's great about us. I suspect even a narcissist might blanch at this kind of self promotion.<br />
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After filling out all these forms and having to reveal to our employer, landlord, doctor, and veterinarian that we're in the process of adopting, we get to have a home-study done. A home-study is when a social worker comes to your house, usually multiple times, to interview you and see where and how you live. Their write up becomes a part of the adoption application which is later court approved before adoption finalization. All these efforts result in us waiting an indeterminate amount of time until a birth parent selects us. Then we have to keep our fingers crossed that she/they follows through and signs the surrender papers. (I wrote about how we had one adoption fall through in <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/11/gift-named-max.html">A Gift Named Max</a>).<br />
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You get the gist. Making a baby is easier, just not for us. But for all the trouble, all the expense, all the mental energy (some invested, some wasted), the prize is worth it. I can't imagine a life without Max. Every struggle and hassle en route to his arrival was worth it. And as excited as we were to conceive Leo, and as much as I wish he were alive today, his loss is also a part of the path toward this next baby, this next baby who I won't be able to imagine life without, Max's younger sibling.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjD8hC8r7bJqXocufizmw_ysAFjnOT0cnVZJU033MdK9v3xUg_ssbd_WCm2O6Tw9tuKJaibaHw0iJ0X9RzgPWucDoQaYb6CZNluX4erhV5Gi-iUWtH2AFoB-pTyENiO9eRr0KqYY9XZ8xm/s1600/IMG_3564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjD8hC8r7bJqXocufizmw_ysAFjnOT0cnVZJU033MdK9v3xUg_ssbd_WCm2O6Tw9tuKJaibaHw0iJ0X9RzgPWucDoQaYb6CZNluX4erhV5Gi-iUWtH2AFoB-pTyENiO9eRr0KqYY9XZ8xm/s400/IMG_3564.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><i>Max and his friend, Oren (who just had a little brother)</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><i><br />
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Max isn't yet fully aware of all the circumstances of how he became our child. He knows the words "birth mom." He's met her a couple of times and we show him pictures. With this adoption, we'll have something concrete to show him how he, too, became our son. Max also doesn't yet comprehend what happened to Leo, though he knows the name (and surely will know of him in the months and years to come). These are pretty big concepts for a three year-old. (For instance, when I tell him we're going to see a friend tomorrow, he might ask, "Is today tomorrow?") Last weekend, we went to visit some friends who just had their second baby - a baby brother. Before we went I asked Max if he'd like a baby brother or sister someday. He said, "Yes I would. Can you go to the store and buy one?" Kind of, Max, kind of.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">If you want to see pictures of Leo, click </span><a href="http://gallery.me.com/davidwring#100459"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">here</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">. The username is: leo; the password is: mathewson</span></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-65860565734835880752010-12-20T10:48:00.002-05:002010-12-21T07:10:09.734-05:00Happy Birthday to Me?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.chriskewardmagic.com/userimages/birthday-cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.chriskewardmagic.com/userimages/birthday-cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It's the season of my birth. From where I type, I am a 30 minute drive from the hospital in which I was delivered unto this world. Just six days shy of the darkest day of the year, it should come as no surprise that I associate my birthday with short days and cold winter nights. For as much as I've used my birthday as a time to celebrate, I can't help but use the occasion to pause and reflect.<br />
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The salient points of my birth story are:<br />
<ul><li>I was born two weeks past my due date and was induced.</li>
<li>I might have shared a birthday with my father, but for some reason, the hospital didn't schedule inductions on Saturday, else the 13th would have been my birthday.</li>
<li>The 2nd choice was to be the 16th, Beethoven's birthday, but for some other reason, that couldn't happen.</li>
<li>It was a snowy evening the 14th and the roads were slick.</li>
<li>I was born on December 15th, 1969 at 12:26pm at Windham Memorial Community Hospital in Willimantic, Connecticut. </li>
<li>I weighed 8lbs. 12oz. (or thereabout).</li>
</ul><div>It isn't hyperbole to say that when anyone one of us enters the world, we instantly change the course of humanity. It isn't the slightest exaggeration to claim that even those that don't enter the world, leave an indelible impression. When a life ends, there is a void forever left unfilled. One may continue to lead a rich and full life, but there is still a vacuum, a black hole.</div><div><br />
</div><div>About a month ago, we learned that two sets of parents of children who went to Max's daycare lost their babies. A couple of weeks ago, a friend's child lost her nearly 5 year battle with cancer. And just a week ago, a friend from high school lost his 4 day old son. July 20th, 2009 is my son Leo's birthday. Technically, it's the day of his death, though we knew he was not living by the 17th. The days between learning that news and his birth are the most surreal of my now 41 years. Every time I hear of someone else's loss, I can't help but think about Leo. The truth is that even when he's not foremost in my mind, he's a fiber of the fabric of me, inseparable from that which is me. And while I see him as one of the pillars of my person, there are innumerable elements that make me who I am. But only for a moment. The fact is as permanent as we view our character, our essence, is ever changing. We are not the same person we were a year ago, a month ago, yesterday.<br />
<br />
All of us are constantly changing. The person who woke up this morning is not that same person who goes to sleep tonight. This is both a physical truth (our body does not stop aging, our mind does not stop perceiving), but also a metaphysical one. From the coffee I consumed today to the audiovisual stimuli I encounter, we are always being shaped, mutated, and altered. Every single breath we take introduces something new to our bodies. In actuality there is no permanent self. And the fact that we eat, drink, and breathe elements of this world, means that we are not part of a whole, but rather that we are all one. It seems practical to be an individual, to see yourself separate from other people or different from your environment and really that's what most people do most moments of most days. The ego demands constant satisfaction. The ego thrives on the memories of the past and the promises or fears of the future. In the present moment, the ego dissolves. Without an ego to demand attention, we are all free to see the oneness of it all - to see everything as it <i>is.</i><br />
<br />
I've been reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Zen-Mind-Beginners-Shunryu-Suzuki/dp/0834800799">Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind</a>, a transcription of several talks given by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shunryu_Suzuki">Shunryu Suzuki</a>, a well known Zen Master who died less two years after I was born. The book reads like a series of two page reflections on various thoughts about what <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zazen">zazen</a> is, what Buddhism is, what enlightenment is - and often what those things are not. There are quotes like:<br />
<br />
"As soon as you see something, you already start to intellectualize it. As soon as you intellectualize something, it is no longer what you saw."<br />
<br />
"When you do something, you should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself."<br />
<br />
"Life and death are the same thing. When we realize this fact, we have no fear of death anymore, nor actual difficulty in our life."<br />
<br />
"Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure. But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it. Because we cannot accept the truth of transience, we suffer."<br />
<br />
</div><div>Though Leo is not present, he is also not absent. To me, Leo's short 'existence' is a highly concentrated dose of reality. The truth about Leo, about all of us, is that though we are all temporary, none of us are insignificant. We should not mistake this to mean that we are important. To do so is to confuse ego with selflessness. Leo is always somewhere inside of me. The same way my parents are a part of me. The same way that every interaction, every person, every conversation, every love, and every instant of experience is. <br />
<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>As I consider this, understand this, I still can't help but think more about Leo. I am not going to enter into the whole when life begins debate, but surely Leo, though he never lived a day on this earth, lived and lives on as someone real, someone that existed, that has a lasting impact, not just on the lives of Linda and me, but on our families, and on our friends - and really anyone who happens to learn of him. And his story is just one of the zillions of events that happen every moment. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Think of an event that is shared by more than one person. It could be a concert, a movie, tornado - anything. As <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rashomon_(film)">Rashomon</a> shows, everyone has a completely unique interpretation of the same thing. Two planes hit the World Trade Centers and there's instantly six billion vantages (and the billions more that time will generate), a prism so multifaceted we're all blinded by the separation of light. Whose interpretation of an event is the right one? No one's. It's impossible to be 'right,' because being right requires your ego to validate your perception; it necessitates differentiating your perspective from someone else's and because we know we are not really separate, we cannot really see truth. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Birthdays are a time to indulge, we think. We indulge in the celebration of our existence. We celebrate living another year, the anniversary of our current incarnation. Our friends and family gather to be thankful for us. Even if you don't make much of birthdays or downplay their significance, it's difficult to avoid the acknowledgement of 365 more days. My father turned 75 last week. A man always interested in numbers, he's claimed for some time now that he plans to only live 1000 months (83 years old, three months and change). An arbitrary age, but at least a round number of months. He called me today to wish me a happy birthday and the two of us made note of the age, 41. He mocked it for its insignificance in the scheme of birthdays, certainly nothing compared to 75. I highlighted it's uniqueness, divisible only by one and itself - a prime number. <br />
<br />
For most of my life, I've reveled in my birthday. I loved that I could look at a clock and see 12:15 and know that was also my birthday. I loved being a Sagittarius. And while I am not yet ready to relinquish my special day, I also am more cognizant that it's self indulgence. My father-in-law was born on September 11th. From 2001 onward his special day is a reminder of senseless violence - a day that changed the course of history. My mom and niece share a birthday, April 20th - which is also Hitler's birthday, and the date of the Columbine school shooting. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Out of the billions of lives lived, the ones cut short, and of the billions yet to exist; out of the billions of moments that make up the annals of existence, it's quite impressive that we possess these giant egos that compel us to acknowledge a day as significant simply because it's when we were born. The fact is we <u>are</u> significant and have an impact, no matter how long or short we exist in the minds of others - just not in the obvious ways we commonly consider. People often strive a lifetime to leave some kind of legacy, but the truth is you only need an instant to make a lasting impression.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So while I celebrate my birthday, and indulge myself with cake, I'll also be swallowing a good portion of humility.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-35170408950038948992010-11-11T12:59:00.001-05:002010-11-11T14:05:50.471-05:00In School Suspension<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhln2G2Nhf27brLL4WXELvsdXVux4Vacnm556LBmqoe5-sT8HvuF7ZQ2vuykUZ70GCncYrMy9cS9jAULNhfYCNG_wclILvbPBdhhPXfgd38lFVU5tuDNwiHp0LaPi3Hsm_EhyphenhyphenofwkCIc3dG/s1600/Dutchgables.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhln2G2Nhf27brLL4WXELvsdXVux4Vacnm556LBmqoe5-sT8HvuF7ZQ2vuykUZ70GCncYrMy9cS9jAULNhfYCNG_wclILvbPBdhhPXfgd38lFVU5tuDNwiHp0LaPi3Hsm_EhyphenhyphenofwkCIc3dG/s320/Dutchgables.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
As some of you know I have a master's degree in education and am certified to teach high school English. In <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/10/you-never-know.html">You Never Know</a> I wrote about some of my experiences teaching high school on Cape Cod. At the time I was 26 years-old and not yet ready to confine myself to the rigid regimen that the successful execution of the profession requires. Instead of teaching I lit out for new adventures and found them in travels both foreign and domestic. For over a decade, I moved from city to city - never keeping a single address for more than a couple of years at most (and sometimes the duration was no more than a season). I spent many months of my 20s in and around Boston, but from there I left for a few months in London, three quarters of a year in Amsterdam, a summer in Toronto, and on it went. Though Boston was my base and the city to which I most frequently returned, it was never long before I grew restless there. For all it's comfort and offerings, Boston was too familiar, staid, and provincial (ironic as that is to say now - read on). <br />
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</div>In my early 30s, I left Boston again for Europe, intent this time on living in Switzerland. And while I lived there for a time, I never took root. I fled Zürich and made an attempt at solitary introspection hiking a section of the Appalachian Trail for a month (see also <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/12/kiss-it-goodbye.html">Kiss it Goodbye</a>). I spent hour after hour watching my step as I walked over hill and dale. At month's end I exchanged my hiking boots for sneakers, my tent for an extra room in my sister and brother-in-law's Manhattan apartment. My romance with my now wife was budding, but it took a move to Long Beach, California to blossom. We lived there a year before marrying and returning to Massachusetts - this time to the more suburban North Shore towns of Beverly, Marblehead, and Salem. Aside from my years growing up in Mansfield, Connecticut, Salem was the address I kept the longest in life - all of 4 years. And now I find myself but a 30 minute bucolic drive from my old hometown, set amidst the same thick woods, rocky fields, and verdant farms of my youth - and from the high school whose senior class of 1987 voted me, deservingly I immodestly think, Class Clown.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmBC9Nq3kdFI6mO_RLpo9RhboqcjoQKoAMDmjvP7D8Q3yLqWQzsLHYr2I4rGsjEAPbpwM-1HV5VmD3Q-HqzyoE9XS2cHzfD2hvfrpsLEel9Q6CrNvnBQMBS1RBuzUyABhbfGVW0bI_aMa/s1600/P1010019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmBC9Nq3kdFI6mO_RLpo9RhboqcjoQKoAMDmjvP7D8Q3yLqWQzsLHYr2I4rGsjEAPbpwM-1HV5VmD3Q-HqzyoE9XS2cHzfD2hvfrpsLEel9Q6CrNvnBQMBS1RBuzUyABhbfGVW0bI_aMa/s320/P1010019.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
For the past several weeks, I've been substitute teaching in my high school. Only a few teachers from my era remain and the building itself has undergone major renovations so I don't feel as though it's a complete time warp. However there remain just enough vestiges of the past - so as to provide more than a few surreal déjà vu moments. The old gymnasium appears largely unchanged; what used to be the math wing (the roof off of which I once fell - as described in <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/my-bad-back.html">My Bad Back</a>) might well have been teleported from the 1980s to the present. And just as it was when I was in school, the Boys Soccer team is amongst the best in the state - <a href="http://www.nscaa.com/hsRes.php?it=2347">and a top 5 team nationally</a>.<br />
<br />
It's been more than a decade since I last walked the halls between classes, heard the din of the cafeteria at lunch (at 10:36am!), or stood, hand over heart, for the Pledge of Allegiance. Instead of asking for a pass, I write and sign them. I now call teachers by their first names. Students give me a wider berth in the halls and a level warier stares in my direction (or alternatively avoid eye contact completely). I am the now <i>sssshhher</i> and not the <i>shhhshee</i>; I am the mover of student's seats and not the pupil being centered in the front row before the watchful gaze of the mistrusting and annoyed teacher.<br />
<br />
The classes I've been substituting for of late are heterogeneous, but trend heavily toward lower performing students. Many of the 9th and 10th graders I see in class have various accommodations to address their special needs. Some students have aides and others take tests in a resource room. The few brighter students in the class 'get' somewhat more than their classmates, but appear equally unable to focus for more than a few seconds at a time. They fidget, twitch and seem to reflexively belch, "WHAT?" when called upon, unsure if it's to answer a question or answer for playing with their iPods not so slyly hidden below the desktop.<br />
<br />
When I occasionally sit in with a new class, the first words out of their mouths are nearly always the same, "Are you a sub?!" When I confirm the fact, there is never a trace of disappointment. "Yes!" is the universal exclamation. Often I am there merely push play on the VCR for them to watch the movie the teacher has left for me to show. Other times, I pass out a worksheet. Though I wander between the desks offering assistance, only infrequently do they accept. The sub rarely, if ever, is more than a proctor's pointer. For the students, as well as for me, this moment in time feels like little more than a weigh station - a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caesura">caesura</a> in life, a chance and brief encounter that will surely be forgotten as quickly as the homework assignment itself. When the bell rings, the students shuffle off to their next period. And like I was, after enduring several thousand bells marking time, they'll be off on their own unpredictable adventures. (Bell arithmetic: approximately 18 bells per day; 180 days per year times 4 years = 12,960 chimes. Consider the veteran teacher who has been there 30 or more years....)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvEYhjVIiRzrqM282agZkQ7WNh2hLzexER-HLkbr_gc2lIpyIGk4gxvGGiRkB8px5PgoOyUEulDsYPcIMxguxpGTmpEnobN8-T5ftx_dUHC2iRuJFviNHFLLtRHi1O6KSdAzV1aiARQOA/s1600/Photo+19+of+40_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvEYhjVIiRzrqM282agZkQ7WNh2hLzexER-HLkbr_gc2lIpyIGk4gxvGGiRkB8px5PgoOyUEulDsYPcIMxguxpGTmpEnobN8-T5ftx_dUHC2iRuJFviNHFLLtRHi1O6KSdAzV1aiARQOA/s400/Photo+19+of+40_1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>It's strange, to say the least, to see my life of today framed by the this institution of my past. It's too easy to say, "if I only knew then what I know now," but only because it's so true, so very, very true.<br />
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<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pj9Rs56u8YY?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Pj9Rs56u8YY?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-53545689982816587582010-10-06T13:51:00.001-04:002010-10-07T16:03:16.367-04:00You Never Know<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.litereview.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/light-bulb-idea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.litereview.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/light-bulb-idea.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>There's that moment when the blur comes into focus. There's the instant all the noise in your head quiets. There's the proverbial switch that gets flipped - the light bulb goes on.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Isn't it interesting (but not necessarily worthwhile) to look back at a time when you were so sure of how something in your life was going to go and realize now just how wrong you were. You thought you'd be with her (or him) forever. You thought you found what it was that you wanted to do for the rest of your life. You thought this was going to be the last job you ever had. You were certain that if you just did A, B, and C that X, Y, and Z would follow. We often trot out the phrase, "you never know," only to eschew our own advice when we <i>want</i> to believe something. We <i>want </i>it to be as we believe it will be so <i>badly</i> that we forget that it <i>never</i> is, can never be.</div><div><br />
</div><div>In May of 1996 I'd just finished my master's degree in education. After the graduation ceremony and celebratory meal, I finished loading all of my worldly possessions into the small U-Haul trailer hitched to my 1991 Toyota Corolla. I was moving to <a href="http://www.visitportland.com/">Portland, Maine</a>. This is where I thought my life would unfold. My girlfriend was from Maine and had an exciting job at a successful advertising agency near the Old Port. We rented an apartment in a cool old building on the Western Promenade. We got a cat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/13/2003-12-19_-_05_-_Old_Port,_Portland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/13/2003-12-19_-_05_-_Old_Port,_Portland.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>At 25 years of age, I felt sure I was on a course toward adulthood. I could see it in my mind's eye. I got on well with my girlfriend's parents and siblings. They had a nice farmhouse not far from the city and a four season condo in <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Tourism-g40532-Bridgton_Maine-Vacations.html">Bridgton</a>. We played tennis, swam in the lake, went for hikes and skied in the winter. My girlfriend's mom was an enthusiastic and talented cook. When we'd go over to their house for Sunday dinners, the smell of tomatoes, garlic and onions made my knees buckle in epicurious anticipation. Before the food touched my tongue, I could already taste it. I could taste it as surely as I thought I could see my future in my crystal ball.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As I envisioned it, my girlfriend and I would get engaged, marry, have children. We'd go to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/acad/">Acadia</a> and Mt. Katahdin. Having already spent a Christmas with their family, I could imagine all of us, with our spouses and children, sitting around the tree, drinking hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps. They were a musical family. Their father would cajole the kids into trotting out their high school instruments to play carols. And my family adored my girlfriend as well. When she came to our Passover celebration with her winsome smile and good humor she charmed the room. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/45/84/d9/view-from-cadillac-mt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/45/84/d9/view-from-cadillac-mt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>I knew, too, that I'd be a great teacher - the one the kids would love, respect, and admire. They'd hang on my every wise word, laugh at my every witticism, and come to me for sage advice. With my teaching career already determined, I thought I'd find time to write that great American novel on the side. My girlfriend was a young star at her agency; she'd already been assigned to big clients, been shipped to Chile for work. There wasn't much that wasn't right in our world. Until the day there wasn't anything that was right.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I spent the summer of 1996 in Portland reveling in a future already clear in my mind. We decorated our Western Promenade apartment and went on weekend excursions. I saw these as steps toward a certain path. I worked that summer giving guided bus tours of Portland and used my free time to send out scores of applications to area high schools. It was just a matter of time, I knew, before all the pieces fell into place. It was just a matter of time.</div><div><br />
</div><div>June soon became July and August came just as swiftly. But along with late summer's humidity, a certain coolness could be felt at <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&rls=en&q=48+western+promenade+portland+me&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=48+Western+Promenade,+Portland,+ME+04102&gl=us&ei=d6msTKzyO4Gdlgfgg8zOBw&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CBMQ8gEwAA">48 Western Promenade</a>. There was a new curtness in my girlfriend's voice that portended ill-fortunes. I hoped against hope that it would be short-lived, that it was a phase. It wasn't long, however, before I had to ask, "What's going on?" </div><div><br />
</div><div>I could see the anguish in her eyes. She had something to say that she knew would hurt me. She knew it would be painful, just as it was painful for her to have come to the realization. She unburdened her conscience, released a torrent of pent up feelings. She cared for me, but....there was no other way to say it, she didn't want us to remain together. It hurt. I didn't feel betrayed; she hadn't betrayed me, she had only remained true to herself. As much as it stung, I could not fault her for listening to her conscience. When we moved in together, she felt sure it was what she wanted; it simply wasn't how she felt now. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I wept on my pillow and felt the pain of our breakup. But as much as I felt sadness over our breakup, I know much of it had more to do with the loss of the life I had so vividly anticipated. All of it was gone in that instant. All that never was could never be. The image frames in my mind melted away like celluloid too close to the hot projector lamp. The door to that future didn't just close, it evaporated completely, like a horrible magic trick.</div><div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div>The next weekend I picked up a <a href="http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/">Sunday Boston Globe</a> help wanted section (In the mid 1990s it was still possible to find a job in an actual newspaper). I hadn't even glanced at any opportunities outside of Maine before then. Why would I have? There was an ad for English teachers on Cape Cod. Having spent weeks and <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/08/wisdom-in-water.html">summers there</a>, I began the application process. I submitted my credentials. Unlike the lack of response I'd had from a single school in Maine, I got a call the very next week to come in for an interview.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I showed up, answered the questions of the department head and was soon thereafter led into the principal's office for an impromptu interview with him. Afterward I was asked to wait in the outer office while they conferred. The department head came out, sat down, and said, "I've only ever done this once before in my career, but I'd like to make you an offer today." I accepted.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEileVJz7L6INehOoYhTaKExq8w44Eugp5XATUwOjduKD9jgPGFHA0xjIKARfr8YTOuK_rLZ9Rwy5xrEj6Frh8FJHqYrbOOpdPB1jATdeSTAlkGykwiivWCrq_Kvh3uzImriPR5o7Pikyk8y/s320/dscn0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEileVJz7L6INehOoYhTaKExq8w44Eugp5XATUwOjduKD9jgPGFHA0xjIKARfr8YTOuK_rLZ9Rwy5xrEj6Frh8FJHqYrbOOpdPB1jATdeSTAlkGykwiivWCrq_Kvh3uzImriPR5o7Pikyk8y/s320/dscn0008.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>In the span of two weeks, the life I'd mapped out in Maine had gone from a foregone conclusion to a painful memory. I'd exchanged my apartment overlooking the Fore River for a basement hovel opposite a boat yard next to Lewis Bay in Hyannis. From my dark and dank apartment, I could hear the Nantucket ferries coming and going, the safety instructions of the crew blaring loudly into the one window of my cheap abode. I began school just days after arriving and was jolted by just how disinterested my students were in just about <i>anything</i> I had to say. I was saddened by how poorly they wrote, demoralized by just how uncritical their minds were, and dismayed by how uninvolved their parents were. This was not how I'd pictured it at all. There were exceptions, of course, too few and far between to alter the landscape.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As teachers well know, the school day starts early, far too early. I woke each morning well before dawn and ate my breakfast in the car. I taught mostly ungrateful students all day long and spent endless hours correcting and commenting upon ghastly compositions. I worked hard to construct lesson plans to engage and enlighten. By the estimation of my colleagues and superiors, I was proving myself a competent and natural teacher. By my own measurement, I was miserable. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.coffeebreakwithlizandkate.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/20081203_RedPens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="http://www.coffeebreakwithlizandkate.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/20081203_RedPens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>While I made friends with some colleagues, found some time for my own extracurricular activities, I was lonely even in company. I made frequent visits to Boston to have fun with my friends, but when Sunday rolled around, I left early so I'd have time for my schoolwork. Lessons plans, reading papers and reading the books I was teaching all required most of my nights and weekends. I never took a shortcut in my work, but rarely did I feel rewards I imagined teaching would provide. </div><div><br />
</div><div>One of my mentors who I co-taught with, a 30 year veteran of the classroom (as well as a veteran of the U.S. Navy) took me under his wing. When I felt most dispirited, Jim would offer some wise words, some perspective. He was good at what he did, but also a realist. His experience had taught him how to recognize the truths that cannot be denied. He knew that it was not always possible to make a reluctant student engage. He knew that some kids, despite their enthusiasm and attention weren't going to become great students. He knew that in the summer he'd be happier fishing in the Bass River. And Jim also knew that winter in S. Yarmouth, Cape Cod for a 25 year-old first year teacher with few close friends or family nearby was not the stuff of postcards from a Wellfleet summer. I remember what he said to me nearly verbatim, "Dave, when you punch out your timecard at the end of your career, it shouldn't be here." (Jim is retired from teaching, but is regular columnist for the <a href="http://www.capecodonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20100928/OPINION/9280333/-1/OPINION0304">Cape Cod Times</a>.)</div><div><br />
</div><div>By spring, I'd finally found some rhythm to my days and weeks. I got the hang of my schedule, grew used to the classroom and its sizable requirements. I still wasn't extracting much satisfaction from my days, but I was at least conditioned. It's therefore easy to understand why I was so looking forward to my April vacation. I'd planned a cross country journey to San Francisco. My dad had recently moved to Marin County and I had a few close friends who'd settled there after college. Taking my seat on the airplane, I was giddy with anticipation. It was like being set free from jail! I left my schoolwork behind. The only matter related to school that lingered was the excellent evaluation I'd just received from my department head and the offer to renew my contract for the following year. I tucked those thoughts into my brain's back pocket and lit out for the coast.</div><div><br />
</div><div><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>The weather in San Francisco in spring isn't always guaranteed great, but it was the week I was there. From the airport, I made my way to the ferry across the bay to Larkspur. It was a clear day and the views of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz and the San Francisco skyline were breathtaking and intoxicating. Even San Quentin captured the imagination as the ferry eased into Marin. My dad and I hiked Mt. Tamalpais, walked Muir Woods, and toured Tiburon and Sausalito. Later in the week as I shifted accommodations to my friends in the city, I took in the tourist sites: Fisherman's Wharf, <a href="http://www.ghirardelli.com/">Ghirardelli</a> Sq., Coit Tower, Haight & Ashbury, <a href="http://www.citylights.com/">City Lights bookstore</a> to name a few. We drove up to Napa and Sonoma and did what you do there (hiccup). I shunned sleep in favor of revelry. I filled my every waking moment with the stuff of leisure and adventure. Knowing that I had but 9 days, inclusive of my flights, I sought to wrest every minute of fun I could from the little time I had.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://lifestyle.iloveindia.com/lounge/images/facts-about-golden-gate-bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://lifestyle.iloveindia.com/lounge/images/facts-about-golden-gate-bridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>I had booked a redeye flight back from San Francisco to Boston that last Saturday night. For my last adventure, a large group of us - old friends and new - went out to a chic dinner in the Mission neighborhood. Earlier that day, I'd been at <a href="http://www.pier39.com/">Pier 39</a> overlooking San Francisco Bay, eating, drinking and reveling. It was my last day and I was intent on savoring, if not imbibing every last drop of California sunshine. At dinner around a large circular table, the cocktails and jokes went round. I was having a lot of fun, but I was also somewhat aware that I had a flight to catch. Though I knew I had to go, my sense of time was failing. After much procrastination, I finally asked my friend sitting next to me what time I had to leave to make sure I caught my flight. She asked to see my ticket and when I produced it, her eyes widened, "NOW!" she howled.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My heart raced as I duck-duck-goosed my way around the table, giving kisses and hugs. I dashed to my friend's car to grab my suitcase as she hailed me a taxi. I barked my instructions to the driver and soon realized I had zero cash in my wallet. I asked the driver to stop at an ATM, putting further at risk the likelihood of making the flight. The driver sensed my apprehension and when he asked what time my flight left, he found another gear in that taxi. We weaved through traffic, pissed off innumerable drivers, and pulled up to the Delta gates with but moments spare. This being the pre 9/11 era, I was able to quickly check my bags at the curb and make my way through security with relative speed. I focused, albeit with great intoxication, on finding my gate. And once I found the gate and made my way down the jetway to the plane, I called upon my few remaining senses to zone in on locating my assigned seat. I had the kind of tunnel vision of a mind both self-conscious of being drunk while trying to appear sober. I honed in on my seat, only vaguely aware that the plane was not especially full.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I fell down in my seat next to, if not partly on, a couple. I am sure it wasn't graceful for I had exhausted the little gross motor control I had in just getting down the aisle. I exhaled a mighty sigh of relief and couldn't help, I'm sure, but breathe vodka fumes on my neighbors. I slurred to them as clearly as I could, "I'll probably be able to find another seat once we get going." I said this to them forgetting that I was surely the last person to board and in that moment wholly unaware that we were literally about the only passengers on the plane. As I finally took a half moment to scan the cabin and realize how odd it must have been for them to have a drunken 20-something year-old kid plop down nearly on top of them on an empty plane, I sheepishly offered, "Maybe I'll just move now." They never said a word to me as I skulked away to an empty row in the rear of the plane.</div><div><br />
</div><div>To say I slept the first leg of the flight to Atlanta would be to imply I had some choice in the matter. I was unconscious. I passed out before the plane even took off and felt nothing of the landing either. It was only when they turned on the cabin lights after we arrived at a complete stop at the gate that I realized we'd even left San Francisco. I endured a pounding headache and the parched mouth of a desert dust storm on the flight leg to Boston. My friend, Chris, picked me up and took me to the <a href="http://www.ihop.com/">IHOP</a> in Brighton. From there we went to his apartment where I'd left my car. It was a typical rainy April New England day. The air was bone-chilling, the skies dark and depressing. In other words, it was the perfect meteorological complement to both my mood and physical condition.</div><div><br />
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</div><div>As I drove down Rt. 3 toward the Cape and cataloged the work that lay waiting for the remainder of my Sunday (term papers to read; lesson plans to finalize; chapters to read), my stomach began to knot. It wasn't the hangover or IHOP that caused my innards to twist - and it wasn't the prospect of hours of schoolwork, either. I drove through Weymouth, Hanover, Pembroke and Kingston, I began to clearly see the months ahead. I saw a summer of fun in Wellfleet, free of the monotony of the school year. I felt, viscerally, the ebb of that summer and the lack of enthusiasm I'd have for September's arrival. I projected the undulating emotions of the academic year, saw the long hours wielding chalk and a red pen. And I felt certain that when next April came, I'd head out to San Francisco. I'd fill my vacation week with laughter and adventure. I'd book a redeye flight home so that I'd maximize every possible minute of the vacation. I'd arrive back in Boston on a cold and rainy day, get picked up by Chris, and we'd go to IHOP so I could wistfully regale him with the tales of my escapades. And then I'd drive to South Yarmouth with a gnawing pit in my gut. As I drove Capeward, somewhere between Plymouth and Barnstable, the light bulb went on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://vanimg.s3.amazonaws.com/sunclouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://vanimg.s3.amazonaws.com/sunclouds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>I arrived at <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&q=26+Arlington+Street,+South+Yarmouth,+Massachusetts&oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=26+Arlington+St,+West+Yarmouth,+Barnstable,+Massachusetts+02673&gl=us&ei=O7WsTO77I8SAlAeoue3iBw&ved=0CBcQ8gEwAA&z=16">26 Arlington Street, South Yarmouth, Massachusetts</a> by midday. I unpacked my school work and dutifully fulfilled my teaching responsibilities. Exhausted by nightfall, I turned in early and rose the next day before the sun. When I met with my department head later that day, I solemnly told her that, no, I would not be renewing my contract; I would not be returning to teach there the next year.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I didn't know what I'd be doing next. I now know that I couldn't have known it even if I thought I did. All I knew then was that the pit in my gut was gone and I felt more happy not knowing then I'd ever felt being <i>sure</i> of what was to come.</div><div><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-9756470494292919022010-10-01T15:37:00.000-04:002010-10-01T15:37:39.549-04:00The Chronicles, No. 4<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Did I tell you I'm in another play? I have small roles (yes, two different characters in the same play), but the commitment to the effort - and the rehearsal schedule is much the same as it was for <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/03/actor.html">The Foreigner.</a> I am enjoying the creative process as well as the camaraderie. The play is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Crucible">Arthur Miller's The Crucible</a>. Whereas The Foreigner was a comedic farce, The Crucible is anything but. Written by Miller in the 1950s, The Crucible sought to highlight the hypocrisy of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McCarthyism">McCarthyism</a>. If you're local, the play will be performed at the <a href="http://www.thebradleyplayhouse.org/">Bradley Playhouse</a> the last two weekends of October.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Did I tell you that <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/03/below-surface.html">our B&B</a> project is most likely being put on hold? It's taken the better part of the last year to gather all the information we needed to make an informed decision. The crux of the matter is that the revenue we can reasonably predict isn't sufficient enough to cover the amount of debt we'd have to assume. And while we could make a go of it and even have a decent chance of overcoming obstacles, we'd rather be conservative and not jeopardize the prospect of retaining <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/farm.html">the Farm</a> for years and generations to come. The plan now is to investigate small renovations that can be done to get us onto the property. Stay tuned.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Did I tell you about the headstone we're in the process of getting for <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/absence.html">Leo</a>? Linda and I met with a local grave marker company a week or two ago. We're going to put a marker in the small, ancient cemetery here in Pomfret where many of Linda's family's ancestors are buried. The <a href="http://www.fairfieldfamily.com/records/tombstones/html/pomfret.html">cemetery</a> is so tiny and full that there are few actual procedures for putting in a new gravestone. Because we just have ashes and not body to bury, we're able to put our marker in without having to get special permission. We're grateful that we'll have a place to see Leonardo Mathewson Ring's name, glad to have him with family, and glad to recognize him in some form of permanence, even if his physical presence with us was short. We miss him everyday, feel his absence and yet in that absence his presence is perhaps stronger.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Did I tell you that <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/11/gift-named-max.html">Max</a> moved up to pre-school? He turns three in November and continues to be a bottomless source of joy and amazement. I'll spare you the cloying doting of an adoring father, except to say he's a constant wonder and a blessing beyond words. The only thing we desire for him is a sibling. Unfortunately that's not such an easy prospect. Pregnancy, while possible, isn't something we can count on and adoption is expensive. This said, we're trying to get our heads around undertaking the latter. We'll need help and asking for it doesn't come easy. But not asking means not receiving.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And what about that <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/12/still-running.html">running</a>? I am still at it, but I do admit to a recent bout of laziness. I got sick a few weeks ago and then some unseasonable humidity deterred me from making a swift return. I am not concerned that I'll remain sidelined. I get too much from it to remain idle. And I'm still an avid <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/12/foot-fetish.html">Five Finger</a>/Minimalist footwear guy. In recent months, I've noticed more and more discussion about the practice. Friends of mine who were skeptics are now donning the freaky feet, reveling, childlike, in the sensation of the ground beneath their soles.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Quiet Corner living is, well, quiet and <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/06/stillness.html">still</a>. When we moved here from Salem, Massachusetts, we had our reservations, but with each passing month, and now a year's worth of seasons, we can confidently express just how happy we are to have made the move. I am still in the hunt for a job that meets both our financial needs and my personal set of values, but thanks to Linda, we're keeping our heads, perhaps even our shoulders above water.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I haven't been writing much lately and I wish I had something that could serve as an excuse. I did a lot of 'talking' over the last year or so. Sometimes I'd sit down to write and feel that I'd already said what I was thinking. I didn't want to bore readers with what I felt was simply a rehashing of things already said. I felt sensitive that much of what I wrote felt as if I was making judgements about how others chose to live their lives. Frankly, I didn't want to hear myself think anymore. Which brings me to my last thought.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">There's been enough upheaval in my life in the past years to cause me to take stock. I've experienced loss on many fronts (a child, a job, a condo, a good credit score) and yet I feel as though I've gained much more than I've 'lost' through the experience. In my efforts to make sense of things, I've embraced some Buddhist philosophies. (I am not a practicing Buddhist, nor do I represent that I have anything close to a deep understanding of the practice.) What I read about the nature of suffering, the laws of impermanence, and the mighty and dangerous ego resonates deeply. When I watch my mind and can see the ego focusing on past regrets or future fantasy, I feel more equipped to recognize what's happening in those thoughts and more swiftly I'm able return to the present. When I drive, I try to <i>just</i> drive. When I wash the dishes I try to <i>just</i> wash the dishes. You may not be surprised by how incredibly difficult it is <i>just</i> to be wholly present.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-27517349578342068422010-08-18T16:11:00.008-04:002010-08-30T11:20:24.092-04:00The Wisdom in Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGcDVIO2EmiiM13GMq5nnm9IQh9xzVTjQfxRgPlmEP6khmZYm3T5FeOgtnNjQBDItS447Aq_ixx_3kSal_h81ujCJfoWg82Tnco1dk1XmrgptK8lnAGJgN1KjT0_9c4nTdZDvuR6e6cgel/s1600/IMG_0035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGcDVIO2EmiiM13GMq5nnm9IQh9xzVTjQfxRgPlmEP6khmZYm3T5FeOgtnNjQBDItS447Aq_ixx_3kSal_h81ujCJfoWg82Tnco1dk1XmrgptK8lnAGJgN1KjT0_9c4nTdZDvuR6e6cgel/s400/IMG_0035.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Several months ago - perhaps even a year - Linda and I watched the movie <a href="http://surfwisefilm.com/html/index.html">Surfwise</a>. "SURFWISE follows the odyssey of 85-year-old legendary surfer Dr. Dorian "Doc" Paskowitz, his wife Juliette, and their nine children—all of whom were home-schooled on the beaches of Southern California, Hawaii, Mexico and Israel; they surfed every day of their lives, and were forced to adhere to a strict diet and lifestyle by their passionate and demanding, health-conscious father." <br />
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Surfers and some fans of surfing know well the Paskowitz story, but beyond that cultural subset few knew of Doc or his story. But perhaps I should first begin with my surfing history - brief as it is.<br />
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Frequent Ring Writes readers know that it's only been in recent years that I've developed some coordinated control over my long limbs. Not always gangly, but rarely nimble, I stuck to games that relied little on eye/hand coordination. Year by year, sport by sport, I was weaned away from the more talented players. Sports like soccer, basketball, baseball, and football (we had no program in our town) were played in gym and I was amongst the last player picked.. Hockey - skating and holding a stick to hit a puck - represented something wholly unimaginable. Other than a bicycle, things with wheels were downright laughable; I nearly killed myself in attempts at skateboarding, roller skating or blading. I looked like Gerald Ford coming down a jetway. I tried skiing and remarkably never busted a bone though I took falls a plenty from Aspen to the Alps. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://cache.daylife.com/imageserve/0bcXc3h6637PZ/340x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://cache.daylife.com/imageserve/0bcXc3h6637PZ/340x.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />
I soon learned that sports with repetitive movements were something that, with much practice, I could manage. Bicycling, and running were two simple ones - one foot after the other. I could even play a bit of golf (though never a great handicap) by grooving a swing that was serviceable. In college I found crew and rowing to be the perfect complement to my skill set. I sat on a seat, strapped my feet to a board, and simply inserted an oar into the water and pulled. Over four years I honed my stroke, eventually making the 1st boat and winning a New England gold medal in our class. And rowing gets us closer to water and closer to surfing.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.vespoli.com/imgs/eights/large/vespoliEights1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.vespoli.com/imgs/eights/large/vespoliEights1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It was through rowing that I became acquainted with Phi Mu Delta (PMD). I joined the novice crew team and soon learned that several of the male rowers on the varsity team were in a fraternity. I'd never thought that I'd want to be in a fraternity and didn't give it much thought at first. I just wanted to be on the team. I was an eager rower, if but a weak novice one. I was so dedicated to the idea of making a go of it, that I convinced my novice coach to let me sleep at his rooming house over winter break so I could participate in the workouts. (Deep down I think I also knew there was not a chance I'd perform them as well at home over a month long holiday break). Living at the house, I grew to know the other roomers. I soon found out I was living in an alumni crew house. A couple of the boarders, though much older than I were still finishing their undergraduate degrees, others were taking grad courses. There were former rowers, both from the men's and women's teams. Though I was just a few months into my rowing career, I quickly absorbed much about UMass Crew in those few weeks. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3537/3320180695_9181a656d4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3537/3320180695_9181a656d4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
One evening, two of the house dwellers, Jill and Michele - who rowed together on the women's team, invited me to drive up to <a href="http://www.llbean.com/shop/retailStores/freeportFlagshipStore/freeportLander.html?nav=ln">L.L.Bean</a> in Freeport, ME with two friend of theirs, Larry and Josh. It was late, but Bean is open 24 hours and no one had classes or had to work the next day. Jill had a behemoth of a station wagon and the five of us piled in and drove through the dead of a cold winter night to Freeport. We drank beer and laughed most of the way and arrived at L.L. Bean at 2am. We wandered the empty aisles, sat in display canoes, and even bought a few things. Jill said she had a friend in Portland on whose floor we could crash. We took many turns that Jill was guessing at which led us to a house she said she <i>thought </i> was her friend's. I am about 6'3; Josh and Larry are both taller and more solid. The five of us tiptoed loudly into the living room. Giant Josh laid claim to the couch and the rest of us huddled on chairs and on the floor. <br />
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In the morning, I heard people whispering, people I didn't know. "Who is this?" the voiced inquired. In a hungover haze, I became aware that these people were stepping lightly through and around us. I felt sure we were in some stranger's house. Finally, a person said, "I think that's Jill." Relieved but still disheveled and embarrassed we demurely left and returned to Amherst. Jill piloted the big station wagon to the other side of campus from where I lived and pulled behind a large boarding house on N. Pleasant Street that had Greek letters on the front. The house was neither impressive or inviting. It looked simply like a beat up boarding house. From the car, I could see thick plastic covering the windows to keep the January cold out. We said our goodbyes and Jill, Michele, and I returned to coach's house. On the way back, I asked what the house was. Michele and Jill both knowingly chuckled and answered, "It's the Mu." <br />
<br />
I didn't know that much about The Mu, but soon learned that my coach was a brother at Phi Mu Delta and so was the lightweight coach. I learned that nearly a couple of dozen current and former rowers that I knew were Phi Mu Delta's, some proudly and others less overtly. I also learned there were plenty who were not. That spring semester, I returned to my dorm, regular classes and continued to train with the crew team. I was buried somewhere in the 2nd or 3rd novice boat, but still saw Josh and Larry among the rest of our teammates in the gym. It was not long into the semester that I got a call in my dorm room from Josh. He wanted to know if I was "interested in coming by the house sometime and meeting the guys." I declined, politely saying that I wasn't really interested in fraternities. But Josh is charming and persistent. And standing several inches taller and weighing many muscular pounds more than me, he's an effective salesman. <br />
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He and Larry both, along with a few other PMD rowers made other entreaties. Finally Josh told me just to come by for "an Exchange." He explained that it was a small party, usually on Thursday nights in which a different sorority or two came over and we drank beer. Josh said, "You like girls and beer, don't you? Come on." Not wanting to go alone I convinced my closest novice rower friend, Russell, to come with me. The details of my Phi Mu Delta experience are too numerous and at times too embarrassing to delve into here. The summary is that I pledged that fraternity (as did Russell) and ended up living in the house for the remainder of my three years in college, rowing for the crew team all the while. But what about surfing? What about the ocean? Yes, yes. I will come to that.<br />
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Growing up in landlocked Mansfield, Connecticut, over an hour's drive to the beach, it was a special occasion when we went. We'd drive to Ocean Beach Park in New London or Rocky Neck in Niantic, but soon we drifted eastward until Watch Hill, <a href="http://www.misquamicut.org/">Misquamicut</a>, and East Beach became the favorites. It was out in Rhode Island where you were more likely to find bigger waves. Though I'd proven myself able to tread water, I wasn't a natural swimmer. It also so happens that my mother has always been quite protective. The rule was that I wasn't to go out in water above my armpits. I did some body surfing, jumped around a bit, but when the waves got big, I was relegated to the shallows or the beach. Sure, I sometimes went out over my head, but I had taken enough underwater tumbles in the rolling surf to know that I wasn't going to tempt the wrath of Poseidon. <br />
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While we day tripped to RI from time to time, it was summers that we, along with the masses, drove to Cape Cod for extended vacations. When I was little we went to Craigville, and even into my early teens we often spent a week or so there. We also had friends in Eastham and as a preteen (was I ever a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tween_(demographic)">tween</a>?) that was the first time I can recall being cognitively aware of the Lower Cape. We spent many days along bayside sandy beaches. On clear days you could see the relic that was the Target Ship and sometimes all the way up to the <a href="http://www.pilgrim-monument.org/">Monument in Provincetown</a>. Our friends would take us sailing, fishing, and clam-digging. We boated out to islands that disappeared when the tide came up. On the ocean side, the water was colder and often there was more surf. We'd go to beaches up and down the National Seashore - From Nauset in Orleans, up to Nauset Light in Eastham, Marconi in Wellfleet - and every Hollow beach along Cape Cod's forearm from Wellfleet to Truro to P'town. Our beach visits were so precious that I can remember my sister and I huddled under a blanket on a rainy day as our mom pointed to a light patch of sky saying hopefully, "I think it's clearing!"<br />
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In my youth, I might have seen a surfer or two from those beaches. I now know for certain they were there. But surfing to me then - standing on an unstable board floating on fast flowing waves that were, by definition, going to break - was beyond my mind's projection. Like skateboarding and the then unknown to me snowboarding, I didn't need any "sport" to challenge my ability to stay upright. Still, I learned to love the water and as I grew older and into a more confident swimmer, I swam out over my head, let big waves lift me up, and survived the times heavy water pinned me below the surface so long that I wasn't sure which way was up. When I got scared, I took a break but always braved the waves again. But I never surfed, knew little of it beyond goofy surf movies or Beach Boys songs.<br />
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What I didn't know as a young boy on the Lower Cape in the 1970s was that in late 1980s I'd be living in a fraternity with several guys who spent their summers and between semesters living, working, and playing there. Beginning the first summer after college, I would make regular trips to the Cape to visit my friends. Wellfleet was where they went and often that's where I could be found. My friends worked at the <a href="http://www.thebeachcomber.com/">Beachcomber</a>, for the town, at the general store, and for the trash company. I heard many outrageous stories of parties, girls, fights, thefts, garbage finds, and bonfires. From what I saw on my weekend visits, I had no reason to suspect any of it as hyperbole. After college I continued to make trips to the Lower Cape. Sometimes I'd go with family, other times with, or to see friends. Though up to that point I'd never spent any more than a couple of weeks there, I began to feel comfortable in Wellfleet. I began to recognize the same people - friends of my friends, people who'd spent the entire summer of their lives there. And through my friends, I made new friends. And yet throughout that time I still never surfed.<br />
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Flash forward to the mid 1990's. I'm halfway through my two year graduate degree at UMass - Amherst. I have the summer off and Steve successfully pitches the idea of me working in Wellfleet for the summer and living with him in what we call the "Suck Shacks" behind our friend Luke's family restaurant in S. Wellfleet. The Suck Shacks consisted of 5 small cottages. Some had two bedrooms, others were studios. Each shack was tiny and featured two-burner stinkolaters (sink, stove, refrigerator units). Having never lived in Wellfleet for a full summer I jumped at the chance. Our stinkolater was named The Diavlo 5000.<br />
<br />
I got two jobs - as a waiter at a pricey Wellfleet restaurant and as a beach officer for the town. As a waiter, I had to be at work by late afternoon and was done around 12am. I reported to the beach at 830am. My job as the assistant manager was to help assign sticker checkers to beach and pond parking lots, give breaks to the staff, and then spend the rest of the time driving around Wellfleet, issuing tickets to illegally parked or unstickered cars. I was deputized and carried a badge. And it was during this summer, 1995, that I finally learned about surfing.<br />
<br />
Steve was - and still is - an avid surfer. Though he grew up in Boston, he discovered surfing on the Cape and like so many was immediately hooked. Our friend Luke (went to UMass, was a PMD, and whose parents owned the Suck Shacks) spent most of the summers of his youth (and still does) in Wellfleet. Though Luke spent the school year in Foxboro on his skateboard, he spent the summers on the Cape on his surfboard. By the time I rolled into Wellfleet in 1995, Steve and Luke had both been surfing for years and had already begun their ongoing efforts to surf all over the world. (Luke is also an accomplished photographer and much of his work features surfing: <a href="http://www.lukesimpson.com/">www.lukesimpson.com</a>).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-kdIRGtuB1WLdHk4X7gPsw4vUjGg_3RQY7ywtd9trox6O2bGAAfa7_inX_n73O2Owkw7XiDAcek5zlYqgBxZfiVcgilJGjfhkHyOOmRbWwrypJnl4dcH4NR8n4KygV9luWA5bi1H_bdY/s1600/eric-2.jpgon_Brendan+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-kdIRGtuB1WLdHk4X7gPsw4vUjGg_3RQY7ywtd9trox6O2bGAAfa7_inX_n73O2Owkw7XiDAcek5zlYqgBxZfiVcgilJGjfhkHyOOmRbWwrypJnl4dcH4NR8n4KygV9luWA5bi1H_bdY/s400/eric-2.jpgon_Brendan+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of lukesimpson.com</td></tr>
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Between Luke and Steve there were surfboards all over and in the Suck Shacks. They were piled on roof racks, hanging in the rafters, leaning against walls - both in and outside. From them (and other surfer friends of theirs who became friends of mine) I learned about the different boards, what the shapes and sizes were good for. For years prior Steve had drilled quotes from Endless Summer and Big Wednesday into my head. But now I was watching obscure surf videos, in Luke's Suck Shack, drunk at 2am. The next morning, bleary eyed, Luke and/or Steve would wake at dawn to check the surf, the wind. Sometimes I'd go with them and survey the waves. "Blown out." "Choppy." Nice lines." Rippin'". I began to absorb the language. Slowly I was being drawn in. What was it about surfing that could consume my friends so? Sometimes they'd try to explain it to me, but were rendered speechless only saying that it was too hard to put into words.<br />
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Other than playing on a board in small "long board" waves, I had yet to try it myself until that summer. Steve piled a few boards on top of his ancient station wagon and we drove to the beach. The waves were small but ridable. I pulled on a borrowed and very tight-fitting <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wetsuit">3/2 wetsuit</a> and Steve handed me an insanely heavy longboard. It could have kept King Kong afloat. It was a good board for me to learn on. The waves weren't so big that I couldn't paddle past them, but big enough for me to paddle into them (a condition I later required for any surfing excursion). Eventually, I worked my way through the progression of going from my chest to my knees to my feet and then even popping from chest to feet (I bet it didn't look like I popped up, but I felt like I did). After many tries, I finally managed to catch a long ride into the beach. It was fun, and thrilling and I felt a sense of pride in the accomplishment. Many life-long surfers begin this same way - one ride. I am not one of those people.<br />
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Encouraged by my modest success, I continued to tag along with the surfers from time to time. I held no allusion that I was a natural or that I could begin to even approximate their skill, but I enjoyed it just the same. I borrowed a board and a suit and managed a couple of other small surfing successes. But when the waves got big, I got pummeled. The water rose so quickly and crashed with such ferocity that I spent as much time drinking water as I did paddling through it. My efforts to stand resulted in swift and impromptu dismounts. I hung nothing.<br />
<br />
Though I'd occasionally try my hand, a serious surfer I would not be. Still having tried it, having caught a few waves, I did have an inkling of how addictive it could be. I sensed the oneness with the water that riding a wave offered. I saw the beach from the water, from well past the area where waves began to crest. And having watched all those surf movies and having looked through all the surf magazines around the Suck Shack, I began to absorb <i>some</i> of what surfing meant to my friends. And while I didn't achieve their surfing proficiency, I did come to imbibe the purity which it represents.<br />
<br />
So back to this movie, Surfwise, which we watched a while back, but upon which I still regularly reflect. The story is about this successful doctor who grows so unhappy in his professional life that he decides to chuck it all and live life to its fullest - in his small camper with his wife, his 9 kids, and their surfboards. I won't attempt to sum up the experience - leave that to the documentarians - but certainly Doc developed a philosophy to which he both fiercely subscribed and one which he also enforced in his family - not always to their liking. Through all Paskowitz's experiences, he honed a life philosophy, summed it up in five elements: A balance of Diet, Exercise, Rest, Recreation, and Attitudes of Mind.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Paskowitz Family</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unlike Doc and instead of being surrounded by beaches and waves, I am, these days, mostly surrounded by lush green fields and dense woods. And yet, like Paskowitz, I, too, endeavor to find balance between diet, exercise, rest, recreation, and attitudes of mind. And like Paskowitz being near and in the water helps. In the 15 years since that first Suck Shack summer I've managed to sneak in a Wellfleet weekend or two most summers. And because I've made many friends there, I still see familiar faces. Steve still lives there and so does Luke. There are still boards atop their cars. <br />
<br />
Last weekend I spent three days in Wellfleet with my wife and my son, staying with friends. And this time I went to a beach that I'd driven past for decades, but never been to. It's <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&rls=en&q=Mayo+Beach+wellfleet&oe=UTF-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Mayo+Beach,+North+Eastham,+MA&gl=us&ei=EDxsTKSwAsH_lgfFw815&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CBgQ8gEwAA">Mayo Beach</a> - just down the road from the Wellfleet Pier. It's a bayside cove and the waves don't get very big - perfect for my toddler son. He splashed in the water while I stared at the dunes. Toddlers can be bears and devils. "No" is Max's favorite word. Life - with or without a toddler - can be busy, stressful, and frustrating. Finding time for a balance between "diet, exercise, rest, recreation, and attitudes of mind. isn't a simple task. Wellfleet helps, wherever your "Wellfleet" happens to be.<br />
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One day we were driving down a windy dirt and scrub pine road. The side view mirror was clipping branches as we followed Jack and Inga's car down the a narrow and wooded fire road. Further and further we drove. Surely we were on private property, surely we were lost. On a piece of land barely a few miles wide surely we would run out of road. And we did. Late, late in the afternoon, we arrived at a hidden dune cul-de-sac. We couldn't see the beach from where we parked. We couldn't even hear the waves beyond the dune and above the sound of the strong breeze. We followed a steep path through the grassy dunes, passing a few people as they were leaving. When after a few minutes, we finally crested the last hill, an empty expanse of beach revealed itself to us. Here, in Wellfleet, in the middle of a hot and sunny August weekend was an empty beach, no one as far as we could see in either direction. It was ours. It was equal parts diet, exercise, rest, recreation and attitudes of mind. I didn't surf, but I was riding the wave.<br />
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<i>Surfwise Trailer</i><br />
<object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rLrx_QSd44E?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rLrx_QSd44E?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-729033757652712722010-07-21T16:08:00.001-04:002010-07-21T20:13:53.924-04:00The ArrestWhen I was about ten years old I lived in Carriage House Apartments on <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&q=Hunting+Lodge+Road+in+Storrs,+CT&oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Hunting+Lodge+Rd,+Storrs,+Tolland,+Connecticut+06268&gl=us&ei=ZE9HTPSGJsSBlAeImdyIBQ&ved=0CBgQ8gEwAA&ll=41.810732,-72.28004&spn=0.023351,0.069008&z=15">Hunting Lodge Road in Storrs, CT</a>. The apartments are less than a mile from The University of Connecticut campus and while they are now full of hard partying students, they were once more populated by grad students and single parents. I'd wander up and down the cul-de-sac road with playmates who lived in other buildings. We played cops and robbers, we had forts, and for a brief time it was part of my paper route.<br />
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The apartments were bordered by woods and I often delved into them on mini explorations. By just going a hundred feet in I'd be transported to a some kind of forest retreat. The ferns were large and lush, sometimes equaling me in height; the mushrooms growing on the decaying trees made me ponder the mysteries of nature. I lifted rocks to see scurrying insects and I watched slugs ooze their way forth. I often caught poison ivy, but was rarely deterred from going back into those woods.<br />
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One day, I went further into the woods than I'd ever gone. To me it felt as if I was miles away, though I now know it was more like a football field's distance. (When you're young, small distances seem great and the fact that the woods were dense lent to the perception of being much removed from my apartment.) After meandering around a while, I stumbled upon a trail and followed it. Soon the trees became more sparse and I could see some buildings ahead. There were three apartment buildings - they looked abandoned. I didn't even detect a road that led to them. There was a front door that was ajar. I pushed it open and saw a door to an apartment to my left and right. Stairs led up to two more apartments. All the doors were open. Peering in, I saw discarded furniture and no signs of residents. For a child who liked to explore, I felt like I'd stumbled upon some kind of archeological discovery. It was late in the afternoon and I knew I had to be getting home, but I vowed to return.<br />
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A few days later I told my friend, Rainer, a boy who I often played with who lived in another building up the road about my discovery. I told him roughly where I'd found it and that we'd have to go back to check it out. It was shortly after that two other friends, Ron and Micah were over and I instead took them through the woods to the enchanting structures (or 'attractive nuisances' in legal parlance). I led them down the path up to the first of the three buildings. They were initially timid about venturing in. I assured them that no one lived there, that the doors were open. We three boys wandered into one of the upstairs apartments and peered into the dank and musty rooms. Who had lived here, we wondered. Why did they leave all this stuff? It was weird, a bit scary, and exhilarating, too.<br />
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One of us, I forget who, found a box of square bathroom tiles. Someone was dared to throw one. The dare was taken. One of us did it first: held the tile like a Ninja throwing star and hucked it with all our mini-might. It twirled, disc-like, and burst through a window. The glass exploded with a delightful crash. It wasn't long before we'd emptied the box and glass was scattered everywhere. I think if pressed, we might have known what vandalism was, but at the time, it didn't register that we were guilty of it.<br />
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We wandered into the kitchen. For some insane reason there were cases of cream cheese in an unplugged refrigerator. It wasn't Philly brand, but it was those same oblong bricks packaged in thick silver foil. In the ceiling of the kitchen was a square hole leading up to an attic crawl space. The hole was uncovered and one of us ingeniously conceived of a game. Open the cream cheese package so that one end was open and the other was still covered in foil. The aim then was to throw the brick o' cream cheese in just such a way as to propel it into the attic and have it stick to the roof so that it didn't come back down after pitching it up. This was <i>a lot</i> of fun. We were sad to see that box of cream cheese empty. <br />
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The three of us wandered from apartment to apartment wreaking similar havoc as we went. When we'd exhausted the entertainment in one building we moved on to the next and then to the last of the three. In that one, we found old furniture and reveled in pitching it down the stairs. It was marvelous to watch the furniture tumble end over end, legs of chairs and tables flew off as they careened down. The whole escapade is somewhat blurry in my memory, but I do recall a lot of laughter, excitement, and joy. I am sure some of that was because we knew what we were doing was illicit, but boys like to break stuff and we'd found a treasure trove of seemingly abandoned wares to destroy. The place was a pit before we'd entered it, surely we weren't causing anyone any harm....<br />
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Someone heard a voice outside. We froze. I can still feel the way my heart pounded in my chest. We all immediately hid out of instinct. Someone peered out the window and announced that it was just Rainer! Phew, it was only Rainer coming to find us at the buildings I'd told him about a few days prior. What a relief! We stood up and went to make our way out of the building, but soon saw that Rainer was not alone, with him was an elderly woman. We wanted to run, but the furniture we'd tossed down the stairs was blocking the door! We were trapped, trapped by our own stupidity. The woman told that we come out and slowly but surely we moved enough debris away to squeeze our way out. Our heads hung low; she told us to follow her to her house.<br />
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It turned out that while Rainer was trying to find us, he'd stumbled upon this woman's house. She asked him what he was up to and he told her he was looking for the old buildings I'd told him about. She knew just the ones and led him to us. Amazingly she didn't seem mad and she never raised her voice to us. In fact, when we got to her home and while we waited for the police to arrive, she gave us cookies and something to drink. Her husband came by shortly thereafter. He wasn't as nice. In fact he was a real jerk. I don't remember what he said exactly, but he was mean, mean in the way a ten year old knows what mean is. He was mean for means sake. We were caught, but he still insisted on threatening us. We were thankful when the police came.<br />
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The cops arrived and we were told to call our parents and then sit in the cruiser while the officer presumably took statements. I remember that though I was scared, I thought the inside of the cruiser was really cool. My mom was still at work, but my older sister, Elise, was at home. As it turned out the house were were in was very close to the apartments and she walked over in a matter of minutes. My sister (who would later go to Harvard Law School) took great umbrage at our treatment and got into a heated exchange with the officer. Not long afterward, my mom arrived. She, too, was less than pleased. She couldn't conceive how we'd thought this was something that was okay to do. Micah and Ron's moms felt the same. Our fathers all were less appalled. Boys will be boys, they said.<br />
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In the weeks that followed we were interviewed by the insurance investigator. Sometime before that the three of us juvenile delinquents agreed to say that we'd only vandalized one of the three buildings. The other two were like that when we got there, we were to say. And we did. But that insurance investigator was too shrewd. When he interviewed me he said that the other boys told him we'd vandalized all three, not just the one. This is exactly what he told Micah and Ron, too. I caved immediately. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Sipowicz">Sipowicz</a> wasn't needed to break us! Some weeks after that, I reported to Willimantic Juvenile Court. All three of us received probation and the promise that if we kept out of trouble (we did) our records would be expunged (they were).<br />
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When word got out around town about our arrest, there were many varied reactions. Teachers were shocked, appalled, disappointed. A friend of the family tried to make us feel better by telling us he'd once burned down a field as a youth (though his destruction was more the result of improper magnifying glass use than intentional wreckage). Another family friend praised our demolition work for he knew the property owner to be a real jerk. And later I found out that he really was a jerk and a criminal, too. He later tried to burn down those properties to get the insurance money! For many years, I drove past his house and could see those buildings hidden mostly by trees. When the old man was out front, I'd honk my horn. He'd wave and I'd give him the finger. Boys will be boys.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-30980065923078904552010-06-29T15:16:00.003-04:002010-08-11T11:31:27.968-04:00StillnessThere's a lot of noise out there. And there's a lot of noise in your head. <br />
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I grew up in a mostly rural pocket of northeastern Connecticut. Save for being the home of the state's university, <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=mansfield,+ct&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=49.490703,107.841797&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Mansfield,+Connecticut&ll=41.787697,-72.226868&spn=1.468316,3.370056&z=9">Mansfield</a> was - and is still - a quiet town. With the UConn skating rink and Student Union arcade room, a <a href="http://www.mansfielddrivein.com/default.aspx">drive-in theater</a>, and not much else, I was accustomed to finding ways of passing the hours. I explored the woods looking for trails, I attempted to go fishing, I enjoyed sledding down pristine white hills. Though there were many who chose to stay, I, like a lot of kids - many also the children of professional academics - sought to get away just as soon as we could.<br />
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Though college only took me to another college cow-town, <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?client=safari&q=Amherst,+Massachusetts&oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF8&hl=en&hq=&hnear=Amherst,+Hampshire,+Massachusetts&ll=42.366662,-72.778931&spn=1.454982,4.416504&z=9">Amherst, Massachusetts</a>, it was big school in an area with <a href="http://www.fivecolleges.edu/">several other colleges</a> within a 20 minute radius. I met hundreds of new people, joined the <a href="http://www.umass.edu/rso/crewclub/home.html">crew team</a> and was exposed to a whole different set of experiences. I fell under the spell of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phi_Mu_Delta">fraternity</a>, joining their ranks and living in our fetid house for three solid years of college. There was a buzz and an energy and as a 20 year-old who wanted to be buzzed and energized there was no better place. With the exception of the time I broke my <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://media-2.web.britannica.com/eb-media/06/99106-004-5BF40C77.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic-art/547358/101306/Anterior-view-of-the-bones-of-the-right-shoulder-showing&usg=__diyMFKaqTio7p79TI3X3tviQLxc=&h=400&w=300&sz=26&hl=en&start=1&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=qBx6lqlY0YerVM:&tbnh=124&tbnw=93&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dhumerus%2Bbone%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26client%3Dsafari%26sa%3DN%26rls%3Den%26tbs%3Disch:1">humerus bone</a> in half and got 10 stitches in my other hand (lumber yard accident, different story) and lived back home for a few weeks recuperation, I flew the coop right after high school. <br />
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Moving to a Boston suburb and then into the city after college, I have mostly lived in urban or suburban places ever since. And as I moved into more compact and complex environments, my own world got more complex. I had a job now, had to make my own decisions and sometimes suffer the consequences. In my early twenties, I, like many, made - let's see, to put it politely - questionable decisions. Many times given the choice between industriousness and indolence I chose the latter. The party instead of the library, the girl instead of the gym. <br />
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A few years later, I advanced in my place of employment. At first it wasn't really any kind of effort. I was likable, reasonably intelligent, and mostly kind. It wasn't long, however, that things got more complex. If I was still going to be in the company's good favor - and just as importantly if I wanted to boost my pay, I had to take on more responsibility. More responsibility requires more effort, more training, more curiosity and diligence. Sure I'd made periodic efforts in my classes. Sometimes I had to put in maximum effort to get passing grades in particularly difficult courses. I often employed determination and resolve as an oarsman in college. In crew I had to learn from my teammates and my coaches how to put forth consistent effort. And in that sport my failure was my teammates' failure; I felt responsible to them.<br />
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Responsibility. I have no idea how I came to possess any semblance of it. When I was in high school I worked at the <a href="http://travel.webshots.com/photo/1040524191011281402DsxKcn">Mansfield Depot Restaurant</a>. I began as a dishwasher. I showed up on time, I did my job thoroughly and conscientiously. If someone called in sick and they called me, I went in. If they needed someone to work a double, I offered. Certainly, I was motivated by money. Though I made less than $4/hr. when I started, those paychecks supplied all my spending money. I saved up and with some help from my dad, bought my first car (<a href="http://www.ae92gts.com/images/v164_bank.jpg">1974 Volvo 164E</a>, with a jerky transmission). But not far below money, I didn't want my bosses to think poorly of me. I felt rewarded by how thankful they were that I was able to work and was a diligent employee. I should have said "no" more than I did. I should have spent a little bit of time being still while I could.<br />
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When I was in my early 30s, I moved abroad. It had been a goal of mine; it appeared to be the next adventure I was craving. In my several years of city hopping, I lived in London, Amsterdam, Toronto, and Zurich - and that was only where I got my mail. I was using my work postings to go to Italy or Luxembourg, France, Scandinavia, India, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Poland, and Malta of all places. Though I travelled more than some, there were others I worked with who hadn't missed a continent and had seemingly alighted in every country on them. They lived out of their suitcases, had wallets stuffed with reimbursable receipts, and knew every Irish bar in every non-Irish city they'd seen. I relished the travel, the relative perks, and the opportunity to learn more about myself by seeing myself in different settings.<br />
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Year by year, the adventure continued until I moved back to Boston. It was shortly after <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/09/remembrance.html">9/11</a> and our country was a different place than the one that had launched me in the 1990s. After the 2000 Election, when Bush 'beat' Gore, it was all and more than we might have anticipated. The country moved right, and became even more partisan. Bush made extraordinary gaffes, both publicly and politically. But it was funny still. <a href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/">The Daily Show</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkqrI3IibYI">Will Ferrell</a> can thank <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Ux3DKxxFoM">Dubya</a> (and a lot of talent, too) for much of their success today. But after 9/11 things got pretty serious. War. Terrorists, Global Warming, global political unrest, loose nukes! This was my 30s.<br />
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Eventually, traveling began to lose its luster and I had to make different kinds of choices. I chose between a salary and a lifestyle. I tried to strike a balance between what I wanted to do and what people wanted me to do. I'd begun to save for my future. I took time to consider. I got my own financial planner. The more I tried to reconcile what the heck I was doing with my life, I tried to think about what was meaningful to me. My family. My friends. That was about it. I was traipsing around the globe, but had so much time to myself that I had ample time to reflect. I reflected on what was worthwhile. Socializing was valuable, but I grew weary of the repetition. On many quiet Sunday afternoons, I'd wander foreign city streets. I was able to meet up with friends, but I also enjoyed the stillness of being alone in a park, by a river, on a trail.<br />
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Stillness. That was the word that my stream of consciousness lingered on. It's the word that inspired this posting. I was enjoying a hot shower after a peaceful run. Both of those things offer stillness, if one permits it to enter you. Sometimes it's an effort, but other times it is spontaneous. In the shower, you feel the warm water beat on your skin, cooling and warming at the same time. You get to give yourself and all over body massage (if you're cleaning all the parts you ought to). In the shower, behind the closed door, you're away from the TV, the kids, the internet and the iPhone. Sure you can have a radio, but that would ruin the stillness, the privacy of the moment. I many wives complain about the length of time their husbands spend in the bathroom doing number two. It's the stillness. Whether in the corporate bathroom stall, or the downstairs loo under the stairs, many a man takes respite from all that consumes him outside that door. Take 10, deep, deep breaths, and you'll feel the stillness seep into you. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvE65VOcAL0">Calgon, take me away!</a><br />
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I don't know how many millions the makers of <a href="http://www.ambiencr.com/">Ambien</a> are raking in, but I do know that they are banking on people's inability to find and possess stillness. And in that vein, alcohol, recreational drugs, including cigarettes, are mechanisms whereby many find that confounded, illusive stillness. On the healthier side, many find stillness in yoga, pilates, and various forms of martial arts. When I lived in New York City for an unemployed time, I had a lot of time to walk the island of Manhattan. I'd walk 100 blocks at a time, at all hours of the day and night. For the millions who've done this in any world class city around the globe, you know what it is to be struck by the sheer magnitude of the operation. All those people, all that transportation, infrastructure, food, trash! It's 24/7 because it has to be, because it's alive, it breathes. I am thankful for the time I lived in Manhattan because at that point in my life it taught me that I didn't want to live there. For me, it was too busy. I literally became tired sometimes after just a short walk outside because I couldn't help but absorb how busy <i>everyone else</i> was. I needed more stillness. I am betting there's a lot of Ambien in Manhattan.<br />
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In between my second and final European tour of living and that stint in NYC, I disappeared for two months. Long before <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPK-G1gf6yk">Mark Sanford</a> made it a popular alibi, I hiked a few hundred miles of the <a href="http://www.appalachiantrail.org/site/c.mqLTIYOwGlF/b.4850633/k.9733/Interactive_Map.htm">Appalachian Trail</a>. Along with a friend who'd often found the stillness he craved in nature, we hoofed it up and down hills and mountains. We traversed large open fields, scaled rocks, swam in ravines, and spent hour after hour not saying a word. It was exactly what I needed when I needed it. Before that hike, I was living in Zurich and planning on moving to Lucerne soon after the summer. The company package offered wasn't quite what I was expecting and the company was not going to offer more. We were at an impasse. It was not the first time I had to make a decision about what was valuable to me, but it was one of those times where you ask yourself what your life means to you - and how valuable you feel to those you work for. It was a watershed moment for me because it allowed me the opportunity to be true to myself. <br />
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I thanked them for the many opportunities I'd been given and gave my notice. In the process of coming to that decision I spoke with many confidants. As I'd done many times before and would do many times again, I used those discussions to comb through the complexity of emotions that accompany a major life decision. As I explained the situation to people in both monetary terms and at what juncture in my life this occured, I began to understand that I'd reached as far as I wanted to go with the company. I didn't want anyone else's job who was superior. As I interpreted it then, to me those people were pawns of the company. If you were talented and completely dedicated to the company, you were 'rewarded' by moving to ten cities in ten years. Or maybe your whole family would have to move from Boston to China, no matter that it's your daugther's senior year in high school. I didn't want to be a cog, however highly paid that cog was.<br />
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I knew that even though I knew I could earn more money, I also knew that you either have to be very intelligent or very hard working or both - and even if you are you have to catch some luck, too. Whatever the psychological reasons (and I'm sure they are deep and plentiful), it wasn't enough to make me want to supplant my independence for the sake of the company. I'd gotten what I perceived was valuable out of the relationship. I was paid well enough, I got to travel, I had friends all over the world and a global perspective that I continue to carry with me every day. But the wave had crested and I didn't want to be pulled down into the undertow. <br />
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Sadly, many of you - and certainly people you know - are churning in the undertow and looking to come up for air. To breathe. To find stillness. It happens imperceptibly slowly. It's easy to see the second hand on a clock move. If you stare carefully, you can see a minute hand move. But staring at an hour hand will make you insane. And yet, time passes. Before you realize it, you bought a house. You got married. Your kids are almost in, what the F!, middle school! And for too many, you're stuck in a job, town, marriage, relationship, bad habit that you've been in for years. We find moments of stillness. For the fortunate among us hard work leads to vacation and that sunrise on the lake from the deck. A few bottles of wine will stop the mental carousel for an evening. Otherwise, it's very hard to stop the noise. Every question leads to another question and another person perhaps to involve, and a cost consideration, and maybe someone's feelings to think about. With the increase in electronic communication, the immediacy of the times in which we live, presents the need of simply removing yourself from being accessible. We now have the burden of being concerned that if you don't answer a text message in a 'reasonable' amount of time, you're perceived either as an idiot for not having your apparatus with you or as one intentionally avoiding communication. And if you <i>are</i> having an affair, it means you are b-u-s-t-e-d.<br />
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My path required that I have a crises of personal conscious and leave the job that wasn't filling my soul anymore. I ditched my laptop and mobile phone and took to the Appalachian Trail. And while there was stillness and I had many pure and perfectly still moments, I had long, long conversations with myself, too. What was I going to do when I came out of the woods? Where was I going to live? Who was going to be my life partner, the ballast for which I was so obviously yearning? <br />
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My romantic arc - rated PG - in brief. I didn't have a real girlfriend until college. In high school, I barely kissed a girl outside of whatever spin the bottle game I was fortunate in which to land a seat. College was different. In college I wasn't the person everybody already knew. And girls were different. They appreciated different things. For years being funny meant getting laughs. In college and beyond being funny meant you got to occasionally kiss the girl. This was new to me and after finally experiencing it for myself it was hard for me to just want to kiss one girl. So I kissed a few, had some major crushes, picked up girls, and got dumped by girls. My dad's been married at least as many times as Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected president and I used to say - and I think I believed - that I didn't want to get married before I was ready to stay married. I met some fantastic women, smart, beautiful, funny, athletic, driven, compassionate, worldly and then there were a few who weren't any of those things. I was looking for the perfect woman for me and as searchers know the longer it takes the harder it becomes.<br />
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It was a void I was looking to fill. And as much luck as I've <i>ever</i> had led Linda Mary LoPiccolo into my life. As they say in life and in cliché, all the others were merely prelude to this. When we finally engaged out in <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=Long+Beach,+California&sll=41.80412,-72.267792&sspn=0.183496,0.421257&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Long+Beach,+Los+Angeles,+California&ll=33.766876,-118.254776&spn=0.204636,0.552063&z=12">Long Beach, California</a> where we lived in August of 2003, I'd chosen for the first time the kind of permanent commitment that had long eluded me. It was the first time this selfish <a href="http://horoscopes.aol.com/astrology/zodiac-central/sagittarius">Sagittarius</a> elected to be responsible for something other than himself. It took me longer than it ought to have to realize it, but I fell in love with Linda and thankfully she with me. I guess I am a slow learner because it's obvious to me now how perfect she is. Not perfect. Perfect for me. But I digress.<br />
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There was this moment right after our wedding that I often return to. After the reception and after stopping at the bar where our rowdy friends and repaired to, Linda and I got in the back of a somewhat tacky limo for our ride from Connecticut to our Boston hotel. (We departed to Mexico the next morning. I recommend <a href="http://www.hotelsecreto.com/">Hotel Secreto</a>). It was the first time we were alone in several days. Those days preceding the wedding are <i>hectic</i>. There's family coming in, last minute arrangements, weather to watch, and of course, fun to be had. With the wedding and our all our guests behind us, we could breathe. We had stillness and the beauty of it, what was magical was that it was shared. I looked into Linda's eyes and she into mine and in that moment we were perfectly aligned (horizontally, too). It was a moment of stillness and perfection to which I regularly return.<br />
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But like that hour hand on a clock, time passes and it's hard to tell how it did, so quickly. You think about all that's happened in that span of time, but looking back months get condensed into a nugget of experience. When Linda and I were going through fertility treatments it went on for more than a year. And then the whole process of considering and then moving forward with adoption is collapsed into a sentence when really that was probably a year, too. And whether you have your own baby or adopt one, you know what happens after it arrives. And for those that don't have kids, you can imagine! Time flies and the 'noise' is as loud as it's ever been. Not just the noise of the kid, which is real to be sure, but now you've got a spouse, a child or two, or three or seven. The dogs need to be walked and taken to the vet. There's the dance recital, your sick parent, the hockey practice, the potential new position, GLOBAL ECONOMIC MELTDOWN! That's not what we were prepping for. As you get older you realize the calamities of youth were but love taps compared to the punches life has in store for you now.<br />
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So much noise. A lot of political noise - everyone's pissed off. They're pissed at their government and they're pissed at the opposition. They're pissed at big business and they're pissed at corruption. Sarah Palin's pissed off, Glen Beck's pissed off. Keith Olberman's pissed off. John McCain looks pissed off even when he's happy. If you're at all tuned in, you can't miss the rancor - it's on the radio, the web and on billboards. I was running around my sister's neighborhood in Texas and many houses had these "No Socialism" placards stuck on their front lawns. I get freedom of speech, am 100% for it, but just because you can say something doesn't mean you should. But hey, it's a free country. I digress again. And it's easy to do because there are a lot of things in this life that are truly distracting.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5scpDev1qps">Television is pretty noisy too</a>. Many of these reality shows capitalize on conflict. If someone's not pissed off, they better be obviously peeved. How much louder are the commercials than the show? I know I am not alone in muting them. <i>Mute. Silent. Still. Breathe</i>. I used to listen to my <a href="http://www.apple.com/ipod/">iPod</a> (which I still sometimes call a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iO8FDPtN_8M">Walkman</a>) a lot when I was running. In the cities I used it to disappear into the music and into the rhythm of my stride. I also liked drowning out the sound of my heavy breathing. It's not attractive. But as I got fitter and especially when I ran on quieter routes, I left the iPod at home and chose instead to absorb my environment completely. I smelled the foliage, heard the rippling brook, the chirping birds. When I lived closer to a pool and swam laps, I found stillness in the repetition. I find that stillness sometimes when I'm doing dishes or ironing (yes I do both). <br />
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As much as I praise stillness, I cannot help now but hear the word <i>still</i> and associate it with stillborn - and that is what Leo what was. <a href="http://Born still at eight months">Born still at eight months</a>. Years after fertility treatments failed and after adoption succeeded we got pregnant. That event, too, now is reduced to a sentence. Something years in the making, so much emotional energy invested, so much noise endured, even embraced at times, gets relegated to a sentence. We got pregnant. On our own. Leo brought us tremendous joy while Linda's pregnancy progressed normally and without warning. It was a warm July day, 4 weeks before the due date when we learned that the baby had died. This was the kind of stillness I never sought, never truly considered, and the one that also necessitates the stillness I now perpetually crave. After Leo died, after three long days in the hospital, and after we went to the funeral home to collect his ashes, Linda and I paused as best we could. Our son Max needed and deserved our attention and he got it. But we couldn't breathe and we needed to. We left Max with relatives and went north, to Maine to a cabin retreat belonging to that hiking friend of mine. Those days nestled in the thick woods, next to that long lake were a gift. I went for a few jogs. Linda read. We swam and we napped. And there were tears. We had coffee at sunrise with the water lapping on shores. Then we left.<br />
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2009 was especially noisy. The economy tanked, the housing bubble burst, and Obama replaced 8 years of Bush. I was unemployed and we'd made the decision to walk away from our upside down city condo. We lost the baby we longed to raise, suddenly, tragically. And through it all, Linda and I were making choices that compelled us to listen to our values. I don't want to spend two hours commuting every work day. I don't think working that hard is worth either commuting or paying through the nose to live closer. It just makes things noisier. Let me make sure that readers know that I am speaking only for myself. Millions choose to commute or feel that what they get for their hard work is worth that equation. That's fine if it's fine for you. It wasn't for me and we chose to move to the <a href="http://www.articlesbase.com/videos/5min/261514368">Quiet Corner</a> - what the northeastern part of the state of Connecticut is affectionately called. Through all the noise, the message was steadily speaking. Leo's stillness firmly repositioned stillness to the forefront of my thoughts. I read some <a href="http://www.chopra.com/">Deepak Chopra</a> and <a href="http://www.eckharttolle.com/home/">Eckhart Tolle</a>. I took some wonderfully long and meditative runs in preparation for <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/10/baystate-marathon-recap.html">my first marathon</a>. I practiced tuning out the noise. I practiced being present. <br />
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Please don't imagine me some Buddhist monk in constant meditation. I am not. Despite my green environs and dearth of neighbors, the world too easily penetrates, vibrates, reverberates. Internet, cable television, radio have made access to noise nearly as abundant here as it was in my former urban life. But proximity permits me easier entry into stillness. There's a mile stretch of road that I either drive or run on nearly every day. It's one of the few straight roads around and there's a canopy of ancient and tall trees that form a cathedral vaulted ceiling of branches. This time of year the green is so new and lustrous. Later those leaves will grow richly and deeply green, but now they are translucent; when the sun shines through them the vernal splendor is arresting.<br />
<br />
You might imagine me trotting down that shady road, or going to the farmer's market for freshly picked vegetables and those are things I indeed do. But my mind is still too noisy, too many misplaced thoughts pulling me from the present. I've read that it's a good first step that I'm aware of these leanings, that to be conscious of my thoughts helps to bring me back to the present. It's an effort, every waking moment is an effort. I go through phases of wanting to work on presence and in choosing not to, procrastinating being present for goodness sake! Recently though, I was in a bookstore and saw a book about Zen Buddhism, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Buddhism-Not-What-You-Think/dp/0060507233">Buddhism Is Not What You Think</a></i>. I bought it because everything I've ever read - which is not a ton - about Buddhism appeals to me. I bought it because I knew I would find it helpful to have a new reminder of what it is I am seeking to honor, to value. It's not something mystical I'm after; it's not even something necessarily spiritual. What I'm looking for is something practical, a way to be, stasis. There's a more peaceful mind in me - and in you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-13062375727110900652010-06-02T11:18:00.004-04:002010-06-04T22:30:35.323-04:00On My Mother's Side<i>Disclaimer: My facts are iffy at best, but in this case it's the sentiment that counts.</i><br />
<br />
<i></i>I never knew my mom's grandmother. Fanny Goldstein came to America from what her daughter would later describe to me as either Poland or Russia. My mother said, "Bubby used to say 'some days Poland - some days Russia. It doesn't matter, they all hated the Jews.'" Like the changeable weather in New England, land possession wasn't a stable thing. This is the stuff that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWiRetxeviw">Fiddler on the Roof</a> is about. The villages her family - my family - came from were subject to Czarist pogroms and are part of the long story of the Jewish diaspora. Fanny came - by herself - to America as a teenager, one among millions who arrived by crowded ships at <a href="http://www.ellisisland.org/">Ellis Island</a>.<br />
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</div>Fanny moved to where people spoke her language, Yiddish. For her that meant Brooklyn. Sometime in the late 1910s, she met and later married Samuel Goldstein, another first generation immigrant <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashkenazi_Jews">Ashkenazi Jew</a> (and as wasn't uncommon then, he was also her cousin). The two would have several children, but only three daughters survived infancy: Martha, Nettie and Mildred. Mildred was called "Mashie" and she later decided to change her name to Marcia. Marcia would become my grandmother. I've heard many stories celebrating Fanny; nearly all of them come from my mom. My mother called her Bubby, the traditional Yiddish name used for grandmother. As happens as generations come and go, traditions fade. For whatever reason, I never called my grandmother, Bubby. I called her Grandma. My sister's kids knew her as GiGi - for great grandma. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkt-iVBCZegJwGmEeGJA0o3dfiG2NNcuRIZQs39EPbagq6Q4z8w53Hmur6GxhqC7KL-HSTqPVqeQEApfPZj8wgJ1wPsntXyAqAOZiovwAfi2p2IR_-0zuoY-HVDncxtKMnlDIpQ0ORyqR2/s1600/IMG_0020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkt-iVBCZegJwGmEeGJA0o3dfiG2NNcuRIZQs39EPbagq6Q4z8w53Hmur6GxhqC7KL-HSTqPVqeQEApfPZj8wgJ1wPsntXyAqAOZiovwAfi2p2IR_-0zuoY-HVDncxtKMnlDIpQ0ORyqR2/s400/IMG_0020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(<i>Left to right: Cyd Weldon, Marcia Weldon, Susan Weldon)</i></span></div><br />
Today, June 2nd, would have been Marcia's 89th birthday had she not died somewhat suddenly a few years ago, in 2007. It's only as I've grown older and more contemplative that I've begun to consider the complexities of a person's life. Long before I gave thought to the variegated lives of my older relatives, they were simply these loving people that swept into my life for weekends or perhaps a few weeks at a time at somewhat regular intervals. (Much the way I now drop in on the lives of my young nephew, cousin, and/or nieces.) They were there to entertain me. They took me to <a href="http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/">Disney World</a>, the zoo, and the beach. They had no depth of character for I had little ability to discern any. I didn't give a moment's thought about how they came to be who they were. Hell, I didn't even really know what kind of people they were other than they seemed to love me an awful lot. Back then that was enough. Now, however, I like to imagine them in full, have to imagine it for the truth is now buried and colored by time. After all, how they got to where they were literally precipitated me. We all like good stories and our presence alone signifies a pretty unique and sometimes compelling set of what some call coincidences.<br />
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My grandmother was born in Brooklyn in 1921. Though I don't remember her ever telling me much about her parents, I sensed how she felt about them. She loved them. It might be fair to say she adored them. My grandmother didn't tend to elaborate when answering questions. As an early teen on a summer stay in Florida, I might have sat at the white linoleum veneer kitchen table, a bialy with cream cheese in front of me, and asked her about her parents<i>. A</i>s I recall it, she held special praise for her dad. "<i>He was a wonderful man,"</i> she might have said and left it at that. Now that I think about it, the manner in which she spoke of him is the same as my mom does. I don't know enough about him, but wish he'd kept a journal that I could devour now that I'm ready for it. And from the way all that knew her speak of her, it's beyond apparent that Bubby was as beloved as one could be.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.breadcetera.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/bialys-004-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://www.breadcetera.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/bialys-004-large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(<i>bialys)</i></span></div><br />
<br />
Marcia Goldstein met my grandfather, Hyman Weldon, sometime around 1940 or '41 when they both were in different Brooklyn high schools. Hyman was dating a girl named Bertha and Marcia a boy named Harold. In the end, Harold and Bertha became a couple and luckily for me Hy and Marcia did, too.<br />
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The Weldons tend to dominate my mother's side of the family story - and to be sure there is ample reason. My grandfather, the late Hy Weldon came from fertile parents and was the youngest of 9 children, and the youngest of the 7 Weldon brothers (The others: Ruby, Nathan, Harry, Frank, Martin, and Morris.) Hy's parents, William and Sarah Weldowsky (that's the best guess at what their last name was before it was changed to Weldon), were Ashkenazi, too; they also emigrated to Brooklyn and it was there that Hyman and Marcia fell in love and were married. There are a few old photos that my mom and aunt have of them in their courting days. They always looked so young, so thin, and so happy. Things were simpler for them then. They hadn't had children yet and the first order of business for Hy was finding a place for him and Marcia to live so that they didn't have to stay under his in-laws' roof and sleep in the same bed with her sister. <br />
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The Weldowskys and the Goldsteins were poor - hard working but poor. I later heard my grandfather describe it something like this, "Sure we were poor, but everyone was poor so you didn't really notice or pay attention." He paid attention to Marcia and in 1942 they were married. My mother was born in April of 1943, my Uncle Norman in July 1946, and my Aunt Cyd (she legally changed her name from her given Cindy, which she never felt suited her) in April of 1953.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos.geni.com/p2/4525/7756/46b3d8ac7c726f15/jut47piw_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://photos.geni.com/p2/4525/7756/46b3d8ac7c726f15/jut47piw_large.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(<i>Hyman and Marcia Weldon</i>)</span></div><br />
These were some heady times. My grandfather was medically ineligible to serve during WWII. I seem to recall it was flat feet (or was that from a movie?). It could have been his colored blindness - he and at least two of his brothers were colorblind. Hy worked and Marcia was a homemaker. My grandfather had many odd jobs in his youth, but eventually found a profession that sustained him and his family for a lifetime. He was a paper hanger. In August of 1953, he moved his family from Brooklyn to what Wikipedia considers the "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Levittown,_New_York">father of the modern suburbia</a>," Levittown, Long Island.<br />
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My mother is an Aries, a fire sign. It is fair to say that she might not have been an easy teen to govern. My uncle, as I understand it, endured great teen hardships to live up to his father's high expectations for him, his only son. And my aunt was the youngest, the baby. Ten years my mother's junior, Cindy wasn't even 10 before her older sister moved out. Uncle Norman joined the <a href="http://www.uscg.mil/">United States Coast Guard</a> after he graduated high school and then slowly but surely drifted away from his parents and his siblings. <br />
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I've only a handful of remembrances of Uncle Norman. I last saw him about seven years ago when I was living in Southern California. He was - and maybe still is - living in La Brea. We met in Long Beach and drove together to LA for a <a href="http://losangeles.dodgers.mlb.com/index.jsp?c_id=la">Dodger</a> game. My uncle loved the Brooklyn Dodgers as a kid and it was a long held family myth that he moved to LA shortly after the Dodgers did to be closer to them.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.crossingwallstreet.com/archives/Brooklyn_Dodgers_1955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://www.crossingwallstreet.com/archives/Brooklyn_Dodgers_1955.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(<i>1955 Brooklyn Dodgers)</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
When I was at the Dodger game with him, I gently probed about what it was like to grow up in that house, the Weldon house. He didn't reveal much, was consciously vague about those years. When he told me that he was fairly certain he wouldn't be seeing his mother before she died, I let that thought linger and then we watched the rest of the game. Sadly, his instincts proved correct. Though they had communicated regularly, if but infrequently by telephone, Norman did not travel east either before or after his mother passed away.<br />
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The lion's share of my limited knowledge about the Weldon years in Levittown come from my mom and my aunt. Ten years apart they had appropriately different slants on it. My aunt remembers a house more removed of her siblings while my mother recalls the one filled with them. My mom was (and still is) - an ahead of the curve kind of woman. Innately and instinctively, she sniffed out prejudice and iniquity. She cared and cares little for any kind of discrimination or abuse. She is not one to conform for conformity's sake. I think it fair to say that she questioned authority and there's no reason to suspect that parental authority was any different than any other. When she got pregnant and married her first husband in 1964 she certainly knew that marrying a black man in the early 60s was unusual and controversial. While today most of us give little thought to interracial couples, back then a lot of people did. Including one Hyman Weldon. My grandfather essentially disowned my mother. The reasons are far too unknown to me to do justice to the circumstances by speculating further.<br />
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In 1964, Marcia Weldon would have been 43 years old. This was a woman I'd never met, never knew. I wouldn't know her, really know her for twenty more years. In 1964 Marcia's oldest daughter was ostracized, her son was soon to leave the nest after what I have been told were some tumultuous teen years and Cindy was just 11, what we'd call a tween today! My grandmother must have had a lot on her mind. Though Hy was the master of the house, Marcia had her ways of working behind the scenes. I am told that she often spoke with the wives of her husband's many brothers to smooth over what have been described as many family squabbles. And when Marcia's oldest daughter was living in Manhattan with her newborn daughter - Marcia's one and only grandchild, she was going to be damned if she wasn't going to see them. My aunt tells of traveling from Levittown to Riverside Drive on the upper west side of Manhattan to visit her sister and niece. My mother shared the apartment with three other young women with whose help she tended to the colicky infant . My mom's husband, Tony, was in the army and stationed elsewhere, thus leaving my mom much to her own devices.<br />
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Sometime after that visit, Marcia must have made her one and only marital ultimatum. One day, sometime around my sister's first birthday, Hy and Marcia drove to Manhattan. My grandfather entered the apartment crisply, as I imagine it. He asked to know in which room he could find the baby. Getting his answer, he walked to the room. My mother and grandmother waited in the hall for about ten minutes. Finally he came into the hallway with Elise in his arms and said "Pack. I'll wait in the car with the baby" They complied and packed Elise's things into the car and brought her back to Levittown. For several months, maybe as much as a year, Elise lived with Cyd, Hy, Marcia and Fanny. My mother worked in Manhattan and made the trek to Long Island often.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos.geni.com/p2/4525/7756/46b2fc1f11120710/sup77fuj_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="http://photos.geni.com/p2/4525/7756/46b2fc1f11120710/sup77fuj_large.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(From left to right: my sister Elise, my mother Susan, my grandmother Marcia and my great grandmother, Fanny.)</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div>My grandmother made that happen. It wasn't something that she wanted to talk about. My grandfather certainly didn't want to discuss it. It happened and as far as they were concerned it was history. My mother wasn't as inclined to gloss it over. It took them years to figure out how to be together and not have that sad part of their mutual history, my grandfather's casting my mom out - hanging in the air like pungent cigar smoke. I am certain had my grandmother not orchestrated that maneuver those many years ago, I would never experienced the loving relationship with my grandparents that I did.<br />
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When I was still a toddler, my grandparents made a familiar shift to Weldons - moving from New York to South Florida. By the time I began to have my own memories of my grandparents, they were well ensconced in Pembroke Pines. While they were still able to brave the effort, they made trips north to see us upon occasion, but mostly it's my trips to their retirement condo complex (complete with par 3 golf that wove between the buildings) that I recall more vividly. <br />
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The late 60s were a tumultuous time. Things were changing rapidly and so, too, did they for my mother. She and Tony split up. Shortly afterward she met a charming young academic at the wedding of a mutual friend. She said, "Don't marry me Kenneth, I'm a lousy housekeeper." But Ken Ring is nothing if not a romantic, rarely heeding better judgement in matters of the heart. Ken was a recently divorced single father - and primary caretaker - of his daughter, Kathryn. As Susan made regular visits from New York to Connecticut, the two young girls became loving playmates and then sisters when Ken and Susan were married in 1969. I was born in December of that year. I like to think of myself as 'the missing link.," the genetic glue of our family. But back to those Weldons....<br />
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When we were old enough to travel alone, my two sisters and I went to see our grandparents in Florida, but as my sisters - both several years older than me - began to have other summer plans, I made the two week sojourn alone. Truth be told, I liked having my grandparents all to myself. My grandfather would show me his closets full of camera equipment, he'd take me to the billiard room or occasionally to one of his job sites. Later at night I'd lie in their bed falling asleep to Johnny Carson until they'd kick me out to the pull out couch (a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNq0Umgvkas">Castro Convertible</a>) in the den. In the morning, after bialys and often after my grandfather went to work, I'd hang out with my grandma. While she cleaned up after breakfast I rested in their air conditioned bedroom, watching mindless television. Grandma would soon come in and sit down and I'd squirm into a position where she could gently scratch my back with her sharp nails. Then she'd ask me if I had a BM yet. The grandma I remember was very concerned with bowel regularity. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://janicemackrealty.com/images/photos/property/0/0_10001359_1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://janicemackrealty.com/images/photos/property/0/0_10001359_1000.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(<i>Hollybrook, Pembroke Pines, FL</i>)</span></div><br />
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Later in the day, she'd take me down to the pool to show me off to friends. Or we'd go next door to Sylvia's and she'd have a chit chat while I tried to discern how two condos shaped exactly the same could be furnished so differently. (Remember, <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/08/hanging-paper.html">my grandfather was a paperhanger</a>; there was a lot of wall paper in my grandparents' condo.) Sometimes she'd drive me around town to my great uncles and aunts. Many times it was both my grandparents with whom I made the rounds.<br />
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Uncle Frank and Aunt Ruth. Frank was cool with a great head of hair (grandpa used to <i>insist</i> that he dyed it) and he often slipped me a few bucks. Aunt Ruth was as evervescent a woman as I'd ever met. With a shock of bright, curly red hair, she treated me so kindly and lovingly I often thought out of all her great nephews and nieces, I was her favorite. We all thought that. <br />
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Uncle Morris and Aunt Ronnie were a hoot to me. Uncle Morris was the second youngest of the Weldon brothers and displayed the kind of youthful vigor that belied his sometimes troubled health. Unlike Frank who wasn't nearly as tactile with me, Uncle Morris was the guy who would lift you off your feet in spite of how his back would feel later. Aunt Ronnie, Morris' wife, had a thick Hungarian (I think) accent and long before ebay, was making a few extra dollars by going to every rummage sale in S. Florida and then reselling her finds.<br />
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I'd visit the children of my grandfather's siblings, and hang out with their children, my second cousins. And always, always there was time with my great aunt Claire, my grandfather's eldest sister. Her voice was raspy and her eyes deep set in that eastern european way. She claimed never to be hungry but was constantly nibbling, often from your plate. She controlled the room and she was as much an idol to my mom as she was a thorn in the sides of her younger brothers. I loved to watch the family dynamics. Though I had - and have still - little knowledge of whatever dynamics were in play in their lives, I discerned through the loud discussions and their talking over each other that their intertwined relationships were long in the making and at times contentious. <br />
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They were siblings born of the early 20th century, now living in South Florida in the 1980s. How strange it must have seemed to them. They grew up in the shadow of World War I, were children of working class Jewish immigrants, came of age during the Second World War as Jews - the lucky Jews whose families had the forethought to abandon Europe decades before the Holocaust. They saw the miraculous invention of television, were witnesses to conflicts that divided the country - Korea and Vietnam; they watched a man land on the moon (an event that preceded my birth by six months), and they lived through too many assassinations. How complicated their lives must have been? How very little did I know.<br />
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After I turned 16 and got a summer job, I stopped going to Florida for summer vacations. I saw my grandparents somewhat less. I wrote letters to them and it was often my grandmother who wrote me back on behalf of them both. I sent them letters from Germany on a high school exchange trip. I sent them letters from college. My sisters did, too. I know this because after my grandmother died, when we went through my grandparents belongings, we found a box with all of our letters, all of our postcards. <br />
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As far back as I can remember, my grandmother was never in great health or without discomfort. Afflicted with untreated scoliosis, she stooped over from the waist. The older she got, the more she stooped until she was nearly bent at a right angle over her walker. When we went to Disney World, we rented her a wheelchair so that she wouldn't have to do all that walking. (Grandpa loved the wheelchair because it often allowed us to get to the front of the long lines.) Though she would have only been in her late 50's when I began to have memories of her, I never recall her seeming or acting young or youthful. The closest thing to spirt she could evince was when we cajoled her to sing a few bars of Bing Crosby's "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Singing, stooped over, my Jewish grandmother wouldn't exactly belt out the lyrics of White Christmas but it was about as much mirth as she could muster. <br />
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<br />
My father was visiting just the other day and I asked him how he remembered his mother-in-law. My dad said that he had always gotten along with Hy, but that Marcia was a bit of a tough nut for him to crack. He said, mostly in jest, but with a hint of truth, that he saw her as a joyless woman who had a good sense of humor. I can see this. I see it in some pictures. My grandmother's smile in photographs was flat and even. But when something did hit her funny bone, she couldn't help but chuckle. More than once, I saw a twinkle in her eye - the twinkle usually reserved, I thought, for her eldest grandson or perhaps for anyone else who was swift enough to glimpse it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUDlFpQmdrfGdT-e4AlkosPdt5hC_r1H26TeVU-AlrXWuIALlJq1HlpNwd0JVoKe1J0pkGeEHgHphpMYIEA1D2xuslYR63hq1GLEjn4tBssPwHTWCpFyHrujyJbLp3cdkwxB2mhziLBrN/s1600/DSC00596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUDlFpQmdrfGdT-e4AlkosPdt5hC_r1H26TeVU-AlrXWuIALlJq1HlpNwd0JVoKe1J0pkGeEHgHphpMYIEA1D2xuslYR63hq1GLEjn4tBssPwHTWCpFyHrujyJbLp3cdkwxB2mhziLBrN/s400/DSC00596.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(<i>Marcia at right with Elise and me)</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUDlFpQmdrfGdT-e4AlkosPdt5hC_r1H26TeVU-AlrXWuIALlJq1HlpNwd0JVoKe1J0pkGeEHgHphpMYIEA1D2xuslYR63hq1GLEjn4tBssPwHTWCpFyHrujyJbLp3cdkwxB2mhziLBrN/s1600/DSC00596.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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My grandmother was more opinionated than strangers could initially perceive. She didn't keep her thoughts to herself, but let them drip out of her like a slowly leaking faucet. One would be hard pressed to miss the signals. Like many a mother, she worried. She worried about her grown children and her grandchildren. She worried about the health of her physically deteriorating husband, too. Years of physical labor combined with as many years of smoking (filterless Camels for a long period of time) left my grandfather weakened. When his health began to fail and it looked like the slow decline was ahead, my grandparents left Florida and moved to Connecticut - just down the road from my mom. After years and miles of separation the family was coming back into each other's daily orbit (My aunt and cousin moved to Connecticut shortly after Grandpa died). Now when I came home to Connecticut from Boston or Europe or wherever I was living, I could see everyone. No stop to Mansfield was complete without a visit to my grandparents.<br />
<br />
The tiny assisted living apartment they moved to became stuffed with a lot of the Florida decor. White vinyl bench in front of the couch; white ceramic cat next to the sliding glass door; glass candy dishes and paper weights. The painting of the old man looking over his glasses, fixing a watch (or maybe he was building a model ship?) and smoking a pipe hung above the same desk that had been in the den in which I'd slept more than a decade before. Years passed, and eventually so did my grandfather in the winter of 1994. <br />
<br />
My grandmother was 73 and for the first time in her life she was going to be living alone. I was in graduate school at the time, in my mid-twenties, trying to figure out how and where to spend my own life. Wherever I was, I made sure to check in with grandma from time to time. I liked the way she bluntly asked me things like what was I going to do for money and did I have a girlfriend. I liked the way she confided in me about her concern for her own children, but then would shrug off those worries with a dismissive sigh. She denied it to her death, but instead of saying "Oy" or "Oy vey" she'd say "Oysh," often when siting down, getting up, or when I said something intentionally absurd.<br />
<br />
In the the first years after my grandfather died, my grandmother was noticeably sad. Without his health to manage, time passed more slowly. She read a lot, religiously watched As the World Turns (I think it was) and became a huge fan of the <a href="http://www.uconnhuskies.com/sports/w-baskbl/conn-w-baskbl-body.html">UCONN Husky Basketball</a> teams. She spoke to my mom and aunt almost daily and had the opportunity to get to know my one and only first cousin, Sam - Cyd's son, who was about 13 when she died. For years when I would go visit, at first alone, but later with my wife, my grandmother would be sitting on the couch with her legs stretched out. "Come in," she would call when I knocked on the door. By now it was a lot of effort for her to get up, so Linda and I would go to her couch and greet her. Next to her couch, on that white vinyl bench, were scores of medications and a notebook in which she diligently recorded her blood sugar (or was it her blood pressure). Shortly after arriving, I'd go into her bedroom to rotate her mattress for her and Linda would adjust her walker to a proper height. There were usually a few jobs she had for me, taking out the trash or reaching something on a tall shelf. I know she relished our visits, though they rarely lasted more than an hour (she'd dismiss us summarily when the conversation lagged or she was tired). <br />
<br />
When I got married in 2004, it was a major concern how to accommodate my grandmother at the outdoor ceremony and reception. She was limited in terms of being able to walk and greatly concerned about where the bathroom was. Rolling the wheelchair around the uneven grounds proved difficult and my brother-in-law is likely still scarred from being her bathroom attendee designate, but she had a wonderful, wonderful time. She told everyone how much fun she had. I hadn't seen her gleaming that much since my sister married in 1991, back when her beloved Hy was still by her side.<br />
<br />
Just weeks before she died, Linda and I came to Mansfield and celebrated her 86th birthday with her. We took her out to the local Chinese food restaurant and were joined by my mom, aunt, cousin, and some friends. As was usually the case, it took a lot of convincing to get her out of the house. It wasn't a small undertaking for her. She came and enjoyed the meal - she was social in her own inimitable way. When the bill came and it was time for figuring out people's tabs, there came the kind of cacophonous eruption of Brooklyn accents reminiscent of all those family meals in South Florida. My grandmother leaned over to me and asked if my cell phone had a calculator on it. When I confirmed to her that it did, she didn't miss a beat, "<i>Then use it!"</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
It's been nearly three years since my grandmother died. Hard to both believe that it's only <i>and</i> already been three years. When Linda and I would visit, she would - as only an octogenarian can - bluntly inquire as to the state of our baby making efforts. She worried about us, about the troubles we were having starting a family. I knew that she hoped she'd live to see us have children, but more than that, I knew she wanted it for us, whether she lived to see it or not. She died five months before Linda and I adopted Max and just as I never knew Fanny, <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/11/gift-named-max.html">Max</a> will only know his great grandmother on his father's mother's side from pictures and stories. I know how much joy seeing Max would have brought her just as I know how much sadness would have filled her heart if she'd lived to the day <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/absence.html">Leo</a> was stillborn. In some ways I am glad she passed before I had to share that news with her. I am not sure I could have spoken the words.<br />
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Happy Birthday, Grandma. We miss you.<br />
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<i></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-87655272301355854992010-04-26T15:32:00.001-04:002010-04-28T08:46:38.277-04:00The DreamIn the hazy state of consciousness between being fully asleep and fully awake, when the colors of the room are all in shades of grey, Mitchell's mind slowly separated the layers and images of the dream from the early morning chirps of warblers and tanagers outside his window. <br />
<br />
In his dream, Mitchell had been riding on a school bus. It was the kind of dream that seemed so real that the realization of it as something his brain had created in sleep was startling and disconcerting. He'd felt the vibrations of the bus as it rolled down a dirt road, felt them course through his skin, muscle, and bone like that of a bass guitar whose regular hum buzzes steadily below a melody. Through the windows, he'd clearly seen the woods whisking by - strobe images of strong tree trunks interspersed with ferns and saplings. Mitchell was seated toward rear of the large bus, but other than the driver, whose face he could not see, he was alone. He had the distinct feeling that there had been other people, children, on the bus before, but that he was the last passenger. This had been the case when Mitchell was in grade school and he felt sure that this was the case now. Though in his mind he felt he was all of his 40 years, in the dream he felt he was looking through the eyes of his younger self. <br />
<br />
As the bus dipped into ruts and bumped over the uneven road, Mitchell felt his body alternate between pressing firmly into the vinyl seat and losing its weight. The smells of summer were rich in his nostrils and Mitchell recalled wondering why he was riding a school bus in summer. The verdant trees formed a cathedral canopy over the road and light filtered in as if through stained glass. There were occasional bright reflections of sunlight coming from the bus metal that drew Mitchell's attention. It was as if there were someone flashing nautical morse code signals to him; the light flashes were regular and specific, but Mitchell couldn't decipher the message. He felt a sense of regret, but couldn't assign it to anything in particular. The fact that it was broad and vague lingered as Mitchell watched the woods go past.<br />
<br />
The trees nearest to the road were blurs, but when he widened his gaze, everything seemed to slow down. In the distance, deep in the woods, he thought he saw a face. Somehow the face kept pace with the bus. It came and went with the alternating reflections of light peering down through the trees. Then the face came closer and Mitchell saw that it was his own adult face and that it was being reflected in the glass of the window through which he was looking.<br />
<br />
All of a sudden the woods receded from the road. Just as on a high speed train, where the terrain changes quickly - like you're stationary and a vast panoramic scene drawn on a broad canvas is flying quickly past. The woods were now far off and between Mitchell's window seat and the trees a field appeared, grew, and widened until it filled his entire span of vision. The field began as tall, wispy grass and then instantly became filled with bright wildflowers of purple, yellow, and orange. Then he saw a lake. Somehow the lake stayed in the center of his view even though the bus continued forward. The water's surface was wrinkled by wind blowing across it. On the opposite shore of the lake was a solitary dock harboring a small rowboat. From this distance, Mitchell could only see the figure of a person reclining in the vessel. The hat adorned head was resting in the crook of the bow and crossed legs were visible as they stretched toward the stern. Mitchell could feel the undulating water below the boat as if it were him in the boat. Then he felt that undulation as the bus bounded down the country road. The lake finally began to move and passed from view giving way to open meadows and infinite rolling hills rising one behind the other in the distance.<br />
<br />
The bus began to slow and Mitchell's attention turned toward the windshield. Past the seats in front of him, which now appeared as pews, past the driver who now wore a minister's gown, through the windshield which now was stained glass (though somehow still transparent) Mitchell saw ivy covered iron gates, ornate and grand. He couldn't see past or through them and to either side were Robert Frost stone walls. The walls were grand and obviously ancient - the sort that made Mitchell wonder at the skill of the craftsmen who assembled them so long ago.<br />
<br />
The bus continued to slow and as it did Mitchell could now make out the individual notes of sound that had been filling his ears. The rushing of wind past his window ceased to make its whoosh. He could hear the bus engine, the squeaky leaf springs of the suspension. He heard the the sounds of individual rocks and stones being crushed into the hard-packed dirt road below the tires. Then the bus creaked to a stop. The driver reached to his right and pulled the door lever handle slowly. Mitchell saw the rubber closure of the two bus doors separate and widen. The driver didn't turn around but Mitchell understood he was to exit. <br />
<br />
Mitchell slid from the window to the aisle and pulled himself up by the back of the seat ahead of him. He walked forward. He felt his hips brush against the alternating seats as he passed them. As he neared the driver, he could now see the his reflection in the rearview mirror above. It was the face of an older man, deep crow's feet alongside Paul Newman blue eyes and several days of white stubble were the indelible features. The old man winked, kindly and knowingly. Mitchell ducked down low to try to get a better look at the gates through the windshield. Above them he was able to see only the long frame of a slate roof atop a building far behind the wall. When Mitchell reached the front of the bus and turned to address the driver, he was gone. This did not cause Mitchell any unease. He simply turned to his right, gripped the hand rail and stepped confidently down the stairs out of the bus. <br />
<br />
When his feet touched the ground he became aware that he wasn't wearing any shoes. He felt the pebbles and dirt between his toes. The earth was warm from summer's heat. Smells of lilacs, wild berries, pine, and grass enveloped his senses. As Mitchell approached the gates, they slowly began to open. Through the widening gap, he saw a long gravel drive bordered by a wild and unkempt garden on either side. It led to a large and wide two story stone manor. Stairs from the drive rose to a front porch that stretched the length of the building, wrapping out of view around its sides. Six granite pillars supported a roof shading the porch. There were six empty chairs on the veranda, three on each side of the stairway. The chairs were wrought iron with pristine white and comfortable looking cushions. Next to each was a small matching round table. The chair to the far left was the only one upon which the afternoon sunlight shone. On that table, Mitchell saw a pitcher of what he knew to be iced tea. A glass full of ice stood next to the pitcher. As Mitchell took this all in, a figure appeared at the top of the steps. It was a woman, also barefoot, in a sage colored dress and a wide brimmed summer hat. The hat covered her eyes from view and all Mitchell could see was a beneficent smile. Though she did not speak, he understood that she'd long been looking forward to his arrival.<br />
<br />
From behind him, Mitchell heard the bus doors close. He heard the bus shift from park to reverse. The bus began to to beep loudly - the reverse warning alarm. Beep...beep...beep. Mitchell turned back to look. The sun's reflection in the windshield was blinding and Mitchell could only manage to squint at the diminishing outline of the bus. Beep...beep...beep. Mitchell stared as the bus slowly and steadily faded from view, disappearing backward into the woods. Strangely, the sound of the bus' reverse alarm wasn't becoming more quiet as it receded. Instead the beeping grew louder and louder. Beep...Beep...Beep. As Mitchell tried to make sense of all this he turned back to the manor just in time to see a thick fog roll swiftly in and obscure his view of the barefoot woman in the summer hat and sage dress. The beeping grew louder and the fog thicker. Finally he couldn't see anything but shades of grey. BEEP...BEEP...BEEP. Then all turned black as if Mitchell's eyes were closed. Only the sound of the alarm remained.<br />
<br />
The alarm. Mitchell opened his eyes, saw his bedroom in the grey light of dawn. He reached to the nightstand and pressed the button to silence his alarm. Mitchell's wife stirred briefly beside him and then he heard her exhale deeply in the manner he knew meant she was soon to be deep in sleep again. As Mitchell became conscious of what was real and what had been a dream, he closed his eyes to try to cement what he'd just experienced. The sound of bus, the sight of the woods, the lake, and the man in the boat. The kindly bus driver with white stubble and crows feet. The feel of the dirt between his toes and the scent of lilacs. And the woman in the sage colored dress. The harder Mitchell tried to imprint these images in his mind the faster he felt them slipping away.<br />
<br />
Then the cat on the bed stirred and rose to press her head lovingly against Mitchell's shoulder as she purred. The dream that had just been so real - the sounds, scents, and sights - faded from Mitchell's senses and were replaced by those of his bedroom. He smelled coffee being automatically brewed in his kitchen. The sounds of the morning birds outside mixed with the occasional whir of a car or truck of an early riser passing down the road. By the time Mitchell heard his young son plaintively calling "Daddy" from his bedroom, the last visceral sensations of the dream were nothing more than crumbs - so minute as to barely resemble the whole of which they'd just been such an integral part. Mitchell rose slowly and slid his legs off the bed. The once familiar smooth, cool hardwood floor pressing against the soles of his feet now felt strange, though he no longer knew why.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-70156155538760382912010-04-19T12:14:00.000-04:002010-04-19T12:14:01.172-04:00I Am Not RunningIf I weren't injured I'd be running the Boston Marathon today. As I've been telling many people it's a good news, bad news proposition. The bad news is I am not able to run the marathon due to a nagging Achilles strain. The good news, I say in jest and to mollify my disappointment, is I don't have to push my body 26.2 miles.<br />
<br />
As I write this entry, I have the marathon on television. The elite runners are pushing through the head winds and behind them the throngs of other runners have begun their arduous and inspiring journey. When I began my training this winter and was struggling up the rolling hills where I live and run I'd imagine I was trudging up Heartbreak Hill. When I was descending the hills, I'd imagine it was the long and steady descent that marks the beginning miles of Boston. I'd say to myself, if I can't do this how will I manage on marathon Monday. <br />
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As January became February and I increased my long run mileage from 10 to 12 to 14 to 16, I was making the steady progress required to complete 26 plus miles. But then in mid-February, on a short easy recovery run, I felt a twinge in my left Achilles. In the weeks that followed, I stretched, I iced, I took copious handfuls of ibuprofen. I ran through the pain. When all of that failed to demonstrably reduce the inflammation, I ceased running and began to do my aerobic workouts at the gym on the bicycle and elliptical trainer. The pain was less, but still present. I went to physical therapy and held out hope that I'd have enough time to both recover from the injury and still fit in the necessary training miles before it was too late.<br />
<br />
The pain ebbed but not entirely until finally, with just about 6 weeks remaining before Boston, I decided that if I was going to be able to run, I needed to get back on the roads and get in the miles. I set out on a crisp Saturday morning in early March. I was determined to endure some discomfort, but was also mindful that too much pain might be signaling catastrophic and long term injury. After just a few miles I felt the familiar soreness with each stride. I tried to run lightly and gently, but after a couple more miles wisdom prevailed. I called my wife and asked her to pick me up. <br />
<br />
On the ride home I tried not to sulk. I tried to focus on the correctness of my decision. I knew I was doing the smart thing, but I also knew that the structure of my days would now fade. I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't be exercising for a while. I enjoyed not just the running, the being in shape, but also the commitment to training. Because a marathon is a serious undertaking, one can't shirk the training - at least I can't. I am not a natural athlete. It is work for me and without fear of pain that the marathon represented, I felt certain that my commitment to running would slide.<br />
<br />
I was right. After that day, I have largely failed to do my ankle exercises. With the exception of a 10K I ran a couple of weeks ago (with mild Achilles pain the whole way), I haven't done much in the way of aerobic exercise. As I sit now, watching the marathon, I think I am beginning to understand why. I am pouting. Pouting, just like the pouting I witness in my two year-old, only punishes the pouter. I've used my legitimate injury as an illegitimate excuse to wallow. Now with the Boston Marathon here and nearly gone, it's time to put my disappointment to rest. I was not at the start of this race and I won't be at the finish. It is what it is - an experience to learn from. Through the process of training, injury, sulking, and watching these runners runners today, I've come to realize that I'd rather be running. Time to start rehabbing my ankle.<br />
<br />
Congratulations to all the marathoners. I sincerely appreciate your accomplishment.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-55280647785237412922010-04-07T16:58:00.065-04:002010-04-08T08:56:09.701-04:00Cloaked TriggersLinda and I watched <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0478134/">In the Valley of Elah</a> the other night. The film follows a father named Hank (played by Tommy Lee Jones) who learns his son is AWOL after returning from a tour of duty in Iraq. It isn't long before we learn that his son has been murdered and the movie's plot centers on Hank's efforts to learn who perpetrated the crime. In the course of the action we learn that Hank and his wife also lost their only other child, another son ten years prior in a military helicopter crash.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Watching the film, one can't help but feel tremendous sympathy for Hank and his wife, played by Susan Sarandon. Two sons, both dead. Watching a fictionalized portrayal of this kind of parental loss isn't easy. You likely know parents who struggle with child illness and death. Sadly, it may be you. Death - in whatever form it comes - is something with which we all must eventually encounter. But parents who've actually had to endure such tragedies must both cope with the reality of their situation and also figure out a way to live a life amongst those who haven't. And for those of us who have lost a child, sometimes it's hard to know when those wounds, however long ago inflicted will be reopened.</div><br />
<div>Toward the end of In the Valley of Elah, when director Paul Haggis lays the sentimentality on pretty thick, feeling sadness rise in me, I glanced over at Linda and saw tears welling in her eyes. Immediately, I knew that these were not tears for the characters in the movie. They were tears for Leo. After eight months of normal pregnancy and for no known cause, Leo was stillborn late last July.<br />
<br />
So much has changed since then. Our son Max is nearly two and half years old. As parents well know, children of this age develop so rapidly that even a small amount of time can encompass monumental change. Though a short amount of time may pass, it seems more has owing to the rapid rate of transformation. Six months ago we lived in a city condo in Massachusetts. We now live in the quiet country of Connecticut. And while we've changed much in terms of our surroundings and circumstance when we think about Leo and linger in those thoughts for even a brief moment, all the same feelings come rushing, bull rushing back. How can it be that Leo's not with us? How can it be that this has happened to us? <i>This should not be!</i> And while Max is more than we could have ever of dreamed, by all rights we should have <i>two</i> sons. We should have Max <i>and</i> Leo.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Moving to a new town, meeting new people. They don't know us; they couldn't know our story. They see us with Max and wonder where he gets his curls from (not from us but from his birth parents). They ask if we have just the one child. We answer yes because what else would we say to a new acquaintance? But we can't say the words without thinking we should have two. It's not that we want to immediately tell everyone we meet about our dear departed Leo (because, face it, that would just be plain weird), but in not doing so a significant part of our identity remains hidden. By not revealing this fundamental information it paradoxically highlights Leo's absence to us all the more.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Last fall, in Leo's honor, we planted a green mountain sugar maple tree on our family property - <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/farm.html">The Farm</a> as we call it. We dug the hole and sprinkled some of Leo's ashes in amongst the the dirt and roots. We staked the tree to keep it stable in the stiff breezes that blow across the open expanse. During the cold and dark days of winter, I'd occasionally inspect Leo's tree to make sure it was fairing well. In talking to Linda, I discovered that she, too, was doing the same. Visiting Leo's tree, touching its trunk and caressing its branches is a way of communing with him.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Spring has finally sprung here in Connecticut and with the warmer weather I find myself outside at the Farm quite a bit more. I have the opportunity to go to Leo's tree more and I do. It brings me great comfort to see the new growth at the ends of the branches, the buds forming. Soon the leaves will blossom. I can't wait. Yet even as I type this, the notion of the rebirth of Leo's tree fills me with mixd emotions. I'm grateful for the symbolism embedded in nature's seasonal rebirth. I am also more frequently aware that this tree which though it brings me so much serenity reminds me of the son that isn't in my arms.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Linda and I have undergone a tremendous amount of healing in the several months since Leo died. Most hours of most days, you wouldn't, couldn't see the anguish that lies below the surface. We can often have a normal conversation about Leo and get through it without the rush of emotion that used to be unpreventable. But there are times when all of it comes at us with no warning. Sometimes I wake up and feel the pendulant melancholy has returned, a sadness I owe and whose debt has come due. Other times I feel right as rain, but then a scene in a darned Hollywood movie that, though the circumstances are vastly different, triggers familiar waves of sorrow. I've never felt and earthquake, but understand that it can feel like the earth is undulating under foot. This is how the grief sometimes feels. One moment the ground beneath me is firm and then with little warning, it feels unstable, unpredictable, and I unsteady.</div><div><br />
</div><div>When I saw Linda weeping next to me on the couch and understood who the tears were for I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. Often there is nothing to say. For a while we just sat there, adrift in our heartache. Eventually Linda moved to get up, but I wasn't ready for her to leave the room. I pulled her back down to the couch and we embraced each other for several minutes in silence. I was trying to muster my strength to utter the only words that filled my head. Each time I thought I was ready to speak, I couldn't bring them out. I wanted to say the words without my voice cracking. I wanted to say them in one breath. I know not why, but it was important to me that I deliver them clearly, plainly. I knew that they were the only words I'd be able to say that night.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"I miss him a lot."<br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-33458074199927621112010-03-25T14:27:00.002-04:002010-03-29T11:07:16.557-04:00An Actor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLwwHKp3HEi7tcy_xEm8i6hA1MEXMnML8kKLurTreCTTVIcrW2JKg-ai2h97ZReL466HpOWkLEnfuJhhZJ7Yh-zpG7KS_FVMUJ7pds767tM6FeJ0P1oSxWnd7qfpiDG3gYZZRlRThK8wJh/s1600/DSC_0061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLwwHKp3HEi7tcy_xEm8i6hA1MEXMnML8kKLurTreCTTVIcrW2JKg-ai2h97ZReL466HpOWkLEnfuJhhZJ7Yh-zpG7KS_FVMUJ7pds767tM6FeJ0P1oSxWnd7qfpiDG3gYZZRlRThK8wJh/s400/DSC_0061.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The play that I appeared in closed last Sunday. We performed Larry Shue's <a href="http://www.dramatists.com/cgi-bin/db/single.asp?key=1181">The Foreigner</a>. Before a few weeks ago, I'd never acted before. Well....I guess that's not entirely true. I've certainly been performing for years. As I wrote in <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2009/12/funny-guy.html">The Funny Guy</a>, I've long employed humor to get a laugh, ease tension, be mean spirited, be the center of attention, make clean phrases sound dirty, amuse children, get jobs, get free stuff - and food, and of course charm women (though now just one. Yes, my wife.). But never before had I appeared, so to speak, on the stage. So to leap into a full-length play was perhaps a bit audacious. Even for me.<br />
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<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVjYRHFStKTvtSDIcPgi7opIxAM2IHEka6tlLnhrSZ_CQjxCp6Npd6tWoOqnHOKERBpfs8F5P1dYcx_1_feN_ezqQppvA6qcYA7yirXdBXYbQvNopfHiA2a-5EmUHKuBla1ywxN8DByKs/s1600/DSC_0011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUVjYRHFStKTvtSDIcPgi7opIxAM2IHEka6tlLnhrSZ_CQjxCp6Npd6tWoOqnHOKERBpfs8F5P1dYcx_1_feN_ezqQppvA6qcYA7yirXdBXYbQvNopfHiA2a-5EmUHKuBla1ywxN8DByKs/s400/DSC_0011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>A few months ago I saw an ad in the paper for open auditions at the <a href="http://www.thebradleyplayhouse.info/">Bradley Playhouse</a> in nearby <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=putnam,+ct&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Putnam&gl=us&ei=baOrS4sgxJuWB-Cb_bwO&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CAgQ8gEwAA">Putnam, CT</a>. There have been a few times in the course of my life when I've pondered acting (always briefly). I felt the occasional pang of regret for not having been in a high school play. Looking back, I realize now that despite my inclination to make jokes, I was a lot more self-conscious than I let on. A classic case of my laugh-getting antics masking what is probably a normal in adolescent insecurity. After all, when I told jokes, walked silly, or answered every question asked of me with, "Bend over and I'll show you," I was the star of my own show. There were no lines to forget or cues to miss. There was no scene to blow because everything was improvisational. I possessed (still?) a mind that was quick enough to be witty on the go and a predilection to be funny. More than that, I processed almost everything I saw, heard, read or thought so that it <i>was</i> funny - and thankfully I could present it as such to my audience. My audience was my family, friends, co-workers, and students. Sometimes I gave toasts at weddings or was an emcee for large meetings. I'd been up in front of several hundred people with their undivided attention before. I had prepared and given speeches. With my own material, and my own style of delivery, I said funny things and made silly faces. But a play? A play is a different thing altogether.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC7DedSSxgjttK3hxUand7jXk4fXC3J1mOODv-f3DlDw1rlBS1Xj8sY7SO3Nt83gl3IYFBw75VeBlqYighzVjhKb6PAWfAv0Fxl8JQu8nGHsrZOULNH28nKgSqa2dONfTJ0rebTN5EF0g/s1600/DSC_0085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC7DedSSxgjttK3hxUand7jXk4fXC3J1mOODv-f3DlDw1rlBS1Xj8sY7SO3Nt83gl3IYFBw75VeBlqYighzVjhKb6PAWfAv0Fxl8JQu8nGHsrZOULNH28nKgSqa2dONfTJ0rebTN5EF0g/s400/DSC_0085.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>So after a lifetime of hearing people tell me how funny I am and asking me if I'd ever considered acting, here was an opportunity perfect for me (as was the role). An open audition at a community theater. Why not? A few days before the audition, before I'd even committed myself to going, I stopped into the theater to pick up the readings for the script. The theater manager greeted me, introduced me to the roles, and asked about my experience. I humbly told her that I had none. No matter she said, the theater actively encourages first timers to audition. She added that sometimes not that many people audition. In other words, I had a shot at being cast. Long story short: I was cast and I was cast in the title role of the play. I had only read snippets of the script, knew nothing of the character and how many lines I had, to say nothing of the fact that many of them were in a completely made up language!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjya0VU8TC62Z-b8TWsSmuDJyYIGbXqOL4MtS8AsAOuA9pcOYQHi7wANtheVXhZVUigzfj-MJ68Ay3iZAd-EggCZKhx4ce-cGMZppJapH75f3v-R3x-joYkIe2i3NGlenDFTgwP-pepcg8k/s1600/DSC_0067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjya0VU8TC62Z-b8TWsSmuDJyYIGbXqOL4MtS8AsAOuA9pcOYQHi7wANtheVXhZVUigzfj-MJ68Ay3iZAd-EggCZKhx4ce-cGMZppJapH75f3v-R3x-joYkIe2i3NGlenDFTgwP-pepcg8k/s400/DSC_0067.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div>I reflected in <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/02/by-heart.html">By Heart</a> how the whole concept of learning lines was a skill I'd employed little of in recent years. Memorization. It's work. When rehearsals began (three times a week) we had only 7 weeks or so until the play opened. At first we rehearsed upstairs in the function room at <a href="http://www.victoriastationcafe.com/">Victoria Station</a> and later on a mostly empty stage while our set was being built. Some of my fellow actors had years of experience in theater - acting, directing, stage managing, doing technical work behind the scenes. I was the only one who had zero formal experience. As the weeks progressed, I casually read my script and also read <i>from</i> it during rehearsal. The experienced actors had soon memorized many scenes, only needing to call for a line from time to time. With less than two weeks before opening night, I was <i>just</i> getting a handle on some of my lines. Frighteningly to me, I wasn't the only one. At this point, I didn't leave the house, much less the room, without my script. I tested myself and I had everyone in my vicinity read lines with me - my wife, mother, mother-in-law, friends, gas station attendants, pharmacists, and supermarket cashiers. </div><div><br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUvQp4o209twEV-NhzgrNyHUt-kx5TU9ehTGNPVgC3jR-4Sx51IrLl69z5mkHxJAlD4gXELl29WbseG5G_NEqxVdNQvjVZBEU7GKkc575-Jxi8h4KmwDPBFAH06h_ShKDezAGVhPydTkP/s1600/DSC_0124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUvQp4o209twEV-NhzgrNyHUt-kx5TU9ehTGNPVgC3jR-4Sx51IrLl69z5mkHxJAlD4gXELl29WbseG5G_NEqxVdNQvjVZBEU7GKkc575-Jxi8h4KmwDPBFAH06h_ShKDezAGVhPydTkP/s400/DSC_0124.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>A week before the show opened, the scenes were rough. Some of us still didn't know our lines - well we did, but not exactly when to say them. I left that rehearsal certain that the show would be a disaster. I imagined a silent audience. Perhaps a few polite chuckles at first - then nothing. Folded arms, people slowly and quietly leaving and then rotten tomatoes. Remember I hadn't done this before.<br />
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</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-G1kBF02kxVFBee0RgS5b0RZfPDZnYB7UTThurqk2Alf9TUSRHhHFD_eve86oO3tXVY1KxEgyaT6BXJRSn4j9c4PaB9DFwC1wyGiox8THU7pge6468NKvHQLgBxnpYrKNX4wylc66zUf/s1600/DSC_0137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji-G1kBF02kxVFBee0RgS5b0RZfPDZnYB7UTThurqk2Alf9TUSRHhHFD_eve86oO3tXVY1KxEgyaT6BXJRSn4j9c4PaB9DFwC1wyGiox8THU7pge6468NKvHQLgBxnpYrKNX4wylc66zUf/s400/DSC_0137.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>Slowly at first, but at an increasing rate our timing and recall improved. We got through scenes with less hiccups. As we learned our lines, we learned our roles and were now freer to be the character instead of just speak the lines. I might even hazard to say that I began to act. Two nights before we opened our director had us do a 'speed through.' We basically performed the play at double speed. To our collective amazement we ran through the whole play barely missing a beat, cue, or lines. It was, at least by our measure, crisp. We, at least, knew our lines. I finally gained the confidence to know that come opening night, we'd be able to get through the show, perhaps even put on a half-way decent one.<br />
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</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wWzGgFI8gDOC7lsMbmlQmbwnBCMxl4zgTVG1YzzQv28TIOzJwCoIjygl9fFKfbWjRaNrZYR6N8h2ScjVl9UN4LpEcSSHIMwpMc7j_e2iEk3ytf62dRfh_DBDqNDvYfsuo0iY1wwKn1U6/s1600/DSC_0158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wWzGgFI8gDOC7lsMbmlQmbwnBCMxl4zgTVG1YzzQv28TIOzJwCoIjygl9fFKfbWjRaNrZYR6N8h2ScjVl9UN4LpEcSSHIMwpMc7j_e2iEk3ytf62dRfh_DBDqNDvYfsuo0iY1wwKn1U6/s400/DSC_0158.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>The Bradley Theater was built in 1901 and has close to 400 seats. (For a history of theater, <a href="http://www.thebradleyplayhouse.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=19&Itemid=77">click here</a> and look for history tab. Find out about the ghosts <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QiOirdl-NQ&feature=PlayList&p=AADF4C8F5BD87FC7&index=0&playnext=1">here</a>) It's a charming old building which though it shows its age, retains the warmth of its literally storied past. Below the stage is a narrow hallway and a row of small dressing rooms. Across from the dressing rooms is a low-ceilinged storage and mechanical area known affectionately and aptly as "The Dungeon." When below stage, you can hear the floor boards creak above and the sound of voices, though muffled, is clear. It's there, below stage that we gather before the play starts. At regular intervals before the show, the stage manager alerts us of how much time we have. "Doors are open." "30 minutes." "15 minutes." "5 minutes." Finally, "Places."</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAG8rWLSXRoPSUaO8MG_8oi8EMt51vkmMtNZH1MNKSulu4gTOZeJ-47WzTdMGA-RvssCiHwqkqzyEH0DvEB-qTWda3lUp0r57qFyNwCq3_FQ6bG2QQYsGEGWTUxIFzePFsaHpu_L0WFQg6/s1600/DSC_0076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAG8rWLSXRoPSUaO8MG_8oi8EMt51vkmMtNZH1MNKSulu4gTOZeJ-47WzTdMGA-RvssCiHwqkqzyEH0DvEB-qTWda3lUp0r57qFyNwCq3_FQ6bG2QQYsGEGWTUxIFzePFsaHpu_L0WFQg6/s400/DSC_0076.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>I stand on the stairs behind a closed door that opens onto the stage. After the director makes some theater announcements the house lights go down. When they next go up, I'll follow "Froggy" on stage. Froggy begins the play's opening dialogue. Except that it's really a monologue as my character - Charlie - is so despondent that he only stares forlornly into space. As I cross the stage and sit on the couch, I feel my heart pounding. My first line is "I shouldn't have come" and that's all I can think about. I listen to Froggy for my cue and once I hear it, it's like I am shot out of a cannon. Soon after the play begins, it's revealed that my character must pretend not to speak or understand English, though he most certainly can. For much of the first act I have few lines, but must make faces which express what Charlie is either thinking or what he wants others to think. By act two, I get <i>very</i> comfortable with "my pretending not to speak English" and have a lot of fun doing so. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlIotcQM2AyKWXLe9Yf3-N9KzmhzUPuqEhE9F0qIuKmCH9LzG_LjHJVkhgwkFrH59EVdgJYymZyT2FPpdt5x4eTwOwbukmsVQbHsIxP0Vf6nObFtu2ZYTRF6Ow1CzNNZCCeuGk-et33w2L/s1600/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlIotcQM2AyKWXLe9Yf3-N9KzmhzUPuqEhE9F0qIuKmCH9LzG_LjHJVkhgwkFrH59EVdgJYymZyT2FPpdt5x4eTwOwbukmsVQbHsIxP0Vf6nObFtu2ZYTRF6Ow1CzNNZCCeuGk-et33w2L/s400/DSC_0006.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>At the end of the first show, after everyone else comes out for their bows, I come front and center and lead our cast in a group bow. I am not Japanese, nor ruled by royalty. I haven't had much occasion to bow. I found it an odd feeling. Though I've long been shameless in seeking praise, laughter and attention, I never took a bow for it. It was, initially, as if I was thanking <i>them</i> for letting <i>me </i>grace them with <i>my </i>presence. Twenty plus years out of adolescence, I felt awkward all over again. After thinking about it a bit, I think that I felt weird because for the first time I was, we all were, admitting that we were not who we were portraying. It wasn't Charlie Baker taking a bow - as I actually did in the play, but it was Dave Ring taking a bow and that felt showy to me. At first.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX27Sy6hWs6ZgSdqbnHrgncV6OqmibgQxCrsVC7WnDPtOQL9ZNZ2NelNcyfnmCvoQZgcw2NbmgjEdP_AA5a1O6HOxhDdlbhyphenhyphenMbs62YQK0sDQtT-pkabGoDu6m0smdgc8_5YWmczkXT8kxJ/s1600/DSC_0185.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX27Sy6hWs6ZgSdqbnHrgncV6OqmibgQxCrsVC7WnDPtOQL9ZNZ2NelNcyfnmCvoQZgcw2NbmgjEdP_AA5a1O6HOxhDdlbhyphenhyphenMbs62YQK0sDQtT-pkabGoDu6m0smdgc8_5YWmczkXT8kxJ/s400/DSC_0185.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>During the run of the play, six shows over two weekends, I got more comfortable - with everything. I relaxed more before the show, I fell more easily into character, and we as a cast played better off of one another. By the end of the show, going on stage and taking a bow no longer felt odd to me - it actually was just part of the show. The play was a success. We got lots of laughs, especially in the second act when the pace and action quicken. We got standing ovations. In the lobby after the show, many people (and not just the ones related to me) made a point to tell me that I did a great job and that they really enjoyed the play. Many people (perhaps you, too) have wondered and asked if I am going to do another show. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJB-NIPlIef7HI5T77WHOgOOY3U9eGBUg568Z2w0LvgWYq2dg5NbgQQZYNQc-bi6WNtVC-gKyNLcJVOUuwx54kOFwQExLg3yPKnxliC6vP-GA1Bsf7tDEBczxjQI3q1bp3aC2U1qtKKwH/s1600/DSC_0049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJB-NIPlIef7HI5T77WHOgOOY3U9eGBUg568Z2w0LvgWYq2dg5NbgQQZYNQc-bi6WNtVC-gKyNLcJVOUuwx54kOFwQExLg3yPKnxliC6vP-GA1Bsf7tDEBczxjQI3q1bp3aC2U1qtKKwH/s400/DSC_0049.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The answer is probably. Since it was my first time and everything about it was new it took a lot out of me. Not just in the time spent rehearsing, studying lines, helping to put the set together, etc. When you're acting - as we actors know - your senses are dramatically heightened. You have to be hyper aware, engaged, energetic, and attentive. Having run a marathon, I can attest that when on stage you are no less attuned to your body and mind. It is the proverbial rush. I am attracted to acting, but as with running, my body requires rest afterward. So for now, I'll recuperate and consider future efforts when I can wrap my head and body around it again.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGey_Pv0kIK5HYUU8EefqbVV_sgg_pDtQdW9Vm4DORAeSy_Z0aWom_HK8Y7P_tMlnFcCJ8OszppGv3-W53XVD0Rkw3ZmqdTFqjBLhoHdC4XXp1moz3BT2hpZ66qGVMz9RZYV09bST7i72d/s1600/DSC_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGey_Pv0kIK5HYUU8EefqbVV_sgg_pDtQdW9Vm4DORAeSy_Z0aWom_HK8Y7P_tMlnFcCJ8OszppGv3-W53XVD0Rkw3ZmqdTFqjBLhoHdC4XXp1moz3BT2hpZ66qGVMz9RZYV09bST7i72d/s400/DSC_0117.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>There were many laughs and for me, no surprise, that's the hook. And not just the laughs we got on stage. I also liked the laughs in rehearsal and after the shows. We missed lines here and there and there were occasional snafus. The cast and crew enjoyed the good natured ribbing that comes along with camaraderie. We also laughed at technical difficulties and the audience itself. One night it was raining so hard outside the roof began to leak onstage. The play's first act is set in a rainstorm, so 'Owen' worked it into his entrance. Another night, the explosion we were to hear didn't play and 'David' just yelled "BOOM" instead. From the stage we could hear an elderly person's hearing aid beeping above the din of the show. I saw a very large couple in the front row, splayed out and fast asleep for much of the entire play. There were the requisite ill-placed baby cries, the strikingly loud 'guffawer,' and people who couldn't help but audibly repeat our punch lines or say things like, "Oh, so he's the one doing it!"</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4thqEe4DgSRBKohyphenhyphenTk5f26gGnwypKBaN_kJRnJ-v3-nGsL4jTuiiGQojMWB8dnlTUNigJp2J7Xv9ZZnMS0YpkBbmTulSmhWzZU3_k47S2DB-tdtZSkFW1kSmZlcdxBryUltnWKWLBetNz/s1600/DSC_0075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4thqEe4DgSRBKohyphenhyphenTk5f26gGnwypKBaN_kJRnJ-v3-nGsL4jTuiiGQojMWB8dnlTUNigJp2J7Xv9ZZnMS0YpkBbmTulSmhWzZU3_k47S2DB-tdtZSkFW1kSmZlcdxBryUltnWKWLBetNz/s400/DSC_0075.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div>It's only been four days since our last show and I am sure many of these reflections will season with time, but as it stands now, fresh in my mind, I can't help but feel a great sense of pride in having done it. I took a risk and with risk there is reward. To be sure it was a calculated risk, but frankly, it's good to try new things and it's good to push your comfort zone. May this inspire you to try something you've always wanted to do. And if it's not your style, it doesn't have to be in front of a live audience<br />
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Thank you and good night.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEetkFGZulrVTtHQ3-_sSVpEfGia_caMMa_nYnuNaXm5xHQvq-ECTL21rMiQUup-nOgJHYgKdvxdRJ1TNeaY1Xl20ip3l1u51EUONeDAyfP560KCnfmhaXzRYBX-uBhSg9NqJYBFqVt9b4/s1600/DSC_0222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEetkFGZulrVTtHQ3-_sSVpEfGia_caMMa_nYnuNaXm5xHQvq-ECTL21rMiQUup-nOgJHYgKdvxdRJ1TNeaY1Xl20ip3l1u51EUONeDAyfP560KCnfmhaXzRYBX-uBhSg9NqJYBFqVt9b4/s400/DSC_0222.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-14920999054767866012010-03-19T12:05:00.002-04:002010-03-22T09:28:26.263-04:00Against Better JudgementThe <a href="http://www.bostonmarathon.org/default.asp">Boston Marathon</a> is one of the most prestigious marathons in the world. There are just a few ways one can get an official entry. You can be fast. If you're one of the elite marathoners in the world, the Boston Athletic Association will extend an invitation to you. If you're a pretty fast runner you can qualify on time. I'd have to run faster than a 3 hour 20 minute qualifying race to be considered. That will not happen. Many people raise money for great and worthy causes and get entry through <a href="http://www.google.com/aclk?sa=l&ai=C2aPUIZ2jS5XcK8uXlQe4vYmYArrGs3jIwcjKBLye2L0ECAAQAVDY5onu_f____8BYMmeoofQo9gQoAHi26H-A8gBAaoEGU_Q2E4hSBmcw1yQSOrQBGz3m0BfWza9geU&ggladgrp=10281874035489859895&gglcreat=7449875638338950403&sig=AGiWqtxbKeZyMkJ9dE4x8V7ZFmHs3g4HKg&q=http://www.teamintraining.org/firsttimehere/sportprograms/">Team in Training</a> or <a href="http://www.dana-farber.org/how/danafarber/">Dana Farber</a> Another way is the way I got my number. I belong to a running club and each year my club gets a few qualifying exemptions. I still had to pay the $250 entry fee, though. <br />
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</div><div>Here's the problem. Several weeks ago, during a long training run, I felt a twinge in my left Achilles tendon. I didn't tear it, but it didn't feel right. Later that day it was sore and inflamed. Since then I've iced, stretched, took time off, cross-trained, gone to physical therapy, taken loads of ibuprofen, and have even applied essential oils in the hope that I can still run Boston. With just a month to go, it's still unclear if I will be able to do it. My training regimen has been compromised and I still can't run without some pain and inflammation. No doubt the smartest thing I could do is not run. Rest and recuperate. But here's the thing, since moving to Connecticut it's unlikely that my Massachusetts running club will grant me another club exemption. I can't transfer or defer my entry. And I haven't fallen in love with marathons so much that I know I'll opt to train and run another. This might be my only opportunity.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My options are to cease training, accept defeat, and live to run another day. Or I could continue with my training, endure some pain and attempt to run Boston, knowing it might be possible that sometime during the run, I'll have to quit and register a DNF (Did Not Finish). Or make my way 26.2 miles come hell or high water, or ruptured Achilles no matter how long it takes me. I don't like any of those choices, so against my better judgement, as of this moment, I plan on running Boston, albeit likely not at the same goal pace I'd originally intended. I will take it one run at a time. This weekend I am supposed to run 13-15 miles. I am icing my Achilles even now as I type.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-49903944196026963932010-03-05T10:14:00.002-05:002010-03-09T07:34:18.472-05:00Below the Surface<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPR4RG6rySI1grlraQ9sRpLIenHO6Z-LiNC5IaKIbehfAJCryRvUFuizBFWdzWJbse2Ijo3ogV8nSoZhGAd1jentArCrjSzHu_U-qP9mb-_W7yEhHOdDywSkhSb5yolqG9iPI7Pg_8JcSr/s1600-h/IMG_7323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPR4RG6rySI1grlraQ9sRpLIenHO6Z-LiNC5IaKIbehfAJCryRvUFuizBFWdzWJbse2Ijo3ogV8nSoZhGAd1jentArCrjSzHu_U-qP9mb-_W7yEhHOdDywSkhSb5yolqG9iPI7Pg_8JcSr/s320/IMG_7323.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Over the past couple of months I've been spending a lot of time on a feasibility study. I'm assembling the costs associated with the complete renovation of the vacant farmhouse which belongs to my wife's family and analyzing those figures to see if we can actually afford to do it. Despite its dilapidated appearance, the house is structurally very sound and ripe for restoration. (I wrote more about the house here: <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/farm.html">The Farm</a>.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLscgZcXWHFtgd0S6cV8DDox4tMr8cQZy7r7ZE-q360k9suNSz-uGF2WT8VhdTnuoCCApoeVdJDmGJR5s_vjFcBoyoQq64McguiamaW4nKszzRe0yoyASN0t0WpGQMlTlZn2JtWpoywPFq/s1600-h/IMG_7273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLscgZcXWHFtgd0S6cV8DDox4tMr8cQZy7r7ZE-q360k9suNSz-uGF2WT8VhdTnuoCCApoeVdJDmGJR5s_vjFcBoyoQq64McguiamaW4nKszzRe0yoyASN0t0WpGQMlTlZn2JtWpoywPFq/s320/IMG_7273.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The house was built circa 1926 and was last occupied in the 1980s. After my in-laws moved from Texas to Connecticut in the late 1990s to take care of the family property much work was done on the house to prepare it for its eventual restoration. The removal of copious amounts of asbestos in the cellar and a new roof were two expensive and necessary investments. Additionally, much effort and time (and money) was spent gutting the house to its bare studs to prepare for eventual transformation. And that is essentially the condition it's in today.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwQlZSi5UkG4uVTjTTRze5FNQnvu93aWWxJBiCWmtZPEchVG4MZS0nLDwNtXQc2Ae2fE0Dc9nxQq758FahbLhRTlGki5xC053O0V2YlR3Md3Dy5IoK6PUapX-mRchfKvyhaEJYa-LxWOG/s1600-h/IMG_7263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwQlZSi5UkG4uVTjTTRze5FNQnvu93aWWxJBiCWmtZPEchVG4MZS0nLDwNtXQc2Ae2fE0Dc9nxQq758FahbLhRTlGki5xC053O0V2YlR3Md3Dy5IoK6PUapX-mRchfKvyhaEJYa-LxWOG/s320/IMG_7263.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Our hope is that we can afford to renovate the house and transform it into a beautiful and hospitable bed & breakfast/inn. In order to know if we can actually do that, we obviously need to know what it will cost. So over the past month or so I've been working with a local and reputable contractor to begin the process of estimating the costs. Every week it seems a new group of contractors comes by to survey the house and property. We've met with builders, painters, electricians, masons, plumbers, HVAC people, and even a representative of the Connecticut Trust for Historic Preservation.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPVF9zumkx6KovVxmXtT3peq0h-gNn1kA9vbEg_vP17irY8t5VaHFxZK9QvXAJwJkKqDf_sH6QIM4aOasem40KQikcDwkQa2uSgvloqbQmkNEgz2Cw7zqb0H9FHi0-Lk5e3KOn0FtHdyYS/s1600-h/IMG_7277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPVF9zumkx6KovVxmXtT3peq0h-gNn1kA9vbEg_vP17irY8t5VaHFxZK9QvXAJwJkKqDf_sH6QIM4aOasem40KQikcDwkQa2uSgvloqbQmkNEgz2Cw7zqb0H9FHi0-Lk5e3KOn0FtHdyYS/s320/IMG_7277.jpg" /></a></div><br />
With each visitor comes a new line item in the budget. But many of these professionals also have the irksome habit of raising issues which seem to precipitate other potential costs. "What kind of septic system is here?" "What kind of water volume does the well generate?" The answer is, "I don't know, but I bet it's going to cost us more money to find out." There are costs we can estimate now, but several others are dependent on what we find underground. Soil tests to determine leach and fill for the <a href="http://www.herchem.com/septic/septicwork.html">septic system</a> await and with that information will come a new contractor estimate. We might need an entirely new septic system and we might need new wells dug to generate enough water supply for the large house. Like much in life, the important answers, the deeper meaning, the hidden truths are buried below the surface.<br />
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Once we have rough estimates for all the work required, we need to add in the costs to furnish the house, buy and install appliances, and do all the little things that are needed to actually open for business. The list of costs is a long one and it's as yet unclear if the estimated projected revenue will be sufficient to cover them. There are many months ahead of business planning, estimating, and securing funds (anyone win the lottery lately?!). It will still be many months thereafter to actually complete the project. One thing that is extremely heartening is that to a person, those who come into the house can't help but marvel. They speak about the remarkable straightness of the house. They comment on the unexpected good condition of the interior. Few can mask their surprise at how much bigger the house is compared to its exterior appearance.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Lj7r1IhtKqC3RWZbC_um4hTp5etti8dRHqa6lVD-V0fBpDglH0G5izeoo4lVe_gtuBwpWGpVlccBhGKhSPZ_UEyEJTr_1jYf3mgQKu7kjp-RynDPpFVoBkyoE6OF8TBXDRqxtx5OQ77V/s1600-h/IMG_7270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Lj7r1IhtKqC3RWZbC_um4hTp5etti8dRHqa6lVD-V0fBpDglH0G5izeoo4lVe_gtuBwpWGpVlccBhGKhSPZ_UEyEJTr_1jYf3mgQKu7kjp-RynDPpFVoBkyoE6OF8TBXDRqxtx5OQ77V/s320/IMG_7270.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This is no small endeavor. To say it's a big job is a gross understatement - the house is about 5,000 square feet not including the full size attic which might become another livable space. There's a difficult decision to be made at each juncture and each one has a financial implication - a life implication - both for the short and long term. I have the distinct feeling that when we get the estimates back from the contractors someone is going to have to pick my jaw up off the floor. I once heard it said that a compromise is an agreement where neither party is happy and I can easily predict that there'll have to be more than a few trade-offs along the way if we're really going to be able to pull this off. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisu2st9vJPi4pkw3VdgketT1obrbbtRmPTXs5bDeEJmKtcOHFumXKfNTE_XFCJg8Ws0xs5Bz55yGLVqSNPvl9JVBrcnnBDRr7IL0PaOmT5EzDdiI6grloZj-26nr7wXBXivpivNLof-514/s1600-h/IMG_7315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisu2st9vJPi4pkw3VdgketT1obrbbtRmPTXs5bDeEJmKtcOHFumXKfNTE_XFCJg8Ws0xs5Bz55yGLVqSNPvl9JVBrcnnBDRr7IL0PaOmT5EzDdiI6grloZj-26nr7wXBXivpivNLof-514/s320/IMG_7315.jpg" /></a></div><br />
We're often reminded that life is not about the destination, but rather it's the journey that counts. We humans are so eager to get to where we think we want to be, only to arrive there and soon be anxious to move forward again to some new goal or destination. I know that there will come a time when we make great progress on this house and that I'll be focused on the next stage - there will always be something to do. I must however be mindful that the urge to move forward is really an expression of the ego. While I am aware that my motivation to tackle this project is my ego at work, I must also remember that life's real answers aren't in the future at all, but rather in the present and often just below the surface. Dig.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-66201913376518674672010-02-24T09:19:00.000-05:002010-02-24T09:19:41.800-05:00By HeartWhen I auditioned for "<a href="http://www.thebradleyplayhouse.info/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=35&Itemid=94">The Foreigner</a>," the play I'll be appearing in next month, I didn't give much thought to what getting the role would entail. Of course I knew there would be rehearsal and lines to learn - but I guess I'd forgotten how hard it is to learn something by heart. We have just about two weeks left before we open and I still have a lot of lines to memorize. It occurred to me that it's been a good 15 years or more since I really had to memorize something sizable like this. And unlike things I had to learn in school for a test, this 'oral exam' is in front of up to 400 people in the audience on six different performance nights. Fear is a strong motivator.<br />
<br />
When I gave trolley tours in the early 1990s, I had to learn several scripts - one for <a href="http://www.trolleytours.com/boston/">Boston</a>, one for <a href="http://www.trolleytours.com/Boston/harvard-cambridge.asp">Cambridge</a>, another for <a href="http://www.trolleytours.com/Key-West/">Key West</a>, and yet another for <a href="http://www.portlanddiscovery.com/tours/portland-trolley-tour/">Portland, ME</a>. Each time it seemed like more information than my brain could organize and recall. But eventually, I'd internalize the words and be able to spew out the stories time after time after time. But with a trolley tour, one is not required to use the same exact words each time; there is a bit of latitude. One is not required to say those words in response or with the exact timing that a play's dialogue requires. And with a trolley tour, you're often driving by the site or attraction that you're talking about. There are visual cues to prompt you as a guide. <br />
<br />
There are some similarities between the trolley tour and the play, though. There are certain parts of the play where you're cued based on what is happening on stage. You get to a certain part of the play and you know what the topic is. Still learning the <i>exact</i> lines, knowing precisely where you're to stand, on what line you're to move elsewhere on the stage - these are things that come with practice - and it seems to me that we need more of it than we have allotted.<br />
<br />
For the past several weeks, we've been rehearsing a couple of hours three days a week, but that will increase in the final two weeks before the show opens. The set is still being built and we haven't worked in the various effects that take place. In short, there seems an awful lot that has to happen before opening night on March 12th. I've been told by some of my fellow and far more experienced community theater mates that we're no worse off than is normal for them. There is a certain urgency in our discussion, but panic has yet to prevail.<br />
<br />
And for me, there's an acute sense of immediacy in my learning my lines. To complicate the effort, the character I play, Charlie, is thought to not speak or understand English - though he very much does. To perpetrate the ruse he has to often make up a language - a language that I as the actor have to be able to speak as if it were my native tongue. At other times I have to effect a slight British accent. And in other scenes, I have to become something like a possessed entity from a science fiction story.<br />
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A friend of mine recently told me that if he had a choice between being ill prepared for running a 100 mile ultra marathon through the desert, such as the <a href="http://www.badwater.com/">Badwater race</a>, and performing in front of a live audience, he'd choose the race. The comment served to remind me that despite the natural anxiety I feel in making my theatrical debut, I am not pathologically afraid of public failure. And in many ways, it's the same way I feel about my life's endeavors. One instant in time does not define who you are. If I should stumble over a line, it will exist only in that moment after which I'll necessarily move on to my next line. The show, whatever the show, must go on.<br />
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You can come see "The Foreigner" at <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=bradley+playhouse,+putnam,+ct&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=34.122306,76.816406&ie=UTF8&hq=bradley+playhouse,&hnear=Putnam,+CT&ll=41.915404,-71.908736&spn=0.007888,0.018754&z=16">The Bradley Playhouse in Putnam, Connecticu</a>t March 12, 13, 19, 20 @8pm and March 14 and 21 @ 2pm. <a href="http://www.thebradleyplayhouse.info/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=35&Itemid=94">Click for ticket information</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-18421172341608762762010-02-17T11:27:00.001-05:002010-02-22T13:26:26.298-05:00Take It Easy<i>"Don't let the sound of your own wheels </i><br />
<i>Drive you crazy"</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i> --Jackson Brown, Glen Frey</i></span></i><br />
<br />
<i></i>Where the hell does the time go? It's a cliché but like all clichés it's born out of truth. It was brought to my attention last week that it had been some time since my last post. And while my readership audience is, shall we say, an intimate group I was suitably guilted into action. I don't have a great excuse as to why it's been two weeks since I wrote other then the oft used "I've been busy."<br />
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To wit: My son was home sick all last week. I have been training for a marathon. I've been rehearsing for my play and devoting time to studying my lines. I have been doing legwork on the bed and breakfast project - meeting with builders, architects, accountants, etc. And then there's the whole house spouse role I play. All of this has been going on just as the Olympics have begun. Lots to do. Where the hell does the time go? Frankly, if you spend too much time wondering where it went, it means you're not aware of the time you have right now.<br />
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I got some feedback from my last post in which I highlighted a poem by Robert Burns. One comment ponders how the poem, as viewed through a contemporary lens peers into "the modern struggle --finding peace and happiness as a result of simple presence rather than keeping pace with the American dream." The commenter asks if "this meditation calls the utility of certain daily practices into question. Things like the use of technology, the trappings of wealth and the confusing complexity of our social contracts, be they mortgages, bank accounts or political efforts). I guess it's to say, how much of modern American life has become incompatible with Burns's poetic vision of peace and contentment? And if it's the case, just what to do in light of this observation."<br />
<br />
What's interesting to me is that Burns' poem was written in 1785 in Scotland well before "an American life" had come to signify any specific lifestyle. Burns wrote about the pain of regret and the folly of worrying about an unknowable future. He envies a mouse whose only concern is staying warm in winter. While it's true that in the 225 years since the poem was written, we are now exposed to many more messages about what we ought to have done and what we still should do, the constant is that as human beings we possess the unique ability to reflect and imagine. What is seemingly more difficult for most is to press a pause button on those two skills and simply be.<br />
<br />
Unless you're truly <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enlightenment_(spiritual)">enlightened</a> (in a spiritual kind of way), you're going to struggle with attachments, desire, guilt, resentment, and all forms of mental pain. The question is - short of joining a Buddhist monastery - what can you do to find regular balance in your day? To me the first thing you must do is be ever self-aware. As a first step, try to spend time analyzing the nature of your inner monologues. The better you become at being aware of thoughts that take you out of the present, the more quickly you'll be able to live in the present, be happy and grateful, and let's face it, generally more pleasant to be around - even when you're by yourself!<br />
<br />
With that in mind, I will continue to write, but I have to be cognizant that there is a life to be lived. Living a full and enriching life for me sometimes means being away from the computer. In the coming weeks, demands for my time will increase and commensurately so will my need for relaxation in my truly free time. I try to follow my own advice and just be. I won't reflect too much on what I haven't accomplished (some gaps in my writing) and won't waste too much time projecting a future that surely won't be exactly as I envision (a perfect marathon). Instead, I'll do what I can each day to appreciate that time for what it is: a gift.<br />
<br />
What can one do to combat the trappings of wealth and confusing complexities of our social contracts? I might offer that you first be aware of them, then decide what their true value is to you, make appropriate changes and then carry on with your day in peace. The worse autoimmune disease is the resentment of your own choices.<br />
<div><br />
</div><object height="364" width="445"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q1PtuwU8wVE&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Q1PtuwU8wVE&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-46046509309856305372010-02-03T12:10:00.016-05:002010-02-04T10:46:09.374-05:00"foresight may be vain"<i>But Mouse, you are not alone,</i><br />
<i>In proving foresight may be vain:</i><br />
<i>The best laid schemes of mice and men</i><br />
<i>Go often askew,</i><br />
<i>And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,</i><br />
<i>For promised joy!</i><br />
<br />
Many modern clichés emanate from literary past. We often hear the expression, "The best laid plans" - referring to plans gone awry, the pointlessness of expecting a particular result from a specific stratagem. We employ the words as a verbal shrug of the shoulders, as if to say, "Oh well - what are you gonna do?" when an an idea fails to pan out. The phrase comes from a line in a Robert Burns poem, "To a Mouse." (Burns, often referred to as Scotland's national poet, was born in 1759 and died 37 years later in 1796. "To a Mouse" was written in 1785.)<br />
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We often put so much of ourselves into our future plans that when reality inevitably differs from our minds' eye we are left to, or at least given, to lament the present. We lay the blame squarely on ourselves for the 'mistakes' we made in either creating or executing the plan. Many of us shoulder the failing as if we could or should be able to accurately predict the future. The lesson we fail to learn, heed or internalize is that despite our expectation to the contrary, we can't know what's going to happen and so can't rationally accept responsibility when the future differs from expectation. Yet we do this time and again. We habitually beat ourselves up for what we perceive as a personal failing rather than an immutable law of nature. Even a laboratory mouse learns how to avoid an electric shock after a few trials, but we humans seem unable to avoid this mental trap. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Shame on us. <br />
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Admittedly, it's hard to live life without occasionally feeling the pain of disappointment. But disappointment can only occur where expectations exist. There are some who would argue that if you don't have any expectations you can't be disappointed. They say that if you don't have your hopes up you can only be pleased by the unanticipated 'positive' result. And while there's truth in that, it also seems a muted way to pass through life. Indeed it is hope that makes us unique as mammals. We can imagine the future; we can dream big; we can strive for things that might otherwise seem beyond reach. Politicians thrive on hopes and dreams - and certainly we need them to. JFK dreamed of the moon, while Reagan pledged to make America great again. And Obama became president because he embodied hope and change - words that by definition allude to the future. (Before you rail against any politicians campaign promises, remember that the best laid plans....) Our difficult task is to live a meaningful life in which we understand the past, hope for the future and strive to have deep and abiding appreciation of the present.<br />
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In the last stanza of "To a Mouse" Burns writes that though the meager mouse has tribulations, it is the mouse who is actually blessed by living eternally in the present. The author, and by extension we humans, tend to look backward, often regretting choices made, actions taken, ruminating on the unalterable past. And if we're not living in the past, we're attempting to project a future we can't possibly know, too often with paralyzing angst and apprehension. While we know we can't plan the future, we spend an inordinate amount of time doing just that, trying to make it just so. The madness in replaying the past or projecting a unknown future is self-evident and part of the human condition - as Burns notes:<br />
<br />
<i>Still you are blest, compared with me!</i><br />
<i>The present only touches you:</i><br />
<i>But oh! I backward cast my eye,</i><br />
<i>On prospects dreary!</i><br />
<i>And forward, though I cannot see,</i><br />
<i>I guess and fear!</i><br />
<br />
The lesson, of course, is to do your best to live in and value the present. It really is all you ever have. Everything else only exists in your mind. The past is past and the future is future. The present is now. This moment. Discontentment, disappointment, disillusionment can only arise when a comparison is being made between the present and past, between the present and future. If one can truly dwell in the present, one finds there is only the now and the sense of peace and contentment that engenders the serenity we all crave - lasting happiness. Most of us have at least momentarily experienced this in nature. It was the night you paused and reflected on how incredibly bright the stars were. It was the vista you inhaled from a mountain top. Others of you have been brought to this place by the arresting beauty of music, of a singer's impossibly powerful or soulful voice. Athletes sometimes get there via a 'runners high." And in that moment of orgasm, you are most certainly not in the past or future.<br />
<br />
I am not so naïve as to believe that this kind of zen equanimity is easily attained or maintained. I just think it's worth our while to habitually make the effort. The fact is you don't need to view or experience something seemingly magical or beautiful to benefit from the present All one really needs to do is learn - and practice - how to turn your brain's attention away from the past or future. Start small - take a closer look at the scenery, but don't think about it - just appreciate it. Focus for a time on the sensations in your body. Listen to your breathing, connect with your sense of touch. Be aware of when your mind drifts to events past or a future not yet experienced and actively pull yourself back to the moment. You won't be disappointed.<br />
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<b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x614co">Robert Burns "To a Mouse" Poem Animation Movie</a></b><br />
<i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/Poetrylad">Poetrylad</a></i></div><b>Burns Original Text</b><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, </i><br />
<i>O, what a panic's in thy breastie! </i><br />
<i>Thou need na start awa sae hasty </i><br />
<i>Wi bickering brattle! </i><br />
<i>I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, </i><br />
<i>Wi' murdering pattle. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I'm truly sorry man's dominion </i><br />
<i>Has broken Nature's social union, </i><br />
<i>An' justifies that ill opinion </i><br />
<i>Which makes thee startle </i><br />
<i>At me, thy poor, earth born companion </i><br />
<i>An' fellow mortal!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; </i><br />
<i>What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! </i><br />
<i>A daimen icker in a thrave </i><br />
<i>'S a sma' request; </i><br />
<i>I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, </i><br />
<i>An' never miss't.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! </i><br />
<i>It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! </i><br />
<i>An' naething, now, to big a new ane, </i><br />
<i>O' foggage green! </i><br />
<i>An' bleak December's win's ensuin, </i><br />
<i>Baith snell an' keen! </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, </i><br />
<i>An' weary winter comin fast, </i><br />
<i>An' cozie here, beneath the blast, </i><br />
<i>Thou thought to dwell, </i><br />
<i>Till crash! the cruel coulter past </i><br />
<i>Out thro' thy cell.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, </i><br />
<i>Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! </i><br />
<i>Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, </i><br />
<i>But house or hald, </i><br />
<i>To thole the winter's sleety dribble, </i><br />
<i>An' cranreuch cauld.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, </i><br />
<i>In proving foresight may be vain: </i><br />
<i>The best laid schemes o' mice an' men </i><br />
<i>Gang aft agley, </i><br />
<i>An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, </i><br />
<i>For promis'd joy!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! </i><br />
<i>The present only toucheth thee: </i><br />
<i>But och! I backward cast my e'e, </i><br />
<i>On prospects drear! </i><br />
<i>An' forward, tho' I canna see, </i><br />
<i>I guess an' fear!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<b>Standard English Translation</b><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast,</i><br />
<i>O, what a panic is in your breast!</i><br />
<i>You need not start away so hasty</i><br />
<i>With hurrying scamper!</i><br />
<i>I would be loath to run and chase you,</i><br />
<i>With murdering plough-staff.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I'm truly sorry man's dominion</i><br />
<i>Has broken Nature's social union,</i><br />
<i>And justifies that ill opinion</i><br />
<i>Which makes thee startle</i><br />
<i>At me, thy poor, earth born companion</i><br />
<i>And fellow mortal!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;</i><br />
<i>What then? Poor beast, you must live!</i><br />
<i>An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves</i><br />
<i>Is a small request;</i><br />
<i>I will get a blessing with what is left,</i><br />
<i>And never miss it.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Your small house, too, in ruin!</i><br />
<i>It's feeble walls the winds are scattering!</i><br />
<i>And nothing now, to build a new one,</i><br />
<i>Of coarse grass green!</i><br />
<i>And bleak December's winds coming,</i><br />
<i>Both bitter and keen!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,</i><br />
<i>And weary winter coming fast,</i><br />
<i>And cozy here, beneath the blast,</i><br />
<i>You thought to dwell,</i><br />
<i>Till crash! the cruel plough past</i><br />
<i>Out through your cell.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,</i><br />
<i>Has cost you many a weary nibble!</i><br />
<i>Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,</i><br />
<i>Without house or holding,</i><br />
<i>To endure the winter's sleety dribble,</i><br />
<i>And hoar-frost cold.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>But Mouse, you are not alone,</i><br />
<i>In proving foresight may be vain:</i><br />
<i>The best laid schemes of mice and men</i><br />
<i>Go often askew,</i><br />
<i>And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,</i><br />
<i>For promised joy!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Still you are blest, compared with me!</i><br />
<i>The present only touches you:</i><br />
<i>But oh! I backward cast my eye,</i><br />
<i>On prospects dreary!</i><br />
<i>And forward, though I cannot see,</i><br />
<i>I guess and fear!</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-13852681447495123952010-01-27T12:29:00.001-05:002010-02-01T12:53:03.273-05:00Name Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqd3AIsfiv1yXMMVtUv2Nr5fYDaLoocHqsAuDesKfKVkiNGSijIocVePqzj36vG1m2vzvGtVQg4BsOXWM9rjaQfRK_-70Wsuz3L6mzR5jOhiMw2RPR9sAwjPaiyH5Q1KXBcmcLmjV30Ls/s1600-h/IMG_0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqd3AIsfiv1yXMMVtUv2Nr5fYDaLoocHqsAuDesKfKVkiNGSijIocVePqzj36vG1m2vzvGtVQg4BsOXWM9rjaQfRK_-70Wsuz3L6mzR5jOhiMw2RPR9sAwjPaiyH5Q1KXBcmcLmjV30Ls/s320/IMG_0057.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't know, couldn't have known, what this blog would develop into when I began it six months ago. Friends and family have given me much advice on improving its content and readership. People wonder how I can turn this into something more; they want it to be something more - for me. I'm sent links on how to develop the blog into an enterprise. Some advocates offer that perhaps I should consider focusing on a single - or at least more refined - theme. Other readers are simply more interested in how I can generate revenue from my writing. Up to this point, I've resisted most of the suggestions. I still consider this undertaking as an early juncture in my writing career and at this point I am most interested in writing for its own sake, for my sake. And while I'd welcome getting paid to write, I don't want to write about things which don't appeal to me. I might be too stubborn for my own good, but there's also something to be said for not compromising on things in which you strongly believe. And frankly, from an income standpoint, writing isn't entirely practical or especially promising these days. You might have noticed the glut in the market.</span><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: inherit;">According to a </span><a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2010/jan/06/entertainment/la-et-onthemedia6-2010jan06"><span style="font-family: inherit;">recent article in the Los Angeles Times</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">, "F</span><span style="line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">reelance writing fees -- beginning with the Internet but extending to newspapers and magazines -- have been spiraling downward for a couple of years and reached what appears to be bottom in 2009." The fact of the matter is I am not a proven writing professional. And with a family, I am beyond the phase of living the life of a starving artist. Eventually - soon! - I'll require adequate compensation for my time. There are bills to be paid, college savings accounts to fund, and the inevitable need for replacing car tires. This said, I've received enough personal satisfaction as well as encouragement from readers that I'll continue to write. And I do hope that one day my writing will be a channel for financial remuneration (can you say, "book deal?"), but like a lot of people who do things they love, I won't necessarily be writing for the money. I've explained it like this: For too long I tried to figure out how to enjoy what I got paid to do, but could never sustain that model for long. Today I am instead focused on monetizing things I enjoy. So while I might not make a lot of money writing, I believe that if I pursue the passion, and as <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/122708/the-tonight-show-with-conan-obrien-conans-final-thoughts">Conan O'Brien said</a>, if I am a kind person, amazing things <i>will</i> happen.</span></span><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I began this blog, I had a notion that it would be the seed of a online magazine for which I'd serve as editor-in-chief. And while this idea isn't dead, it is most certainly under the weather. The 50 plus posts of the last half year have been observational, instructional, autobiographical, and for me, therapeutic. I've written about childhood, financial independence, travel, health, personal tragedy, the value of work and the inaneness of punching a clock, the importance of perspective, and the ephemerality of life. What began as a potential vehicle for income has morphed into a digest centering on <i>my</i> life experiences and the lessons <i>I </i>continue to learn from them.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-MonNN2COR75KxVO9EZD6BBQF01HWZIzK6s7VZLJMXuminjHUVJkGbGsMPp2dycjVxlnG13fZPN-X8BXnKV1AvS9sEVIPMQgdJufc5x8Y2UavcU4ycWXb5x-r1mKHEAZgLh-IiKo-i9g/s1600-h/IMG_8618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-MonNN2COR75KxVO9EZD6BBQF01HWZIzK6s7VZLJMXuminjHUVJkGbGsMPp2dycjVxlnG13fZPN-X8BXnKV1AvS9sEVIPMQgdJufc5x8Y2UavcU4ycWXb5x-r1mKHEAZgLh-IiKo-i9g/s320/IMG_8618.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My father - who's authored </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/search/ref=sr_adv_b/?search-alias=stripbooks&unfiltered=1&field-keywords=&field-author=Kenneth+Ring&field-title=&field-isbn=&field-publisher=&node=&url=&field-feature_browse-bin=&field-binding_browse-bin=&field-subject=&field-language=&field-dateop=&field-datemod=&field-dateyear=&sort=relevancerank&Adv-Srch-Books-Submit.x=36&Adv-Srch-Books-Submit.y=9">several books</a> - has, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">along with his praise, offered valuable constructive criticism on my writing. (I might also note that my mother has been a diligent and appreciated editor - you'll often find that two days after I post, a cleaner version miraculously appears.) My dad recently pointed out the disconnect between the blog title and its content. </span>The blog hasn't exactly been, as the original blog title suggested, the "Collective Intelligence" of multiple writers. Rather it's been my interpretation of my experiences. The writing seems to center on how I'm developing and growing and the meditations that accompany this evolution. And in the end, it's about how I view the world in which I live. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">As per my dad's suggestion I am unveiling the new blog title today:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Growing Up David</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">Below is my dad's explanation:<br />
</div></div><ul><li><span style="color: blue;">Growing up David — The meaning here is that the blog is concerned with how David is growing into the person the blog describes. That is, Dave is a work in process.</span></li>
</ul><ul><li><span style="color: blue;">Growing up David — The meaning here is that Dave is in the throes of growing up, i.e., Dave grows up.</span></li>
</ul><ul><li><span style="color: blue;">Growing up David — This means that you are this person, David, distinct and inimitable, who has this particular identity and name.</span></li>
</ul><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8a6jSK4QUmNz2SvMokTXAY8nviVEMGwJVgjXsAIQBDfPGG0pkfGTTujZeKjZqi0bj0i6gDJaklpFA5pMt6KQdQmGqOte2GhG5nMha9ZBR2Zn2tCbV5r9_5cgp-sJrwToWm022uYKuPyEw/s1600-h/Photo+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8a6jSK4QUmNz2SvMokTXAY8nviVEMGwJVgjXsAIQBDfPGG0pkfGTTujZeKjZqi0bj0i6gDJaklpFA5pMt6KQdQmGqOte2GhG5nMha9ZBR2Zn2tCbV5r9_5cgp-sJrwToWm022uYKuPyEw/s320/Photo+10.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>I look forward to writing more about how I came to be who I am and sharing more as I continue to develop. I'll ruminate on being a husband and dad; I'll offer thoughts on living a healthier, more meaningful, and to some, alternative life. I'll reminisce from time to time on my adventures as a boy, adolescent, and young man. But there's also much happening in my life now and in the near future that's sure to be ripe fodder for engaging and entertaining posts. For example, I am currently training for the <a href="http://www.bostonmarathon.org/">2010 Boston Marathon</a> - and doing many of my runs <a href="http://www.vibramfivefingers.com/indexNA.cfm">quasi-barefoot</a>. (Recent <a href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1955580,00.html">snippet in Time</a> about that.) I have committed to sustaining my wife's <a href="http://ringwrites.blogspot.com/2010/01/farm.html">family land</a> - which has been passed down through the Mathewson generations since it was purchased from Native Americans in 1707. As if that weren't enough to fill my time, I was recently cast in a play at a local community theater, <a href="http://www.thebradleyplayhouse.info/">The Bradley Playhouse</a> in <a href="http://www.putnamct.us/">Putnam, Connecticut</a>. The play is called <a href="http://www.dramatists.com/cgi-bin/db/single.asp?key=1181">The Foreigner</a> by Larry Shue. I'll be making my theatrical debut playing the title character, Charlie - an exceedingly shy man who in order to avoid conversation pretends he is unable to understand English. Hilarity ensues. <br />
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Thanks for reading, sharing, and your feedback.<br />
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Stay tuned.<br />
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</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-63935270660290408462010-01-22T16:46:00.004-05:002010-02-01T12:53:17.296-05:00Making Cents<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1354/1018963718_85c5050c8d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1354/1018963718_85c5050c8d.jpg" width="312" /></a><br />
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Like a lot of people my first experience with money was receiving a nominal weekly stipend in exchange for doing my chores. This payment was called an 'Allowance' and with it, I'd go to Phil's - the local penny candy store - and blow it all on Jolly Ranchers and Bazooka Bubble Gum. If I owned a piggy bank, I don't remember it and if I had one, I'd have busted it open long before it was full of change.<br />
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</div><div>When, as a child, our family went to Cape Cod with friends, we spent a week in Craigville Beach. I was given 20 dollars for the week. My friend Liz and I immediately went to the Craigville General Store where I promptly spent every last cent on candy. My more prudent sister chided me for squandering all my money on candy and for eating nearly all of it by the next day.<br />
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<div>As I grew older and finagled ways to earn a few bucks on my own - shoveling snow, mowing lawns and the occasional babysitting job - the money never accumulated. I can't begin to tell you what I bought. I probably ingested most of it, purchased a few cassette tapes, and a video cartridge or two for my Coleco Vision.<br />
</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://retromedia.ign.com/retro/image/article/858/858257/the-colecovision-buyers-guide-20080310055953727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://retromedia.ign.com/retro/image/article/858/858257/the-colecovision-buyers-guide-20080310055953727.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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</div><div>When I turned 16, I got a job - a real job complete with a paycheck and tax deductions - as a dishwasher at the now defunct Mansfield Depot Restaurant. I worked a few shifts a week, usually going in sometime after school - around 3 or 4pm and leaving late, after the last dinner guests had departed, the pots had been scrubbed and the floor mopped. I earned something less than $4/hr, but was nonetheless thrilled to see paychecks approaching $80.<br />
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My father made a deal with me that whatever money I saved for a car, he'd match. I opened a savings account at the local bank in town and for the first time in my life began to set money aside for a major purchase. My savings benefited from the free meals I got at the restaurant, though I am sure my dentist can attest to the fact that I was still devoting a consistent portion of my salary toward confectionery.<br />
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</div><div>After about a year, I'd saved nearly $1200 and with my dad's matching funds, purchased a 1974 Volvo 164E. I named him Ingmar Gustav Volvo Ring. He was blue and the automatic transmission slipped when shifting from 1st to 2nd gear, making a loud clunking sound that could be felt along the floor boards. The car was solid like a Volvo should be. It must have weighed as much as a circus elephant and its rear wheel drive made for atrocious winter traction. I loved it. It was truly the first time I made a direct connection between work and meaningful compensation. Alas, the money I made poured into the car in the form of gasoline and repairs.<br />
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(As an aside - a bit more on the fate of Gustav: The car lasted about a year and half until one spring evening on the way back from a Red Sox game. I was driving with three German foreign exchange students riding in the rear. I was cajoled into racing my friend Charles back to Connecticut. We sped along the Mass Pike, driving as stupidly and dangerously as only a 17 year old can. I remember the Germans in the back seat chanting, "Do a hundred, do a hundred!" And while I didn't quite reach those speeds I was going fast enough to enlarge what was already a small oil leak. As the car slowly bled oil, I failed to notice the rising temperature gauge. Finally devoid of any lubricant, the sizzling engine block revolted, seized, and threw a rod, busting a fist sized hole in the engine block. Those Germans will never forget that ride. We arranged for them to be driven home by my friend while I was relegated to calling my mom to pick me up in the dead of night in the middle of nowhere - ironically that middle of nowhere is mere minutes from where I now reside. The car was towed to a garage and then to a family friend's house. We had notions of replacing the engine, but like a lot of notions, it was a foolhardy one. The car was abandoned and for all I know Gustav's skeleton is still sitting atop a hill off a hidden drive on Mt. Hope Rd. in Mansfield Center, Connecticut.)<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ae92gts.com/images/v164_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://www.ae92gts.com/images/v164_1.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I drove trolley tours, both in Boston and Key West, a lot of my income came in the form of cash tips. This was true of my days as a waiter, too. Walking away from a shift with a hundred dollars in my pocket made me feel like I was a high roller, but after a drink or two with colleagues, I was doing the grownup equivalent of blowing all my cash on candy. But I had learned how to save a bit and when there was something I desired, I was diligent about setting aside the money to pay for it. In 1993 when I wanted to finance a vacation to New Orleans for the NCAA Men's Basketball Final Four, I squirreled away $5 bills everyday until I had several hundred dollars to pay for the trip. Over the years, I've plied the same tactic to pay for other cars, vacations, investments, gifts, a wedding, a honeymoon, and an adoption. When I was working in the corporate world, a portion of my salary was automatically deducted and put into long term savings/retirement vehicles. Increasingly my use of credit cards waned and the vast majority of my purchases were paid for with savings.<br />
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</div><a href="http://a.espncdn.com/photo/2009/0407/pg2_ap_cwebber1_576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://a.espncdn.com/photo/2009/0407/pg2_ap_cwebber1_576.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've read a host of books on personal finance and savings - a salient point of several of them relied on putting aside 10% of gross income into compound interest bearing accounts. I loved a book called the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0773762167/sr=8-2/qid=1264194495/ref=olp_product_details?ie=UTF8&me=&qid=1264194495&sr=8-2&seller=">Wealthy Barber</a>. It spoke to me in the simplest of terms: live frugally, live <i>below</i> your means, pay <i>yourself</i> first - every month!, spend money on expertise you don't possess, and stop trying the keep up with the Joneses.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These lessons weren't instilled in me, though surely they were told to me. I try not to rue the wasted spending of my youth - indeed I got to experience a lot owing to a decided lack of frugality. But as I grow older and know the value of a dollar - how hard they are to both accrue and retain, I am resolved to teach these lessons to my son and to do so by example. I might on occasion still let a few extra dollars slip out of my palms, but only <i>after</i> I've put my 10% into that compound interest bearing account.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And best of all, I can still chomp down a bag of candy like I could when I was eight years-old.<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-85937247816011606682010-01-18T13:46:00.004-05:002010-01-18T19:06:41.752-05:00Absence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh84dr57leIdndyzA6iSjIWJ_4etVGAzGRMZjjKBz8lK-ZEiQM6NFXwFgMPtw4yLftXYAc1ZbPblB973a9KY84JvVspC2ENBUdPjMiAfyX2kDA08o4RP50JKIpI-X_Ji3jA6W2znAJAwW/s1600-h/IMG_2468.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh84dr57leIdndyzA6iSjIWJ_4etVGAzGRMZjjKBz8lK-ZEiQM6NFXwFgMPtw4yLftXYAc1ZbPblB973a9KY84JvVspC2ENBUdPjMiAfyX2kDA08o4RP50JKIpI-X_Ji3jA6W2znAJAwW/s400/IMG_2468.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>I am not often given to the highs and lows of outward emotion. When I am happy you can see it in my eyes. When I am sad you'll have to look more carefully to find it there, too. I laugh heartily when amused, but I won't patronize a banal joke with more than a polite smile. When I am sad, I'm simply quiet and taciturn. Sometimes I don't realize the sadness that dwells inside of me and am genuinely surprised to feel the emotion. Without warning it percolates in my chest, rises up through my throat to my mouth and causes my lips quiver ever so slightly. Only occasionally do I feel tears well in my eyes, but even more rarely do they overflow their banks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">With the recent <a href="http://clintonbushhaitifund.org/">earthquake in Haiti</a> and all the television coverage of it, I cannot help feeling beaten down with anguish and grief for all those that have lost so much and so many. It's beyond incomprehensible and at the same time so unambiguous. It hasn't helped my mood that it's January - the dead of winter . It has seemed especially gray here the last couple of days. The trees are bare and the air possesses the kind of damp chill that beckons one to bed, inviting sleep until spring. And silly as it sounds - and is, the sports teams I root for have greatly faltered of late. The Patriots were summarily dismissed from the NFL play-offs and the UConn Men's Basketball team has lost three painful games in a row. It just adds to the malaise.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmZ9oyx7itaAQaxE7tD_TeRi_KxrwceXzCJ6K7-qC8CaS6pDtexlMld7c0exdw61rvgk0BbvW870Hujpgi060400uljGm7HsC3nQa6ffOoj360dR6YTuRHkvbRDSWotn6Fd9tStdyKXcR/s1600-h/IMG_2448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmmZ9oyx7itaAQaxE7tD_TeRi_KxrwceXzCJ6K7-qC8CaS6pDtexlMld7c0exdw61rvgk0BbvW870Hujpgi060400uljGm7HsC3nQa6ffOoj360dR6YTuRHkvbRDSWotn6Fd9tStdyKXcR/s400/IMG_2448.jpg" /></a><br />
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I know I have much to be grateful for - and I am, but there are times when just feeling happy doesn't scratch my emotional itch. It's times like these I tend to miss my stillborn son, Leo, most acutely. Had he lived he'd be about six months old now. I can't help but wonder what our son Max would make of having a little brother. How jealous would he be if he had to compete for our attention? How different would the dynamics in our family be if Leo hadn't.... We had a friend visiting with her daughter this weekend and Max was being so sweet with her, sharing his toys and giving the little girl her bottle of milk when it fell to the floor. "Here you go," he said in his sweet, lilting voice. I couldn't help but imagine him with Leo and feel both Leo's presence and absence at the same time. <br />
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Most days, most weeks even, I do okay with the loss of Leo. It is and I cannot change it. I try to derive lessons from and use the experience to help me live a more meaningful and fulfilling life. And I do. Cosmically speaking, I feel that I haven't really lost Leo at all - that he's with me, with us everyday. But he's not tangible. The pictures we have of him are the way he'll always look. We have lost something that we can never replace. What's often worse is that I don't even know exactly what it is we've lost - just what I imagine it might have been. I don't and won't know him as a person. And when I am given to this sadness as I have been in these recent days since the Haiti earthquake, it's that absence that I feel most profoundly. When I see the anguish on the face of a Haitian quake victim, I can't help but deeply empathize. One moment it's there; the next it's gone. A void forever gaping.<br />
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Yesterday I watched most of a program about the <a href="http://www.youngatheartchorus.com/index.php">Young@Heart Chorus</a>, a group of elderly singers from the Northampton, Massachusetts area. The <a href="http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/young-at-heart/">show on PBS</a> documented the chorus as they prepared for a live concert. Just a week before the show, two chorus members passed away. But show business is show business and the show went on. I ached for those singers and the loss I knew they felt. Just as we've 'gone on' in the wake of our loss, I knew that in spite of their brave faces lay heavy tears in wait. One of the chorus members, Fred Knittle, was to have sung a duet of Coldplay's "Fix You" with one of the recently deceased chorus members. Instead he took center stage alone. The poignancy was more than palpable. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPo79Z3KjzsmwtjnvtVdW2bm_NCLiD2LphkrGqc6ddFuUS6416bcXt_r5HdzxLw-Gqx2ikIZnZu8KCZNeca200nR-7DUJ3ph3wg6AfM-WnhiqLFR7XQSMicfj8SbRmHmU6xrZtULTn7Q8Y/s1600-h/IMG_2450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPo79Z3KjzsmwtjnvtVdW2bm_NCLiD2LphkrGqc6ddFuUS6416bcXt_r5HdzxLw-Gqx2ikIZnZu8KCZNeca200nR-7DUJ3ph3wg6AfM-WnhiqLFR7XQSMicfj8SbRmHmU6xrZtULTn7Q8Y/s400/IMG_2450.jpg" /></a><br />
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For me, the combination of the immeasurable suffering in Haiti, the bleakness of winter, the collapse of my favorite teams, of seeing Max being so tender with a younger child who wasn't his brother, and the sorrow of these elderly singers losing their fellow chorus members set me up for what I should have seen coming. As I watched Fred Knittle shuffle his aging body on stage, lower himself into that solitary metal folding chair, and heard the rhythmic 'shhh, shhh, shhh' of his oxygen canister fill the auditorium, I began to feel that rare but familiar tightness in my gut. I felt the muscles in my face brace for the inevitable and involuntary contortion of sorrow; my eyes welled. Tears didn't stream down my face and no sounds of woe emanated from my mouth, but then again, I am not given to the highs and lows of emotional displays.<br />
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Click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gosIuO1HqEg">here</a> to watch Fred Knittle and the Young@Heart Chorus perform Coldplay's "Fix You."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-72565558160396052852010-01-14T11:52:00.003-05:002010-01-15T17:43:55.743-05:00I Root for the UConn Huskies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://z.about.com/d/basketball/1/0/G/0/-/-/80364487_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://z.about.com/d/basketball/1/0/G/0/-/-/80364487_8.jpg" width="217" /></a><br />
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</div>If you know me well you know that I am more than a casual fan of UConn Men's Basketball. If you know me better than well, you know that I didn't even attend UConn. In fact, I went to the University of Massachusetts and while I do root for the Minutemen, The Huskies have been a part of my life as long as I can remember, before I was born in a manner of speaking.<br />
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My dad took a job as a professor in UConn's psychology department in the early 60s. Later he courted my mom who was living in New York City and in 1969 they were married and driving cross country to California for his sabbatical. Somewhere along the way, I was conceived and in December of 1969 after they returned from the West Coast, I was born in Willimantic, CT - just a few miles from the UConn campus in Storrs.<br />
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Storrs is a section of the town of Mansfield which was incorporated in 1702. The university began as Storrs Agricultural College in 1881 and still excels in the study of animals, farming, and natural resources. For those of us who grew up in the Storrs/Mansfield area, the UConn campus was the center of most of our activity. Drive off campus and the landscape quickly becomes wooded, rural, and bucolic. Campus was where all the action was (and still is!). There were <a href="http://www.sfa.uconn.edu/vdm.html">movie theaters</a> and galleries, <a href="http://www.thebenton.org/">museums</a> and <a href="http://www.jorgensen.uconn.edu/">performance halls</a>. There was the Student Union with its cafeteria, ice cream fountain, and basement <a href="http://www.studentunion.uconn.edu/game_room.html">hall of video games</a>. There was the <a href="http://www.dairybar.uconn.edu/dbar.htm">UConn Dairy Bar</a> with its delicious freshly made ice cream. And there were the athletic facilities, the hockey rink, the baseball fields, the tennis courts, the soccer field, and the indoor field house. <br />
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Growing up in the early 80s, the sport that dominated was UConn Men's Soccer. Coached by the legendary Joe Morrone, the team was a perennial contender for the National Championship, winning it under Morrone in 1981 (and again in 2000). The soccer stadium is where we kids wanted to be on game day, there and nowhere else. I'd go with my mom and my sister and friends of our family. We'd sit behind the goal and when the opposing team's goalie was in the net, we'd hurl insults at him with relentless zeal. When one time the goalie (from St. John's, I think) turned around and gave us the finger after their team scored, he propelled us into a vicious and unrelenting tirade.<br />
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When the weather was warmer, early in the season, I'd sometimes wander below the bleachers and collect cans and bottles to return for money. I can still palpably recall the time someone deliberately and cruelly poured their beer on my head. But such was the risk I took. The crowds were rowdy and raucous. When the season wore on from fall to winter, and especially as the play-offs arrived, we'd bundle up and sit on the cold metal bleachers in snow and ice storms to watch our team play. <br />
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One of the highlights of my youth was being on a town soccer team, sponsored by Rosal's Restaurant, that played a 10 minute game on the UConn field at half-time. It was pouring rain that day and the field was a soaking mess. We ran around, kicked up mud, and slid all around. I am sure some of the players were focused on the game, but I wasn't a very good player and was mostly just thrilled to be on the UConn field, highly amused at the vaudevillian falls that we were all taking. I couldn't have been more elated the next day when the local paper, <a href="http://www.thechronicle.com/site/">The Willimantic Chronicle</a>, featured a picture me and a friend, running through the rain. My glasses are coated in mud and I have the widest smile on my face a boy could have. I still have that photo somewhere. <br />
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When the soccer season ended, it was time for basketball. In the late 70s and early 80s, the team was coached by <a href="http://www.gwsports.com/genrel/perno_dom00.html">Dom Perno</a>, who'd been a player for the Huskies in the 1960s. I was thrilled to be a friend of his son, Matt, even invited over to the Perno house for dinner one night. (Embarrassingly, I accidentally got locked in the upstairs bathroom. Too shy to call for help, it was many minutes before someone came looking for me and helped me unlock the door.) UConn was one of the founding teams in the Big East, which was a fledgling conference in the early 80s. The heavyweights were teams like Georgetown, Syracuse, and St. John's (Coached by legends, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Thompson_(basketball)">Thompson</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Boeheim">Boeheim</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Carnesecca">Carnesseca</a>). UConn was competitive, but we (notice the inclusive 'we') were not an elite team and certainly didn't have a lot of national recognition. I can clearly recall going to games at the old <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugh_S._Greer_Field_House">UConn Field House</a>, which held just a few thousand fans, at tip off time and finding our regular seats behind the hoop. Corny Thompson was the star player then. Fans of that era will also recall names like Vern Giscombe, Chuck Aleksinas, Gerry Besselink, Norm Bailey, Bruce Kuczenski, Earl Kelley, and <a href="http://www.gwsports.com/sports/m-baskbl/mtt/hobbs_karl00.html">Karl Hobbs</a> - to name just a few of our <a href="http://www.uconnhooplegends.com/men.html">beloved Huskies</a>.<br />
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<img alt="Husky Fight Song, Short sound bite" border="0" height="0" src="http://www.entertonement.com/widgets/img/clip/znhvfkqtkb/1/1_271cdc14_012b_11df_8114_0019b9e56dac/blank.gif" style="float: right; height: 0px; margin: 0; padding: 0; visibility: hidden; width: 0px;" width="0" /><br />
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Perno had three 20 win seasons as coach of the Huskies, but was eventually succeeded by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Calhoun">Jim Calhoun</a>. As the mid 80s became the late 80s, UConn recruited the players that would begin our transformation from a New England powerhouse team to a Big East Title contender and an eventual National Champion. <a href="http://www.uconnhooplegends.com/menslegends/SmithChris.html">Chris Smith</a> (talk about a crossover move!), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clifford_R._Robinson">Cliff Robinson</a>, <a href="http://www.uconnhooplegends.com/menslegends/GeorgeTate.html">Tate George</a>, <a href="http://www.quinnipiacbobcats.com/ViewArticle.dbml?DB_OEM_ID=17500&ATCLID=1253668">Scott Burrell</a> were some of the big names of that era. And no one who grew up in Storrs can forget where they were the day Scotty Burrell threw the ball the length of the court to Tate George to hit the winning shot against Clemson to propel us to the Elite Eight in 1990. It will forever be known as "The Shot." (I was on spring break with the UMass Crew Team in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, listening on the radio of my coach's truck.) It was the shot that would precede stars like Marshalls, <a href="http://www.dmarsh24.com/">Donyell</a> and <a href="http://www.basketball-reference.com/players/m/marshdo02.html">Donny</a> (no relation), <a href="http://www.nba.com/playerfile/ray_allen/index.html">Ray Allen</a>, <a href="http://sports.yahoo.com/nba/players/3237">Kevin Ollie</a>, <a href="http://espn.go.com/nba/players/profile?playerId=294">Richard Hamilton</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Gordon">Ben Gordon</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emeka_Okafor">Emeka Okafor</a>. It would be the shot that precipitated our rivalry with Duke (We <i>hate </i>Duke and <a href="http://www.huskieshoops.com/huskies/men/players/sellersrphoto.php">we particularly loathe Laettner</a>), and our National Championships in 1999 and 2004.<br />
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The other thing is this, growing up in Connecticut, we didn't have much to put us in the national spotlight. When the NHL <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hartford_Whalers">Hartford Whalers</a>, rarely a play-off contender, moved to North Carolina it left the Huskies as really the only team to unify the state. And having a winning team was heaven. Before Men's Basketball (and much credit must be given to original Big East commissioner Dave Gavitt and the rise of both cable and especially ESPN in the early 80s for our national prominence) if you told someone you were from Storrs, they had no idea what you were talking about. Even within the state there were many who had no idea where Storrs was. Today, along with storied programs like UCLA, Duke, and North Carolina, UConn has amongst the <a href="http://rpiratings.com/NBA.html">most players in the NBA.</a><br />
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Winters can be bleak in Connecticut. Cold, Gray, Windy. But inside the Field House, now Gampel Pavillion - the Hartford Civic Center, now the XL Center, it's been hot for a long time now. Calhoun is a Hall of Fame Coach. The women's team rivals the men's and now owns 6 National Titles, has won 55 straight games, and regularly thrashes its opponents by double digits. Even UConn Football has gone big time. The team has gone from The Yankee Conference to the Big East, from Double 1-AA to Division 1-A. Old Memorial Stadium on campus is more like a miniature field compared with the new Rentschler Field in East Hartford which can accommodate upwards of 40,000 raving fans. They've won two bowl games in a row and have <a href="http://www.uconnhuskies.com/sports/m-footbl/spec-rel/uconn-in-nfl.html">several players in the NFL</a>. Since the UConn Men's Basketball team won the NIT in 1988, UConn's stature in athletics and academics has steadily risen. We may still be in podunk Storrs, Connecticut, but there are few that follow college athletics that don't know the Huskies. And having come of age here during those seminal years fills me with the kind of pride that can only truly be understood by those of us who grew up or lived here during that time. You know who you are.<br />
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The UConn men <a href="http://scores.espn.go.com/ncb/clubhouse?teamId=41">lost last night to Pittsburgh</a>. They <a href="http://www.cbssports.com/collegebasketball/gamecenter/recap/NCAAB_20100109_CT@GTOWN">lost to Georgetown</a> last Saturday. The losses hurt more than I can accurately express. As go the Huskies, so go I. <br />
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<object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mIl_virAOM0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mIl_virAOM0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-72716390358482038592010-01-12T13:23:00.024-05:002010-01-15T19:54:11.438-05:00The Farm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvpCegDbMK7Drg4Yk_i5Mh7vfbQ8WedVtCA_u8-G39X5LdGUE0n4LBYaz6HRmMhyEiIVGpv2bqBNzgk-QKy12KVAGbMg7oqzfhct4C-6ady3QDyWE5nEBGPQFyXzSt4GR0UsrzQpsaOxzl/s1600-h/IMG_1871_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvpCegDbMK7Drg4Yk_i5Mh7vfbQ8WedVtCA_u8-G39X5LdGUE0n4LBYaz6HRmMhyEiIVGpv2bqBNzgk-QKy12KVAGbMg7oqzfhct4C-6ady3QDyWE5nEBGPQFyXzSt4GR0UsrzQpsaOxzl/s400/IMG_1871_sm.jpg" /></a><br />
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I've had better than a year to think about what I should next do with my life. I am looking for something bigger than myself. I don't want a job; I want a passion. In the last twelve months I, together with my family, have made some significant and life altering choices toward this end. We opted out of urban living; we chose to declare bankruptcy; we walked away from the upside down mortgage on our city condo. We moved to Pomfret, Connecticut in hopes of living a simpler, but admittedly no less easy, life. And throughout these recent machinations, there's been something massive looming - something inviting, intimidating, and wonderful. An undertaking of a lifetime. Something worthy.<br />
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In 1707 ancestors of my mother-in-law, Polly, purchased several hundred acres of land in Pomfret. In 1713 it became the Mathewson Farm and later came to be known as Fox Hill Farm. For generations it served as a homestead and source of livelihood to the Mathewson family and its descendants. Today, as has been the case for three centuries, a large farmhouse overlooks the property. (The house that's there today is the fifth on the same footprint. As is the unlucky, but common history of old estates, fires destroyed the previous homes. The house that stands today was built in 1926.) As the 1700s became the 1800s, and those the 1900s the property was passed down to family. Over those years some of the custodians of the land sold off portions or parceled acres off to other family members. But in its 300 plus years of being passed from one Mathewson generation to the next, a sizable piece of unspoiled acreage remains in the family.<br />
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In 1908 a modest summer cottage was built and in the 1960s a small addition to it was construcuted. The cottage would eventually become the summer home of my wife's grandmother, affectionately called Newie. Her sisters, Aunt Chan and Aunt Hope, were the last to dwell in the larger, 5,000 square foot farmhouse. When they passed away in the 1980s, the house sat quietly dormant, only the furniture and the ghosts of Mathewsons past remained. But in the summer, Newie would return to the cottage and there she'd be visited by her daughter and grandchildren. Polly, in fact, lived there the summer my wife was born, in 1969. So while Polly wasn't raised in Pomfret and while my wife never really lived here, it's always been a rich and familiar part of their heritage.<br />
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When Newie passed away in 1992, the property became the responsibility of Polly and her brother Chandler. Although his interest in caring for his ancestral homestead never faded, Chandler - 16 years Polly's senior - spent his entire adult life living in the south and chose to remain in South Carolina for his retirement years. This left Polly and her husband, Nick, who lived in Texas then as the sole remaining custodians. Sometime in the 1990s, the woman who lived on the property in the cottage and acted as the caretaker fell ill. Her ne'er do well son, desperate for money to support his drug habit, slowly but steadily stole most of the pieces of antique furniture stored in the Big House, as the farmhouse is called. When Polly's daughter, Patty, discovered this one weekend when she came up from New York City, it was decided that the property couldn't be tended to from afar. My in-laws packed up their home in Arlington, Texas into a moving van and moved north.<br />
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</div>For the past eleven years, they've worked hard to breathe life into the land. Even while both holding full time jobs, they managed to renovate the cottage addition into a Bed and Breakfast, <a href="http://innatfoxhillfarm.com/">Inn at Fox Hill Farm</a>, and have transformed overgrown vegetation into a charming swath of green. They live next door to the B&B in the old caretaker's cottage. In the colder months, they fill the wood stove with logs to stay warm in the non-winterized country house. The Big House is a behemoth that would intimidate the bravest of do-it-yourselfers. Yet work has been done to prepare it for transformation. It has been gutted to the studs, stripped of its horse-hair plaster. It stands quietly and nearly ready for updated electricity and plumbing, new windows, insulation, and sheetrock. <br />
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Fox Hill Farm - as it stands today - consists of 75 acres, 25-30 of which are cleared land. The rest of the land features a pond, a corn field, a hilly meadow, and dense woods. The cottage looks much as it did when it was built and the B&B hosts regular guests. The Big House, though re-roofed in 1999 to preserve it, stands at a crossroads. It's in need of immediate attention. The windows and basement are far from weather tight. It must be sealed (to be renovated sooner or later) or it won't last many more seasons; it's structural integrity hangs in the balance. There is a mortgage on the property that requires a regular monthly payment. There are property taxes to be paid and the bills that go with the maintenance of such a property. And there is a legacy to fulfill, a family covenant to keep.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">Linda and I moved to Pomfret knowing that as my in-laws age this property will increasingly become the responsibility of Linda and her three siblings. But those siblings are elsewhere right now - two in Texas and one in New York. It's we who have chosen to move here now. It's we who have elected to move our family here sooner rather than later to insert ourselves into its history. We've been thinking about this property for many years now, knowing that eventually we would bear much responsibility for its care. The undertaking is this: how can we help to make sure that Fox Hill Farm, the legacy of the Mathewson family, continues to be a family homestead for Nick and Polly's children? And for their children? For my son, Max, and his little cousin, Teo?<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7DmO7_Qi4ylFUxXd7sgPiOzSv8cAE9mYHgk1T41USn63PWd-mP6F6EQHUbqFArqZIYL5WYOmTdrfslZc_qBNhH3JwnqHR3d4Fa68ejfH7j7DzmKojEfoiPbIRpYxK_ei4Ob_fJ-auOP0/s1600-h/IMG_2150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7DmO7_Qi4ylFUxXd7sgPiOzSv8cAE9mYHgk1T41USn63PWd-mP6F6EQHUbqFArqZIYL5WYOmTdrfslZc_qBNhH3JwnqHR3d4Fa68ejfH7j7DzmKojEfoiPbIRpYxK_ei4Ob_fJ-auOP0/s400/IMG_2150.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the six years that I've been coming to The Farm, I've fallen for it. Hard. I want to live here with my family; I want to grow old here. I want to watch our family play in its fields, pluck its gardens, and sled its hills. I want the once proud farmhouse to recapture its former stature. And I want to be a part of its history. There's more work to do than I even know, but this is, I've decided, an effort more than worthy of my time.<br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQi2qYkcf8Fu35Tcz9h3EeBh9KsQyhnHRzwgr2LmvYE6w7hGYVCBS32TCjcqE4Ogp3hdR_cj5q1idu17fElmrTTLOjj2oTcgPUlO54rsf56JAQtdHgKYNXLsRtWWmQ2G6_zWKENBdUDm6/s1600-h/IMG_0265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQi2qYkcf8Fu35Tcz9h3EeBh9KsQyhnHRzwgr2LmvYE6w7hGYVCBS32TCjcqE4Ogp3hdR_cj5q1idu17fElmrTTLOjj2oTcgPUlO54rsf56JAQtdHgKYNXLsRtWWmQ2G6_zWKENBdUDm6/s400/IMG_0265.jpg" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7890403049668303397.post-40857326746729818112010-01-06T20:06:00.262-05:002010-01-08T09:33:30.979-05:00Customer Disservice: Sears StinksLike a lot of urban dwellers and city renters, I never had to do much work around the yard. When we moved here to rural Connecticut this past fall, I knew it wouldn't be long before I would become the owner of gasoline powered yard equipment. Having next to no experience with lawn mowers, tractors, chain saws, or snow blowers, I was both excited and leery about the process of acquiring them.<br />
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There's a local power equipment supply store a few miles up the road and I stopped in one crisp autumn day to talk to the owner about snow blowers. They carry the <a href="http://www.husqvarna.com/">Husqvarna</a> brand, a Swedish company, I'm told. There were several sizes of shiny orange plated blowers, with intimidating augers and powerful looking motors. I asked how much they cost. Naive as I was, I thought $400 to $600 dollars would be the neighborhood. When I heard $1200, I tried not to blanche, but excused myself shortly thereafter. Though I knew snow would come and that shoveling our driveways (yes, two) would be back breaking work, I tabled the purchased. Frankly, I needed time to come to terms with spending that much money on something other than air travel or a vacation (frugality being the better part of valor in my book). <br />
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Fall became winter and winter brought snow. A lot of snow. At first we shoveled, but when the snow kept coming and our backs revolted we enlisted a friendly plowman to help. But $38 a snowfall with nothing to show for it at the end of the winter didn't seem like money well invested. I committed myself to buying a snowblower. I solicited input from friends and family. I read copious reviews, paid for a <a href="http://consumerreports.com/">consumerreports.com</a> membership, and narrowed the wide field of choices. I was told not to skimp and buy one with a motor too small for those heavy, wet snows. Make sure to get a two stage model, said Consumer Reports. After carefully weighing our needs and our budget, I finally settled upon a Craftsman model from Sears. Sears! I am not sure why, but electing to buy from Sears made filled with with some pride. Sears was an American success story. Having begun in the late 1800s, its roots in serving rural farmers with their catalog, it later grew into one of our country's greatest department stores. There was a certain gratification I felt in continuing an American tradition. <br />
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One morning after running some errands I ventured into my local Sears and wandered over to the snow blowers. There was a sale and several models displayed on the show floor but, alas, not the one that I'd pre-identified. I lingered in the outdoor equipment area for more than 20 minutes. Not a single salesperson manned the area. Not a soul asked me if I needed help. I left with my money in my pocket (or at least my debit card in my wallet, unswiped). <br />
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A few days later, December 22nd to be exact, I found some time to make my purchase online. In spite of myself, I'd actually worked up some excitement about spending several hundred dollars on a power tool. I wasn't buying a slick home theater system or a sexy <a href="http://www.apple.com/imac/">iMac</a> - it was a motorized outdoor tool for clearing the driveway. I located the model number I wanted, filled in the information on sears.com, scheduled my delivery date (Monday, January 4th), and received my confirmation email. I don't have a pick-up truck, and though I could have borrowed one, it just seemed easier to pay the fee for delivery service. The total, all in, was $811 (that reflected the $150 discounted price). And though we had to shovel two more times after placing the order and before the schedule delivery date I took it in stride, knowing that soon I'd have a powerful snow removal tool at the ready in our garage. <br />
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On Saturday the 2nd of January, I got an automated call from Sears confirming that I'd be receiving the snow blower the coming Monday and that I'd get another call Sunday to confirm the delivery time window. Sure enough on Sunday, I received a call telling me that I could expect my snow blower between 11:30am and 1:30pm on Monday. I had a couple of other appointments that day, but made sure I could be home during that time frame. But on Monday morning, I got a call from the Sears delivery department telling me that there'd been some problem and the unit wasn't going to be on the truck as expected. I was told I could expect the delivery on Wednesday instead. As you might surmise, I was disappointed. Questions like, "Why would they have told me Sunday that my snow blower was coming between 1130 and 1:30 if there was no snow blower on the truck for me?" arose. But I am not entirely unreasonable. I chalked it up to some kind of snafu - after all 'these things happen.'<br />
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On Tuesday, I got a call from the Sears delivery department telling me that the snow blower actually wasn't going to be delivered on Wednesday, but rather on Thursday. There was some confusing explanation offered, a back order, a miscommunication. I was beginning to get slightly irked at the apparent lack of Sears ability to understand and communicate their own supply chain. Hadn't I ordered the machine several weeks ago? Hadn't they allocated a in-stock unit to me? Hadn't they ascertained where that unit was and when it could be transported from wherever to Pomfret, Connecticut? Apparently not. Having been on the other side of the conversation with disenchanted customers, I did my best to not take out my frustrations on the messenger. Certainly the person calling me wasn't responsible for getting the blower on the truck. That said, their job is to listen and pass along a customer's concerns. I hoped they would.<br />
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About an hour later, I got <i>another</i> call from Sears. What now?! They were calling to regret to inform me that the snow blower that I'd carefully researched and committed our scarce funds to was actually not on back order; in fact, that snow blower was no longer available at all! They recommended that I select another model all together. In short, they 1) happily took my money 2) promised me a delivery date 3) confirmed that delivery date 4) postponed that delivery date 5) twice! 6) then told me that they weren't going to deliver any snow blower at all. I was upset, but surely Sears - trusted and honorable Sears - would rise to the occasion and make me glad that despite their error, I'd be glad I'd chosen them over their many competitors.<br />
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I spoke on the phone with a customer sales represented, a friendly woman with a folksy accent, who tried to help me find a comparable model. I politely inquired if, given the many oversights and mistakes Sears had made during the course of this transaction - the first substantial one of this kind I'd made from Sears - they were prepared to sell me a comparable model for the same price. "No. I am not authorized to do that," was the reply. I reminded them that I had a choice where to spend my dollars and that this experience would do much to influence any future purchases. I'll spare you the back and forth and my efforts to escalate my case to a supervisor. They didn't so much as offer me a penny off of the other model. I wasn't asking for them to give away the ranch. The listed price of the other model - that was nearly identical to the one I'd selected - was all of $100 more.<br />
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I am not unreasonable. I would have gladly met them part way. All I was really looking for was something more than a "We're sorry for the inconvenience." and "We do appreciate my business." Sears flat out refused to make <i>any</i> effort to right their wrong and appease their customer. Here's the kicker. When I told them that I'd like to cancel my order and take my business elsewhere they told me that I could expect to be credited my purchase amount in 7 to 10 business days! Let me get this straight? When I make the purchase, the money is debited that same day from my bank account, but when I want my money back, they tell me it will take nearly two weeks? To save themselves a measly $100, Sears - a company with a <a href="http://www.google.com/finance?q=NASDAQ%3ASHLD">market capitalization of 11.46 billion dollars</a> - lost potentially thousands of dollars from me - to say nothing, I hope, of the hundreds of people I might influence to not shop at Sears. I don't know anything about any of the men in <a href="http://www.searsholdings.com/govern/execs.htm">Sears Holdings Senior Management Team</a>, but I am guessing if any one of them knew what transpired here, they wouldn't be so proud to be the legacy of Richard Warren Sears and Alvah Curtis Roebuck.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3