Conclusions of the moment...

I am a sensitive and simple man. I complicate too much too often.
I want peace for the world but realize that the world has never really known peace. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men is a moment by moment, person by person experience. It is not global and probably never will be.
Something died between the lathe work and our staircase. It smells horrible. Without performing some major demo, we are forced to try and live with it. A little Frebreeze, some baking soda.....maybe we can weather the storm.
I have been looking forward to a large seven course dinner at a Mason's lodge in a neighboring town. It's a big event http://www.mainemason.org/resources/table.asp I expected that a group of us from our lodge would attend together. I had several conversations with other members regarding this night. I know that everyone is busy and that many planned to attend. I wanted to join up with others, as is the custom. No one called. Nothing personal, I know. But I just couldn't go by myself. Social anxiety? Kind of. More neurosis on my part than anything. I have always felt the uninvited guest; even when I'm invited. Needless to say, I am dis- settled by the turn of events and even more so that I'm even feel dis-settled.
If I could make two wishes come true, (there is no reason why I couldn't pursue their fulfilment) it would be to loose twenty five pounds and begin to meditate daily again. Each would help with the other. I just need to find that jumping off point.
I began yard work today. Thousands of sticks and washed out piles of dog poop to pick up. There is much to do before I can rake and prepare a small garden.
The Church of Rietta opens tomorrow. That's my name for a large flea market that runs from early April until October every Sunday. We'll take the Meatstick with us as this is our weekend having her.

Mattie aka "Meatstick"

Dom....only Grand son

I love pix of candles

Yeah, that's me...

Brielle aka "Dingo" or "Tiny Dancer"

facetious truth

"I could have been a contender, I could have been somebody, instead of a bum which is what I am."

Ask and you shall receive....I guess

As an Ulster Scot on my Mother's side, I am inclined to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Not because of St. Patrick I might add. I would imagine that having descended from Scotland with the lineage of MacGregor, it would have more to do with just trying to "piss off" the English.

'S Roegmal mo dhream......Ardchoille!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So of course, alcohol is involved. With $$ being a little scarce, drinking Narragansett just doesn't cut it. While cleaning out some of the trash that has accumulated in my truck, I found two cans of Guinness under the front seat all wrapped in red tissue paper. Must have been leftovers from Christmas. Knowing that these two cans must have gone through the freeze/thaw process many, many times over, I thought them to be dead.

All I can say is, God bless the widget. http://mywebpages.comcast.net/tabco/widget.htm

A friend of mine works at the local micro brewery and brought me a case of their Country Ale and a "Growler" of their "Green Monster" named for the back wall of the Red Sox's Fenway Park.

This made for a glowing good time. I meant to step out and take pictures of our mid March snowfall of 12 inches but taking the dog out to pee was as far as I got. I know that many from over the pond have looked upon our eating of corned beef and cabbage as "the crap I left Ireland for" but I ate it for dinner and made hash for breakfast. Good stuff.

Spring begins on Tuesday night. My pagan wife and I usually have a Spring meal of Lamb and Asparagus with a nice wine. Not sure if that will happen. I have a meeting with the local fraternity of Masons and enjoy the group of guys there. To be a Mason, one cannot be an atheist. To be an atheist is easily defined. But how does one define the words, "I believe in God?" Every word is so entirely subjective. Especially for one that has studied for the Christian ministry, flowed into Taoism and embraced the teachings of much of Buddhism.

"I"

"Believe"

"in God."

I could write my thesis. Do "I" "believe" in "God?" Not in the way that most would define it. But yeah, I do.

I think that I'll go and have some more of that Green Monster. It would be a shame if it went flat.

The icicle that hung from the south western corner of the roof was slowly melting. The repetitious drip, drip, drip, tapped away upon the upturned wheelbarrow. Birds were gathering in the row of scrub pine making all the sounds of spring. Temperatures were closing in on sixty five degrees.

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring again.

The movement of the gathering birds reflect the flurry of activity that occupies my mind. And as I attach myself to these thoughts I am ever sinking lower and lower into despair.

Its quite simple. Yet I turn away. Having experienced the freedom of watching thoughts arise and pass away, just as the seasons rise from vernal equinox to autumnal equinox and back again, my despair acts as a pair of heavy boots making progress in any direction cumbersome.

I am depressed. A concoction made with one portion of situational depression, a shot (or two) of genetic depression, a splash of hormonal depression (compliments of diabetes) makes for one dull boy.

Applying the salve of compassion is helpful but the jar is dry. Self loathing begins to raise it's ugly head. You begin to believe that the little foxes will spoil the vine.

My apologies.

"It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of person doesn't want apologies and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them."

So be it!

Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt

So me and Bobby leaned over the bridge trying to catch a very uninterested rainbow trout. Didn't know Bobby very well. He was rather aloof and superior. There were high expectations for him. His dad, my uncle, worked as a consultant for a power company. They moved around a lot. This new house was close to the families of my aunt and uncle and they felt that this would be a permanent location for them. Retirement lay at the end of a ten year plan for my Uncle and Bobby was graduating with honors. He was furthering his success after high school by joining the Marines. Yes, there were great expectations surrounding Bobby. What a man, what a man, what a mighty fine man. He was something to admire. Too bad that damned trout wouldn't cooperate on this fine spring day in May. It would have made the day perfect.

The next time I saw Bobby, all six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds of him, was after his tour of duty in Vietnam at our grandfather's funeral. We were elected to be pall bearers. He didn't acknowledge me in the slightest way. I thought that it might be my long hair but he was beginning to sport a full beard and his hair was far from a military cut.

Over the next thirty years, I saw Bobby only a handful of times. He would have given Grizzly Addams a run for his money. Although Bobby looked more like the real thing. Long thick black hair and matching beard, he topped the scales close to two hundred and seventy pounds. He was never seen at any family gatherings and it was quietly spoken about that he was in and out of the VA hospital often. Also spent time in several rehabs for alcohol.

About six years ago I saw him at his sister's daughter's wedding reception and we sat together. It was a good time. He was still looking ever the mountain man and we had several laughs together. We even talked about going to the Black Family Reunion that celebrates our Scottish ties. We joked that we would need to climb the mountain to have a beer, as the reunion was always dry. That was the last time I saw Bobby alive.

His funeral was a double funeral. His father died a few months after Bobby and the bodies were held in vault for a springtime burial. On the hill where the cemetery is located, a late May wind blew while and bagpipes played that sort of mysterious melody that always weakens my knees and brings a lump to my throat. The minister said that Bobby died of Vietnam and that his father died of a broken heart.

Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt

The times, they are a changin

When I think of my coming of age days, I often think about the quick social and political change that was taking place right under our noses. In my town alone, a small town that consisted of four precincts and a fairly sizable population, there was one full time police officer. There was one police cruiser that also doubled as the town's only ambulance. People would sit on their front porch and say hello to their neighbors and no one ever felt the need to lock their doors.
After the assassination of JFK and the country's increased involvement in Vietnam, authority was being questioned at a level not known since before the Civil War. The political gap, the generation gap, the religious gap; each widened, threatening to devour the unclassified. After the killings of MLK and Bobby K. the gap began to turn into a vortex. Everyone could relate to the rock lyric;

I"d love to change the world
But I don't know what to do
So I leave it up to you..........

People locked their doors, built decks and hid in their back yards. And me and the boys didn't do anything to help the situation.

In the span of just a few years, from before 1966 until 1968, our police force grew from one into many. Three cruisers and a 24/7 police force. By 1969, there was a ten o'clock curfew on the town for anyone below the age of eighteen. If caught by those who were newly sworn in to protect and to serve, the suspects were brought to the station and the parents of said suspects were then notified.

With the community safely tucked away into bed by ten o'clock on most week nights, we would slip out of our bedrooms before midnight and roam until dawn. Dressed in black, we learned to duck and cover going undetected avoiding capture many times over. As I stood under Al's window using the customary cat call and pebbles at the window, his dad sat at the kitchen table with a quart of Pabst before him. He jumped up and headed out the door leaving no time for escape. I lay nestled beside the house foundation with my face covered by my hands. Peaking through my fingers I could see his size twelve oxfords only inches from where I lay. After a scan of the backyards of suburbia he went back in for a tall cold one, compliments of no one.
As Neil Armstrong walked upon the moon and Creedence was storming America, dress codes were becoming extinct in our public schools and teens were selling marijuana and L.S.D. in the halls.
This created a recipe for stories of death, fun, sex, tripping and violence that amazes me to this day.
Amazes me.
To this day.

The Band

Oh. I was saying that it was the long anticipated fourth of July before I went off on the shoe thing. Happens a lot when I'm trying to tell a story. Mind races off in all directions. I was going to tell you about our band, the fireman's fair and all that when my mind just ran to Bucky's boots and Tom Mccann.

I began to tell you about the fourth of July when the all volunteer fire department would set up a row of games, hire a small carnival of rides and set off a fireworks display. There was food and a sound stage and various vendors. Since this was the biggest thing going all year, everyone would come to play, eat, have fun, and raise money to support the fire department. It was cool when that kid from Columbus Ave got a dart stuck in the side of his nose. But that's another story.

What I wanted to tell you about was our garage band. "Ten Cent Nickel Bag" was the name. I owned a Jazz Master Fender, Al had a Silvertone that could play a good rhythm and bass. Bucky played the drums. You see, Bucky wanted to play the fireman's sound stage. "Great way to get to get laid," he would say. This idea scared the crap out of me. Playing before a crowd and getting laid. But Bucky was determined and kept after us day and night until the Fourth came out of the calender and just stood there.

We played one song that I wrote called, "She's the one." If I were to liken it to any song in memory, perhaps it sounded like the "Stray cat strut." Maybe he heard it and ripped us. I don't know. Could happen. We did a spazzed out Inagaddadavida. Sans keyboards, of course. We did a "Sunshine of your love." Beside some fun nonsensical Jamming, that was it. Bucky thought that was all we needed.

In hindsight, its funny to think that all we had for amps was a 50 watt Silvertone amp and a 40 watt something or rather. At least the Silvertone amp had some cool re-verb. I had a wah-wah but was too confused and untalented to use it properly. So we set up. If not for the cheap sunglasses, I would have fainted. No one really noticed us but that did not stop Bucky from telling every other girl that we were a band like Jimi's. When we sang "Fire" instead of saying "Move over rover and let Jimi take over," we said, "let Timi take over." Oh brother!

We were forced into playing. As soon as Bucky began his drum rolls and cymbal banging, we had to do something. We played an awful rendition of the Iron Butterfly song; without the drum solo. It seemed that we kept playing and playing it because we were too scared to stop. Then we went on to massacre Cream. Then we went on to my song. Ugh! But then we went on to jam. Just plain screwing around. When we began to have fun, and forget ourselves, we sounded pretty good. My body loosened and I actually began to move like a rocker. Al blazed some bass/chords while Bucky slapped those toms and snare like slinky descending the stairs. We drew quite a crowd! Like speaking in tongues, we started as a babble and by the end we started to make sense. Satisfied, we packed up and joined the crowd for the evening.

It did seem that it helped us with the girls. They were friendly. Some guys would joke about knowing us before we were famous. Bucky disappeared into the night and we all went our separate ways. As the fair began to wind down, Bucky's father came to pick up our stuff in his car. Bucky wasn't around, so Al and me decided to cross the river and cut up through the woods to go home. We sat on my front stoop recounting the days' events when at long last Bucky arrived to join us.

"Smell my hand," he demanded, pushing his fingers into our faces. "Smell my hand!"

"What's that," we demanded, not really smelling anything.

"Smell my hands. They smell like cunt! Smell!"

That was Bucky. Bucky, all the way.

The Boots

It was the long anticipated fourth of July. While most of the kids wore Keds, Nick had Thom Mccanns handed down to him by his father. Slightly larger than his feet, he ran much slower than everyone else. There was that time that Mr. Fortier chased us for climbing his apple trees and Nick lost one of his shoes during the chase. He didn't dare come home with only one shoe and he made a miraculous dive to retrieve the lost loafer. Mr. Fortier had him. Had him in his grasp! And yet, somehow, Nick dove and slipped away like a greased pig. He later caught up with us at the Catholic Church woods. This earned him the nickname Thom Mccann, a name that still sticks today.

But it is Bucky Addams that stands forefront in my memory. His family moved into town long after the rest of us and he had the unenviable task of trying to make new friends in a new town. With jet black hair, a small framed body and a slight French Canadian accent, he made up with mouth what he lacked in size. A few years older than us, he spoke with the voice of experience about girls, beer and fighting. After all, his father had "the gloves" having once won the Golden Glove boxing title as a lightweight sometime during the fifties.

Bucky didn't come with Keds or Thom Mccanns. He came with a pair of boots.

The second child of a family of four and he, the only boy, found himself under the thumb of a loud and large mother. To memory, I can hardly recall hearing his father say more than ten words. So much for "the gloves." His mother could often be heard to command the girls to rub her feet and make her a highball. Especially on Saturday nights when Lawrence Welk was on t.v. No, Bucky stood most tall when out of the house and away from his mother. But insult his mother? And to his face? A sure way to start a fight. I've never seen anyone get so off the cuff so when it come to protecting his mother's holy name. Never much understood it.

Oh, but the boots.

Everyone always gets up and runs out of the house, slipping on their sneakers (except for Thom Mccann) to play ball, or army or just to hang out. You would run all over the neighborhood until the sound of the noontime whistle, when you would run home for lunch. In the afternoon you would repeat the process until supper. The call home at night was when the streetlights went on. If you noticed them.

Well anyway, Bucky it seemed, would never join us without one of us going to his door and to invite him out. We would have to go through the process of getting by his mother and then wait for Bucky to perform his morning ritual of putting on his boots. He would retrieve them from a box that was tucked into a small utility closet. There was a coat and shoe closet mind you but Bucky had this special place where he would box and place his boots away every night to retrieve again each morning. The boots come a full five fingers above the ankle. Not really black or brown, they had the look of very old but well maintained leather. Bucky would reverently take them out of the shoebox, wipe away any dirt whether there was any present or not, and then he would line them up before the stoop leading out into the sun porch. He would slip in a foot and pull at the laces from the the toe to the ankle until they were perfectly aligned. Then he would criss-cross the laces through the open clasps up to the top of the boot. An adjustment here, a wiggle there, and he would at long last tie a perfect knot pulling his pant down over the fine work of art that he so studiously perfected.

In hindsight, I envied those boots a little. They never came off no matter what trouble we found ourselves in. His feet never got wet. Even when we walked through the drainage pipe that ran under the road down to the river. He did stand taller and seem sure footed. Bucky taught us how to pick out who was and who wasn't a virgin amongst the girls. He was the first person I ever knew who was legitimately addicted to smoking cigarettes. He was the first one to get a driver's license and at that, the old gang was lost in his dust. We didn't see much of one another after that. Occasionally we would hang out but this was the time of emerging personalities. Some gravitated towards being jocks, some to long hair and freaks, some to retain the look and appeal of the old motor heads. Each seeking to find his own way. I last saw Bucky when he came by to tell me that he joined the Army. He was home on leave. He no longer spoke with a French Canadian accent. In fact, to memory, he sound like a boy from Tennessee or the Carolina's.

It was the summer of 1969. I was fifteen. Hair to my shoulders. I do believe that I invented the mullet. I wasn't sure where Bucky's original boots got off to or to their origin either. Sometimes I think that perhaps they were what his father wore in the ring. Perhaps they were just boots and had no meaning at all. But then I found it unnerving, or poetic or just plain spooky to see those boots placed upon his casket among the flowers. He died far from home and he rejoined his boots in a grave not far from where my father is buried now. I always think of those boots being there beside his body when I visit go to visit my family plot. I often wonder about how much of an influence Bucky may have had on me as I now so often wear boots in much the same style as what Bucky wore. Not knowing if I just like wearing good solid boots or if Bucky's reverence for his boots those many years ago held sway with me. Either way, when it is my time to die, I don't plan to have my boots join me in the grave. But then again, I don't think that Bucky planned on it either.

At the sound of the morning alarm he grabbed his pants and headed downstairs to begin his day. The process always sounded the same. The same jingle of the change in his pockets. The same creak of the top stair, the fifth stair, and the floor at the bottom. The water would run and change sound as it moved from cold to hot in the pipes. He would start his car and back out of the driveway and then proceed up the street. I had the sound of shifting from first, to second and to drive firmly locked into my memory like an old song. The timing was flawless.
He would return home by one thirty in the afternoon. He would take a nap and by four o'clock he was off to a second job as the head cook or chef at local restaurants such as, "The Chetwood" or "The Oasis" or the "Four Winds". He was home by eleven to prepare for the four thirty in the a.m. cycle to began again.
At age fifty seven, his heart required surgery and he needed to retire. He was able to use accumulated sick time, holidays, personal days and vacation time to receive a paycheck paid a period of more than a year so that he could retire at age sixty. His quality of life diminished greatly from year to year until the time of his death at age seventy seven.
He was not alone in his quest to give more to his children than what he had received. Those that served overseas in WWII came home anxious to work hard, raise a family and live the good life.

Did they succeed?