Silly Monkeys

My sisters are wonderful. So is my brother.
The older I get, the more I realize how fortunate I was to be born in the middle of such lovely people. Smack-dab in the middle–as in number three of five. All of us were born within seven years. I sometimes wonder how my mother survived…but I’ll save some of those stories for other posts.

Classic 1970's photo of the grandchildren on my grandmother's "divan. Cousin Richie, sister Kate, sister Ann, sister Mary, brother Patrick, cousin Whitney and me."

When I look at old pictures, I can’t believe how fast time has flown and often wish I had been nicer (I also wish whoever took this particular picture told me to cross my legs before the snapping the shot) because I miss my sisters and brother very much. We see each other as time and distance allows although it’s really never enough.
What I do not miss is the occasional conspiracy if I’m not on the inside. The sisters can be purely and diabolically evil. Time has not dampened the fiendish plotting, therefore my sibling fidelity is occasionally laced with uncertainty that I might be on the wrong end of a carefully crafted prank.
This year the two older ones got together to create the Monkey-themed Birthday for me.
Confession: I don’t like monkeys. I don’t think they’re cute. They scare me with their little faces, beady eyes, creepy hands and bad behaviors. Travis the Chimp did not help matters. Imagine my joy when I opened

Monkey Birthday Card from Mary

And

Mechanical Monkey Birthday card from Ann

What makes matters worse is this is the backlash of the Monkey-themed Birthday Card Gone Wrong! Something that I had [almost] nothing to do with!
Here’s the story–and I’ll try to keep it simple: 2nd sister Mary is turning 50 this year–a momentous occasion which she’ll be celebrating in Hawaii with her family. As good siblings, we decided to give her a collective card and gift commemorating her big day on Thanksgiving because that’s when most of the family was together.
We were all set, yet a few days before Thanksgiving, sister Ann called–barely able to talk because she was laughing so hard.
She found a great birthday card for Mary–Mechanical Monkey with instructions:
1. Make crazy monkey face.
2. Clap your cymbals
3. Stop the celebration just short of flinging your own poop around the room.
If you don’t know me well, let me assure you that the third directive had me laughing so hard that I couldn’t talk. The major reason for my monkey dislike is they fling their poop, but the sentiment just cracks me up. So I told her Yes! She should definitely give Mary the Mechanical Monkey card! Everyone would LOVE it!
The card was a flop.
Perhaps everyone was just too full of Thanksgiving dinner and had private thoughts of flinging their own poop? Alas, it just didn’t go over very well. The card was received with either a puzzled face, a weird smile or worse, outright offense before it was handed to the next person. Ann’s hilarity quickly dried up by the time the 3rd or 4th person looked at it and went, “Meh.” I worked at the hospital on Thanksgiving, so I missed the entire scene. I’m still trying to figure out my biggest regret: missing the family dinner or not having a front row seat at the Monkey Card backfire.
I was all support and sympathy when Ann miserably regaled the card’s poor reception. I honestly don’t think I had the slightest hint of schadenfreude in my soothing sentiments and even blurted out, “They are dim bulbs who don’t get pure genius when it’s handed to them on a silver platter.”
Well Ann didn’t buy it for a second; she sensed that I found her monkey card flop absolutely hilarious. Which I now freely admit that I absolutely did.
So she got the last word, the dish best served cold, her payback. I have two creepy monkey birthday cards–the one from sister Mary has two dancing dancing monkeys wearing party hats! AND she wrote, “I heard you like monkey cards!” which might mean I’ll get a monkey birthday card for the rest of my life! Oh the humanity!!
All I can say is this is not over, Ann.

Color themed photos!

Color themed photos! Perusing through my year in pictures, some of the photos caught my eye because they are monochrome, which I thought made them kind of interesting.

St. Joseph at the entry of St. Joseph's Oratory in Montreal Canada

Artie turns gray and black after haircuts...and tries to blend into the driveway

At sunrise the driveway and Artie are sometimes purple

Green bike on ivy wall

The streetlights changed a white blizzard orange

Bumble bees on Goldenrod. Aren't they just amazing!

Blue night, fisherman and ocean

Red leaves despite kind of a lackluster autumn of colors

Green courtyard at Peabody Essex Museum

Halloween

Pastel sea and sky

Sailboat in grey fog

Last one is the best one because it’s my favorite.

Honey on matching blanket

Beneath All the Hair–The Reality Hits Home

Thanksgiving 2011 was a great success. It was a terrific dinner thanks to Mr. B and our delightful guests who brought amazing dishes and a lot of fun. Overall, a perfect Thanksgiving gathering. Luckily Honey’s skunky smell didn’t take away from the meal once she was banished from the dining room.
It was simply unfortunate timing that the skunk deployment on my dog’s face happened around Thanksgiving. I’d like to thank our guests for putting up with the added feature of one ripe little terrier.
After the clean-up, games and loafing around, Mr. B, a man of boundless energy and multiple talents (he made the dinner while I worked) focused his on dealing with the small but potent offender. We arrived at the conclusion that washing her face a few times a day with a Dawn soaked cloth did nothing but refesh and renew the stench. This unusually balmy and humid spell of warm weather hasn’t helped either diffuse the matter either. We were nearly into a full week of living with a skunk infused terrier and decided that desperate times called for desperate measures.

Honey the Scottish Terrier with usual scotty fur

Therefore little miss fat face went from her usual puffy self above to:

Hmmmmm, she's unusual but she doesn't stink

Well the best I can come up with is a strategically shaved rat. Who doesn’t smell like a skunk anymore. Mission accomplished.
Once finished with Honey, my dear husband set his sights on poor Artie who dreads anything to do with clippers, haircuts and my husband. And voila! A short time later Artie the Scottish Terrier went from this:

Why rake when you can just drag a terrier around the yard?

To this!

note the cowering pose, he's been caught at the dishwasher

Both dogs look neater and more presentable and we can certainly breathe better but the haircuts confirmed a suspicion…My dogs are pretty fat.

I wonder why? (Ahem, I know exactly why they’re fat)

So it’s diet time for the dogs. Which is why I’m going to see a lot more of this attitude.

This is what sad, bad, hungry terriers look like. Look away if you can't stand it!

Happy Thanksgiving to All

Travel safe, eat well and enjoy those you love, near and far.
Happy Thanksgiving.

James and Charlie

The wonderful Mr. B (he's putting up with me right now)

and to a lesser degree, these two…

Two bad dogs

What is that SMELL!

Have you gotten a whiff of something and asked, “Do you smell a skunk?” Silly, rhetorical, I know but it’s a question I’d love to ask right now.
I’d put out some hard cash, maybe even a solid gold bar for the prerogative of posing that whimsical little phrase. It would be delightful to lift my head into a freshening breeze and wonder if a skunk waddled through at some point during the night instead of having every one of my five senses assaulted by a solid wall of skunk stench from the moment I enter my house.
This intolerable state of affairs has been ongoing since last Friday night.

You knew it had something to do with this one

I was reading in bed, tucked in early because I had to be at work before 7 a.m. the next morning. Mr. B. was out playing poker with his friends and our youngest son was downstairs, watching something wholesome and educational on television I’m certain. The peaceful evening shattered after ten o’clock when youngest son burst into my room with, “Oh no, oh no, oh no! You’re not going to believe it!”
He didn’t have to tell me what I wasn’t going to believe because the reek of skunk funk preceded him by a few seconds.
Here’s a skunk fun fact: Dogs never get sprayed before ten o’clock on a night before you have to work!
“No! What? Where are the dogs?!”
“Artie’s inside but Honey is out. And she’s jumping at the back door. I think she got sprayed by a skunk!”
You think?
By the time we had finished that little conversation, we were squinting. Tears were running out of our eyes and I could feel the hair inside my nose begin to singe. My son began to cough and gag and tried to dive under the pillows. Right, as if he could escape the horror.
As I ran downstairs, every step I took brought me deeper into the skunk fetor. It was like going through solid matter. By the time I got to the back door, I had entered the Seventh Level of skunk hell where it doesn’t even smell like skunk anymore, it’s like having a giant sulfurous rotten onion shoved onto your head. Without any air holes.
The cause of the catastrophe was crying and jumping at the back door. I must have yelled or swore because all I saw of Artie (the coward) was his big rump tearing up the stairs. I was abandoned, left alone to my devices and wit to deal with the latest bad-dog disaster.
Here’s another skunk fun fact: If you open your door when there’s a skunked dog jumping at it, the dog will run in and dive onto your bed or your couch, roll on your rug and rub it’s face along newly painted walls before you can catch it. It doesn’t matter how much you scream and swear, that’s what’s going to happen.
Unfortunately we’ve been through skunk sprayings before these two terriers came along. We had a greyhound who got sprayed twice in one week. Another time I was watching my mother’s dog when her precious got a faceful of skunk and proceeded to run into the newly painted bathroom and rub her face all over the walls. That’s how I learned about the second fun fact.
Armed with some history, I prepared the house for deskunking. I filled the sink with a Dawn/vinegar/warm water mix. I rolled up all the rugs, closed every door and went out to bring the befouled dog into the kitchen.
Skunk fun fact #3: Vinegar and Dawn dishwashing soap bath is the best home remedy for skunked dogs–unless it’s in their face and eyes. Then you just have to tough out the smell.
The smell was even worse outside if that is possible. I could barely open my eyes as I made my way to the back porch. Honey stopped jumping at the back door when she realized I wasn’t going to open it. She assumed the bear rug pose, lying as flat as possible with each leg pointing in the compass directions. This is her I have given up my will to live pose which is used only under absolute duress. All I could really see of her was two black, blinking eyes. I felt one small stab of pity but then was overcome by another wave of skunk smog.
She wouldn’t get up so I had to get her. She maintained her stiff, starfish pose until I plopped her into the sink. Then she just sat like a completely dejected dog. It was pitiful to see her defeated but it made the hour bath easier.
It’s been three days and although the stench is nothing like it was on Friday night, it still stinks. Despite all my efforts to contain the fumes, the kitchen smells the worst. Our coats and bags hang in the kitchen and they stink. When I opened my pocketbook at the store this morning, the cashier said, “Whew! I smell a skunk!” Honey is still pretty ripe because I couldn’t really lather up her face and mouth. I think it’s in her gums because whenever she yawns, we go into the Third Level of skunk hell.
Aaaaaahhhh, just in time for the Thanksgiving festivities!

Veni Vidi Vici Honey the Terrier!

Seaweed Heads. A Ghost Story.

The Salem Gazette, November 1, 1822

The Episcopal Parish of St. Paul’s Church on Essex Street bid an early fair-thee-well to seven devoted young women of the parish who are blessed and dispatched to Montreal Canada to take orders in the service of nursing the sick and spreading the word of the church to the newly formed Episcopalian St. Paul’s of Montreal.
It was a simple leave-taking in the dark and cold misty morning, no families present for the send-off of their daughters upon the pre-dawn departure. Each young woman travelled unburdened of any luggage or valise. All were dressed in black cloaks with faces shielded by heavy black veils.
The stage took off for Albany, New York immediately after the young women silently boarded. It is expected, by the haste of the four horses pulling at the reins, they will reach their expected destination far ahead of schedule.

The Salem Gazette, November 7, 1822

The town of Beverly proper and the surrounding towns are reeling in the wake of a terrible tragedy which resulted in unspeakable loss of life. The well-built and sturdy dory Nora Elizabeth, owned and masterfully manned by Captain John Russell capsized in calm seas last night. All on board perished. While facts are few, the list of confirmed dead are as follows:
Captain John Russell
The Reverend Pastor Byron Hughes
Robert and Morris Hughes, sons to Rev. Hughes and Mrs. Amelia Hughes
Mr. Charles Baker Esq., Lawyer
Mr. Asa Simpson, Banker
Mr. William Johnson, Businessman
Mr. Bertram Russell, Seaman, nephew of Captain Russell
Mr. Isaac Watson, Smithy
Mr. Maurice Merriweather, Accountant
Mr. Owen Higgins, Churchwarden
Sheriff Francis Boyle released this brief statement: “It appears the party aboard Captain John Russell’s dory were on a fishing expedition when it capsized. The boat was overloaded and it was dark. From the bloated state of the bodies that washed up in the southern corner of Fish Flake wharf, it looked like they had been in the water for over a week but the accident happened at some point around midnight. There has been no fishing tackle recovered at this time. Relatives have been interviewed and are at a complete loss as to why the men would embark on a fishing expedition in the middle of the night or what would possess them all to get into a boat that clearly could not support ten stout men.”

Diary of Virginia Southerland. (Entries of Extraordinary Interest)
27 November 1822
It has been nearly one month and I am not able to lift myself from the terror that plagues me day and night. I fear not just for my life for I believe I must be the next to die yet I believe I will lose my mind long before I take my last breath. Not only my sanity but my dear Mother’s as well. She knows! She knows it is something awful but she can never know how bad. Her wretched body suffers so from the arthritis yet her Faith and Goodness never let her sink to the despair that would devour her if she learned the truths. I can not allow her to know any of this.
Let her believe Mary is in Montreal learning to tend to the sick and spreading the Good Word of the Lord. Let her heart never know what I carry.
She tends to me with such loving care that I deserve not and can not nearly bear except that I love my Mother. My heart breaks more when she begs me to tell her what sickens me.
If only I could. It would murder her if I should.
There is little sensibility in what I write. It came to me that if I were to write it down once, I could be relieved of this wrenching burden. I would bury it after making record of that which I could never speak. I would bury the secret, the evil, the horror. That I am alive when so many are dead astounds me.
Yet I can’t bring myself to put words to this Hell. I simply can’t.

28 November 1822
I grow sicker with lack of sleep. I can foresee no other course than what I hope will release me from my haunting visions. I write this to release myself. I can not bear to see my mother’s face when she looks at me.
Those silly girls believed they were safe, that all intolerance and fear which many had suffered and died for was far in the past. Annabelle was their leader. Leave it to her to unearth what I know should have remained hidden and buried. She was always far too bold and inquisitive.
They believed they could heal and use their dark magic for good. It was prideful, they were careless.
I had been watching Mary for many days and came to know that she was stealing out of the house after dark. Finally I could stand no more and I came upon her as she prepared to creep out. she begged me to go away which frightened me. I pleaded with her to tell me what she was doing. I voiced my fear that if she must hide, it must be wrong. My distress encouraged her to bring me, to show me what they did meant no harm but Annabelle sent me away when she saw me. Her reason was their number must be Seven not Eight.
It made no sense at all and those bold young women banished me! Even Mary told me to run home. But I hid where I could watch. They removed all but their under garments. They lit a small fire, joined hands and prayed in a circle. They sang and chanted and danced around the circle. They prayed for good, for healing power, for strength to make the sick well but it was not a prayer to the Lord God Our Father and I know it was wrong. What they were saying and doing was wrong in the eyes of God and Man. When they finished, they dressed and left. I followed Mary and confronted her nearly at home. She was not shameful, she was delighted but warned me never, never tell a soul. It was Witchcraft. I nearly fainted and cried to her, how could she call the Devil himself? Mary laughed again, so carefree and told me there was no Devil in Witchcraft, only healing and good. She learned from Annabelle who found a secret book. They had been practicing rituals for nearly three months. Mary had been praying for Mother and wouldn’t you know, just three days earlier Mother said she felt a lifting of her pain? I cried but Mary would not repent. I begged her to let me come with her but she would have none of that either. She warned me not to speak one word of this until I die. Mary told me that others may have suspicions. It came to me then, the Mission to the North was made up of Annabelle, Mary, Abigail, Lucy, Betsy, Esther and Sarah. Was it Pastor Hughes’ desire to expel them for their acts? Mary laughed then scorned the idea that Pastor Hughes had any notion of their actions. Her confidence gave me strength in a hope that she was not damned. She acted as good and caring as she always had and spoke of her Mission with the highest of hopes and expectations. I could not reconcile myself to what I saw and was determined to follow her again without her knowledge. I wanted to believe she was doing no harm but when she left our home after dark on Hallows Eve, I could not help but be filled with dread. Alas, I can not write further on this now.

29 November 1822
It must be finished.
The girls formed a circle around a fire. It was so dark, a new moon night. Annabelle again bade them to undress which to my utter mortification, they did! And they danced and sang with abandon–songs in a language no longer spoken. It was not Christian. They should not have been doing what they were doing. If I had the strength to beg them to stop I would have to save their mortal souls but I didn’t. And I wanted to believe that Mary was good. It is my only wish that I had that strength for had I stopped them, I would have saved them…
The circle was burst upon by at least eight men, perhaps more. They lit torches after they overpowered the poor girls, I recognized some faces although I hardly knew them for their horrid expressions. From my refuge I could see Pastor Hughes, his two grown sons, Smithy Watson, Mr. Baker, Mr. Simpson, Captain Russell, his nephew Bertram and perhaps Mr. Johnson.
Their faces were terrible and they showed no mercy upon the poor naked young women. They bound their hands and feet and gagged their cries. They threw them over their horses and ran them through the woods and down to the waterfront at Fish Flake Hill where the old wharf barely stands. I followed them to the top of the sea wall where I could not make myself go further for the sight of what they did fills me with something worse than horror. I don’t wonder how they did not see me for these terrible men were so taken by their task at hand, I believe I could have walked among them.
Churchwarden Higgins was waiting at the bottom of the seawall, shovel in hand. He had dug seven pits in the muck as the tide was out but rising. The men stood my Mary and the others each in their own pit then Mr. Higgins shoveled the mud and sand in the holes around each of them until they were buried up to their necks.
It was then that Pastor Hughes removed their gags.
Each girl begged for her life. I can not get their cries out of my head. Mary’s haunts me the most. Nor can I escape the laughter of Pastor or the men at their heartbreaking beseeching for their lives. He condemned them to the Devil and proclaimed an Eternity of Suffering upon each of them. Death would come by the sea at the rising tide. The Devil would take their souls to Eternal Damnation.
These men of God laughed at their cries and shook hands,congratulating one and other before mounting. They agreed to meet at the tavern to discuss punishment for the families for it had gone far beyond sending wayward girls to Canada, this was the Devil’s work.
After they left, I crept onto those abominably slippery rocks. The tide was rising swiftly and I had to get Mary out. They were all crying for the Lord’s mercy begging for their lives. Before I could reach them, an unspeakably terrible dark form appeared. It was not a man for it floated over the water which was only three feet from where those poor girls were buried.
“Who begs for their life on this night?” it spoke in a voice so frightful but not loud, no more like a dark whisper in my head. Their cries for mercy became cries of dread, as did mine.
“Who would let me save them from this ghastly ordeal?” it breathed.
“No! No!” “Mercy, no!” “Not you!” “Dear Lord save us!” “No!” they screamed.
“I have been summoned,” It whispered, “I am here. Who will take my hand to save their life?”
It reached out a ghostly black palm toward their poor heads. I covered my face as I could not bear to witness this horror.
“If you will not accept me, you all will die. But I will not come in vain, I will have my prize. Who would you offer in your stead?” It said.
Shrieks of “Mercy!” Leave us!” “Save us Lord!” came from those wretched girls.
“I will lessen your suffering, you will die quickly” it whispered, “if you offer others in your place.”
“Them!” “The men!” “Those who buried us!” “Them!” “Them!” “Them!” “Them!”
“So you all decide, so it will be done.” and as It rose, a huge wave fell upon them. A wall of sea rose crashed over the seawall. The alley beyond was flooded. I held onto the cold, slippery rock for my life. The water retreated and left me cold and soaked. Silence crushed me. All that was left of my dear sister Mary, of Annabelle, Abigail, Lucy, Betsy, Esther and of Sarah were their seaweed covered heads.

The Salem Gazette, November 30, 1822

More tragedy follows too soon after the November 6th catastrophic wreck of Captain John Russell’s dory the Nora Elizabeth. Miss Virginia Southerland, beloved daughter of the Widow Leonore Southerland (m. Edward William Southerland, deceased at sea June 1818) fell to her death on the rocks at the southern wall on Fish Flake Hill. Her fall was unwitnessed but Sheriff Boyle surmises Miss Southerland must have either slipped off the rotting section of the wharf or possibly fell from the rock wall. The Sheriff has not released any information as to why the poor lass was wandering around the wharf area ash she is not connected in any way to the fishing industry nor is she acquainted with any such person who may have had reason to be there. He cautions all citizens to beware and not to trespass. The wharf has been restricted since the November 6th drowning of ten notable men.
This leave poor Widow Southerland quite on her own as her eldest daughter Mary is among the missing as a one of the seven young women of the Northern Mission of St. Paul’s to Montreal. Alms to Widow Southerland along with offerings of food and warm bedding may be left upon the poor woman’s door. All signs point to a long and cold winter for this unfortunate who will suffer without the loving care of either daughter.

The Salem Gazette, June 12, 1823

All construction has indefinitely ceased on the southern wharf at Fish Flake Hill after the fourth crew of workers quit on the spot.
“It’s ha’aunted, plain and simple!” sputtered Joseph Barnet after making the sign of the cross, “You can hear girls calling out, crying and begging. You can see their faces sometimes but when you look again, it’s rocks or posts covered with seaweed. I tell you, I will never return to that Damned place. Not after what happened to those men in the Nora Elizabeth. They shouldn’t build nothing over there. Just well enough to leave it alone.”

The Salem Gazette, September 9, 1823

St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Montreal has confirmed the dreaded truth that the Northern Mission of young women dispatched to help the sick and spread the work of the church never arrived. Their disappearance has been a mystery. Their last known place was Albany, New York where their stage coach was to have met a second stage headed north. Augustus McKilbride, driver of the stage that left Salem on November 1st was extensively interviewed by Sherrif Boyle and Judge Horatio Nelson and was found Innocent of All Mischief. Mr. McKilbride said his horses ran like they were being whipped by the devil and the stage carried light although it was full of seven young women. They arrived in Albany in three days time, a record as far as he was aware. He noted that the entire trip was enshrouded in a cold fog and he was happy to arrive at their destination in such haste. The women disembarked from the coach at night, all dressed in black and never said a word or thanks which he felt no surprise because they never said a thing to him at any point during the trip. The last Mr. McKilbride ever saw of the seven young women was when they disembarked at the watering trough in the center of Albany. He assumed they walked on to the Albany Inn, three blocks north of the trough because it appeared they were headed in that direction. John Blake, owner of the Blake House confirms Mr. McKilbride and his horses stayed the night of November 5th.

END

The Rare October Snow Storm of 2011

View of Mackerel Cove, Beverly MA after 10/29/11 nor'easter snow storm

We are digging out of about 5 inches of wet, heavy snow to make a path for the Trick-or-Treaters tomorrow night. It’s a rare October snow storm and we escaped the worst of it; central and western Massachusetts are buried beneath 12 to 25 inches of this stuff. No power for over 650,000 residents with a grim promise that some areas will have to wait several days for their service to return.
What a year it’s been for severe, strange weather! Bleak predictions of the apocalypse and global climate change aside (I’m sure you could find that in other blogs if that’s you’re thing) it makes for amazing pictures.

View to ocean from Atlantic Ave

Retreating storm on horizon

This is such an odd occurence that it was greeted with more wonder and marvel than any other first snow storm of the season.

Daisies, mums and ecchinacea

What is more of an anomaly, we’ve had a very warm fall with two days of record-breaking hot temperatures two weeks ago. There are so many trees with green or barely changing leaves which was the reason for so many downed limbs and trees.

Green leaves in October

Climbing green vine on antique lampost

Despite early, accurate and constant weather forecasts about the snow, many were caught unaware.

Lawn chairs

Chained to the street light in the snow--oh the humanity!

And some suffer the injustice waiting for the sun to get the snow off their heads.

Little stone man

Crabby lion with snow on it's face

This unusual October snow made for the most beautiful and interesting images which is why I’m not crabbing and moaning about the injustice of early winter.

Bright red crab apples

House with red door

Bird bath

Red leaves

No worries kids, the Halloween spirit manages to prevail beneath the blanket of snow. The only real concern you should suffer is that I’ll eat all of our candy before you get here and hand out rotten apples or bags of raisins tomorrow night.

Halloween doorway

Snow capped pumpkin lights

Snowy grave yard, ghosts are too cold to come out

I guess I should be completely honest with the kiddos…. You might want to know that this one loves to rise from the dead only on really, really cold Halloweens.
Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I love scaring the crap out of kids when it's cold!

The Scream Theme is SKULLS

No, it can't be--not AGAIN!!!

Can you believe it’s that time of year again? I have to admit, it really caught me unaware and totally unprepared. It seems like just yesterday I was writing about…HALLOWEEN!!!!!

Haunted window at the Phillips Library

Having the very good fortune of living close to but not in Salem during the month of October makes for some fun excursions. We went on a Haunted Night Walking Tour. We figured after living here for nearly 20 years, it was about time. It was actually a mosey through and around the downtown Salem homes and buildings. I was really hoping to get a tour through a the haunted historical houses but the we were limited to standing outside the creepy buildings while our Ghoul regaled us with the history of the building we were standing in front of in a semi-British accent he used only when talking about the buildings. Directions and traffic alerts were barked out in a very precise Massachusetts accent. I think we were quite a sight–a large group of tourists craning our necks at the windows to see if the curtains shifted or if there was anything like this peering out:

Good Evening Mrs. Crowninshield. Aaahh yes a cup of tea would be lovely!

Howard Street Cemetery with the Old Salem Jail in the background

We walked past two notorious cemeteries. Howard Street Cemetery is famous for the grisly murder of Giles Corey during the Salem Witch hysteria in 1692. Poor Mr. Corey was the only person to be “pressed” to death–a gruesome ordeal of death by being sandwiched between two wooden boards while the prosecutors pile on boulders until the accused confesses. Mr. Corey never confessed nor begged for mercy because either action would forfeit his property to the city. Instead, his only utterance when repeatedly questioned of witchcraft was, “More weight!” until, after three days and several hundred pounds of rocks, he died. Rumor has it that Giles Corey placed a curse on the town with his last breath and there have been many reports of seeing his ghost travel up and down Howard Street. I asked this fellow if he’d ever heard of such a thing, but he disappeared before I could hear his answer.

Hey buddy, have you ever heard of such a ghastly thing as pressing?

The Burying Point

One of the most famous cemeteries in Salem is The Old Burying Point. It is the oldest cemetery in Salem and the second oldest known cemetery in the United States. “Witch Hanging Judges” Jonathan Corwin and John Hathorne (relative to Nathaniel Hawthorne–who changed his name to distance himself from his relative) are buried here along with Governor Simon Bradstreet, two passengers on the Mayflower, a few of the accused, a small pox victim and a poor fellow who was thrown from a horse to name a few of the inhabitants. From the cemetery you can walk into the Witch Trials Memorial, an area designated for reflection on the horrors of the hysteria when in 1692, 14 women and 6 men were tried, convicted and executed for witchcraft. The names and quotes of the accused are carved into 20 granite benches and the site is a harsh reminder of a regrettable time. I returned to The Burying Point during daylight because it was impossible to see the gravestones at night. All of the grave markers are hand-carved and believe me, they are creepier in daylight because you can see the etchings on the tops of the stones.

Grave Stone at The Burying Point, Salem MA

They certainly didn’t believe in sugar-coating the afterlife back in the 1700s. I mean, you have a pretty clear image of what’s going on by looking at this marker.

Skull with wings grave stone

These grave stones are a form of art and, unfortunately, some are breaking apart or crumbling away after almost 400 years.

This is even creepier than a skull stone because it seems to be a portrait of the young girl who died.

I decided to walk around more cheerful venues after spending an evening and the following day in the old cemeteries of Salem. It is certainly lively but this time of year I am loathe to find any cheerfulness unless you find yourself smiling happily about skulls.
It is definitely The Year of The Skull for Halloween 2011.

There's Angry Skull

and Really Creepy Skull

Wow! It's Surprised Skull!

Blue Skull! There's a friggin' spider on your head!

Girl! You are workin' that hat!

Creepy! Walking away quickly from this little horror...

Cute little lighted floating skull

Hey gals, what's happening?

Watch out for the skulls without noses that fall from the trees! The horror!

Skulls on Books

Blurry skulls on big backs

Skull door decals--very cool

Plush skulls to toss in your baby's crib

Twin skulls...and a hand.

BLING skull! I think it has a grille!

Jolly Roger

Last but certainly not least,

Happy Halloween! Come on in!

End of the Season, End of an Era

It’s unofficially official. The predicted and expected outcome of the meeting between upper management and Terry Francona will result in the firing of Terry Francona. This will end both a marvelous and frustrating eight year tenure (2004-2011) that concluded in two World Series titles and one epic collapse.

While the sting of the Red Sox final game of the season will resonate all the long, dreary winter, and someone’s head surely must be served on a silver platter, I simply can not place the blame on the manager. To the contrary, I think Theo and the Trio are making a huge mistake if they let him go. Rumor has it that it may not actually be a manager sacking, that it may actually be Francona wants to be cut loose in order to step into the Chicago White Sox manager position just vacated by Ozzie Guillen. Who cares if it’s a “You can’t fire me, I quit!” scenario, the harsh truth is that the loss of Francona at the helm of this monster Red Sox team is a greater loss than many can fathom.

GM Theo Epstein and the trio ownership of John Henry, Tom Werner and Larry Luccino not only created a baseball dynasty that changed the entire persona of what it was to be a Red Sox fan, they changed the experience of the game at Fenway Park.

Prior to the Four Horsemen of Boston’s Baseball Renaissance, gritty, die-hard fans filed into the tiny, gritty, crumbling stadium and sat shoulder-to-shoulder. They could spout off stats and histories of the players of both the Red Sox players and the opposing teams, answer questions and debate while keeping a perfectly accurate score card and tell an obnoxious blow hard to shut the f@ck up when the nonsense went on too long. Today it’s not just a game, it’s an experience. Fans are entertained by things that have absolutely nothing to do with an actual game of baseball: gourmet meals, theme days, the Neil Diamond love fest in the middle of the eighth inning, player theme songs and souvenirs that are every color of the pastel rainbow (and adorned with watermelons and Disney characters) except the actual team colors. The 21st century ushered in a brand new show for all of baseball and Red Sox upper management played a huge part in bringing in this new form of distraction to the Great American Game.

Somewhere along the lines of winning and entertaining, the magic of what the Boston Red Sox could do since shaking off an 86 year Curse of the Bambino became a curse in itself. The Red Sox have failed to make the play offs for the third year in a row. Why this is such a big deal? Because they have the 2nd largest payroll in Major League Baseball and essentially the new order is based on the Yankee dogma that the he who spends the most money gets the best team and wins. The harsh reality is that money can’t buy a championship. The mega bank-rolled Boston Red Sox upper management loaded the roster with a lot of high maintenance, baby-hands-basket-case personalities that lack the ability, perspective or heart to develop into what it takes to make a team.

Terry Francona’s steady and calm outward demeanor kept a tight lid on his management of huge personalities inside the clubhouse. He was pleasant and deferential during his press conferences which made some sports writers think he was soft and easily bullied but the truth was he handled this team over the years lights-out. He shouldered responsibility for disappointing losses and always stood beside upper management in team decisions. He is optimistic and prior to September 2011, he’d spin an upside to any disaster–and there were more than quite a few Theo-trade personalities he’s had to deal with: Keith Foulke (hero in 2004, zero in 2005), that nut case Tavarez, semi-sober David Wells, Daisuke Matsusaka and the maritally challenged John Lackey. What about the short-stop curse beginning with Edgar Rent-a-wreck over the proven Orlando Cabrera and followed by an over-priced conga line of Alex Gonzalez, Alex Cora, Julio Lugo, Nick Green, Jed Lowry and Marco Scutero. And there are the over-paid under performers like Mike Cameron and J.D. Drew and most recently Carl Crawford who just suck the life blood out of the team. During the challenges of his time as manager, Tito had been able to outwardly handle all sides of the pressures of his position. He remained loyal to upper management and most importantly, steadfast to his players while either answering to or skillfully deflecting the grinding inquiries of the sports press corps.

That is until the middle of 2011 when Francona’s armor wore thin and he began admitting difficulty in getting to the heart of key matters in the clubhouse. His answers in press conferences sounded rote and almost rehearsed when it came to questions about Lackey, Daisuke, Drew and Crawford. After the most successful August in team history, September’s disgraceful slide to collapse brought to light how upper management felt about Francona’s responsibility for the Red Sox horrendous play. They couldn’t buy the key win.

Of course you can’t have an end of season implosion that the 2011 Boston Red Sox experienced without someone taking the blame. And it’s easy to blame Francona. Too easy. Yet there’s a bottom line to consider beyond the who’s at the helm of a mega-million dollar yatch. It has to float. Theo Epstein is a very fortunate young man who has the ability, with heavy assistance from his computer Carmine, to crunch numbers and pay for the best statistical team every year BUT he can’t buy team chemistry. He can’t predict injuries and he doesn’t have a magic brain scan that can ferret out a club house killer head case. He’s been standing on the shoulders of giants without heeding the most important lesson: the heart of the team isn’t in the payroll.

Terry Francona, Jason Varitek

From A Great and Glorious Game: Baseball Writings of A. Bartlett Giamatti
by A. Bartlett Giamatti, et al

The Green Fields of the Mind
It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.
Read by Joe Castiglone 9/29/11 at the close to the 2011 Red Sox season on WEEI.

One hundred and sixty two and it’s down to the Last Game

“Is your heart going to be able to handle tonight’s game?”
Good question. After 161 games of baseball, a dismal start (2-12), an unbelievable June through August and a nine game lead in the Wild Card race to start September, the Red Sox are in a game of their life in the last game of the regular season. It comes down to win: they go on, lose: they go home.
The 2011 Red Sox have been a tough team to love. They looked terrific before the start of the season and Sports Illustrated predicted they would be in the World Series (personally I hate that prediction, I think it’s something of a jinx). They had the best starting pitching and a strong bull pen. Theo Epstein pulled off not one but two monster deals with Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford. All the preseason talk was, “How many games over 100 will the Red Sox win?”
Anyone who has been a fan before 2004 knows this is dangerous territory because the Red Sox have a history of crushing their fans in a crucial, brutal manner. There are those who can trace it back to 1918 when Babe Ruth was traded to the Yankees. There are many, many fans who remember (with a post-traumatic stress disorder-like state) 1968, 1975, 1986 and 2003 but all that changed in 2004 with this man at this moment:

Dave Roberts changes 86 years history of the Boston Red Sox 2004 ALCS vs. The Yankees

We Red Sox fans are no longer the Tortured Souls of Baseball, that halo belongs to the fans of the Chicago Cubs.
Boston fans have been basking in a winning glow for a great deal of this young century, not just with the Red Sox. We’ve had the Patriots, the Celtics and of course, the Bruins. And with all that winning, the Boston fans went from tortured to reviled for their swagger, annoying accents and sense of entitlement. Hell, we’re almost as bad as Yankee fans.
Yet all that doesn’t make the 2011 Boston Red Sox easy to deal with. It’s been a long, streaky, unpredictable and very frustrating season of huge wins, agonizing losses, tons of injuries and disappointing performances in key players. Their performance in September can be called nothing but a swoon with a 7-19 performance. In the beginning of the month it was like, “Well if they don’t clinch the division, at least they’ll get the wild card.” As the only team (thus far) with 2 World Series titles in the 21st century, who could have imagined this scenario? They are down to the last game of the regular season and fighting for their lives for the chance to play tomorrow. The real question is this: do they really have what it takes to bring anything to the post season?
I want them to win, I really do. But are they the kind of team that could go on if they do? It’s doubtful. I haven’t been able to figure out exactly what I think is wrong (it’s easy to say the injuries, it’s obvious to say the pitching, anyone can say Carl Crawford hasn’t lived up to his monster salary) but it’s more than that and I’ve been looking for something to be the crucial turn to bring them together all season long. This morning I was hoping Lavarnway could be the magic element to bring all the right elements together. That’s a lot to ask of a rookie catcher if Dustin Pedroia, Jacoby Ellsbury, Adrian Gonzalez and David Ortiz haven’t been able to do it all season long.
If things don’t work out tonight, we’ll have all winter to agonize and analyze.