Goodbye To My Dear Friend

I have to say good bye to one of my dearest friends. I don’t want to, it’s awful, and I wish I could somehow change what is now life without him in it because it’s going to be far too quiet.

Don. Donnie. Donald B. We graduated from a small high school in Central Massachusetts in 1981. Everyone knew everyone else, and as it turns out, thanks to social media, we were  close despite most of us going off in various directions.

I am pretty sure I can count the times I’ve seen Donnie since our graduation, but it might be safe to add one or two drunken parties to that list. I know every time I saw him it was a blast–I mean a BLAST. He was the life of the party. Loud, funny, the center of the room, the person you wanted to stand next to because you knew that was where the fun was happening. He was that guy.

Class of ’81 Turns 50

Fortunately for me, it wasn’t just parties that I saw Donnie. After my first marriage ended, I moved back home with my parents. It was a hard move because I was starting over as a single mom. I was angry and bitter. It was humiliating to see people I knew because I felt like a loser. Donnie called me to see how I was doing and I launched into my tale of woe, bashing my soon-to-be-ex, fully expecting a rally of support from my old friend. Instead he shut me up by telling me straight out that he knew my husband to be a good guy and asked, “What did you expect? To be treated like a princess every friggin’ day?”

That was Donnie: blunt, honest, no filters. He then gave me some financial advice because I had a kid and a picture framing job because I worked as a picture framer. That was Donnie: he would give you help when you needed it. He made me laugh and cry during that phone call but most of all, I felt better after talking to him. He helped give me a perspective and some strength and guts to start moving on.

Our paths crossed over the years, alway fun, always feeling like we had just seen each other just a few days ago. We could launch into baseball (usually good), politics (always bad–polar opposite political views), families (great), and funny memories that left us laughing until we couldn’t talk.

The thing about Donnie is, somehow he got a pass for being loud and annoying and oppositonal and saying the very thing VERY LOUDLY that I know I could never get away with saying. I’ve thought a lot about how and why he got away with it, and all I can come up with is that he was genuine and stood by his opinion until he knew he was wrong. Or when he admitted he was an asshole. But somehow he always made you laugh until you were gasping for air.

The loss I’m feeling right now is absolutely nothing compared to what his beautiful family must be going through. His wife, his children, his parents and sisters and brother. His nieces and nephews and in-laws, his cousins, close friends, his children’s friends, his neighbors, people who worked with him, those lucky enough to see him often. He was bigger than life. He was a force of nature that you never forgot once you knew him.

Despite his contrary nature, he cared deeply. He stood up for the underdog, for causes, for what was right. There was no way I was going to do the Ice Bucket Challenge until he called me on it. Then there was no way I could NOT do the Ice Bucket Challenge. He thanked me after I dumped the freezing water on my head and told me he not to worry about giving the money, he’d already donated for me which breaks my heart right now.

In the past couple of years we had gotten together with two other high school friends and the time spent together was beyond what I can give credit here. It wasn’t just catching up, it was creating a new level of friendship. We went to a baseball game at Fenway Park. Red Sox vs. the Mariners. They were down by six runs in the nineth, it was a game they trailed from the top of the first inning which was a minor drawback to the fun of being together. We stayed because we were having so much fun talking, laughing, catching up, and honestly, switching seats to take a turn sitting next to Donnie. Until the 9th inning when the Red Sox started to come back. What was definitely a fun night turned into an amazing night in our friendship, and in the Red Sox 2013 season. They won it all. I believed we would all get together many times for many years to rehash that incredible night.

I just can’t get my mind around it. My dear friend Donnie is not here. He’s gone. It is such a huge void. If I could do anything for his family right now, I wish I could take some of their grief and loss because I can’t imagine the vacuum of his death to them. To quote Watson, when faced with Sherlock’s death, all I can say is, “I want you to be not dead.”

Donnie loved Joe Castiglione’s tradition of reading part of Bart Giamatti’s poem Green Fields of the Mind at the end of every season. It is fitting here, now, as I say goodbye to you except I wish with all my heart that you would come back. Rest in Peace my dear friend.

“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.”

Boston Red Sox vs. Mariners 8/1/13. Greg, Mindy, Lizy, Donnie

Elf-On-The-Shelf…or that little effing narc

It’s that time of year again. You must know it–the yearly visit of that creepy The Elf On The Shelf.

Look at me! I’m the little rat that’s reporting you to Santa every night.

I have no idea when his phenomena of the elf turning into a Judas took hold. We did have two of those elves that sat on our mantle at Christmas time but they were just decorations. We didn’t even want to play with them because they had freaky faces and were missing feet.

Eeeeeeew, no feet. And what’s with that smirk and those side-wall eyes?

Neither of my sons were subjected to Snitch Elf. I somehow missed that phase, probably because social media had little impact when Christmas traditions were in the making.

The most internet thing we did was NORAD’s Santa Tracker–which was awesome. We still check in every year and I highly recommend it for little kids. Something about the bells and hearing service members stationed all over the world report Santa’s location. It is quite magical. Here, I’ll even give you the link so you can start your tradition this year: http://www.noradsanta.org/

Now why am I shoving Santa Tracker instead of The Creepy Little Whistle Blower? Well, I think it’s rotten that kids have another set of eyes watching them and going back each and every single night to Santa to file a report.

Just hanging out…stalking… you know… watching for anything Santa might want to know about…

The whole premise of the elf really smacks of something less than wholesome and is such a remove from the spirit of Christmas. Honestly, if my mother tried to pull off this caper on us kids, that elf would be stuffed with hamburg and given to the dog before the first day of it’s surveillance was over.

Prescriptive guide to scaring your kids into being good right before Christmas.

I mean, really, I just couldn’t take this if I were a kid.

It reminds me so much of this movie that I think I might have broken into a national security firewall:

The Corporate Model for Elf on the Shelf is based on the movie The Informant

If this is the case, and I disappear, please tell your kids that Santa is kind and the season is about peace, giving and good will toward others.  And turn them on to Santa Tracker…it may help ease some of that feeling like they’re being watched.

Oxford Dictionaries New Words and Phrases

I love learning the new words and phrases that make the Oxford Dictionary radar, although I really don’t like the website-I believe it’s a site loaded with malware and hacker ability to destroy my computer-but I digress.

New words are usually funny and acurate in the depiction of the evolution of our lives. Some of them are annoying and, thankfully short-lived, but others are creative and have, I hope, a long and useful life in our lexicon.

Here are the top ten.

10. Al desko. Sad desk salads, soups surreptiously slurped while on conference calls, and sandwiches half-eaten because of the nervous energy supplied by a looming deadline all have an overarching term to describe them. That it’s a play on “al fresco,” used to refer to dining out of doors, only makes it more perfectly cruel.

9. Shiny bum. An Australian term for an office worker. It sounds pre-emptively derisive, which is likely intentional.

8. Economic man. “A hypothetical person who behaves in exact accordance with their rational self-interest” — or, the “shiny bum” after he got his first promotion or two.

7. WRT. One of the more pleasant abbreviations to make the list, although Oxford’s version swaps in “reference” for a term also known as “with regard to.”

6. Five-second rule. The idea that food dropped on the floor for less than five seconds escapes contamination is probably a myth, but who among us has never justified a quick pickup with it in mind?

5. The ant’s pants. Sure, ants in a human’s pants might not be the best thing. But if an ant is wearing pants, it’s probably a fairly big specimen, as this Australian term referring to a particularly great person implies.

4. Misery index. Those short “i” sounds make this shorthand term for a country’s inflation and unemployment rates sound much more pleasant than its definition implies.

3. Mahoosive. Lengthen the “oo” in the middle according to how large the object you’re describing might be.

2. Crony capitalism. Bad practice, good term — this phrase refers to economic systems where business honchos and government officials are in cahoots.

1. Carne asada. This spanish term for marinated, grilled steak tops the list because taco time is all the time. The race for best food-related term was a close call between this and “arancini,” the Italian word for fried rice balls.

Pink Slip and a scottie.

Oh my, could life get any better than this? Vintage ads are the best.

This Morning On My FaceBook News Feed…

Sister Mary is at the top of the feed with this:

Jeter on His Career: Explaining His Spotless Image

The final player to wear a single-digit number for the Yankees, Jeter spoke with “Today’s” Matt Lauer less than 24 hours after he played his last game at the…

4.NBCNY.COM

LikeLike · · Share

• She titled this navel gazing love-fest with: “He’s the best.”

  As a die-hard, cry-hard Red Sox fan, I wanted to throttle my screen and yell, “Why? Did he find a cure for cancer? Did he stop a meteorite from smashing into a daycare? Has he figured out a way to stop global warming?”

  But before I could dash off something really snarky like, “Yeah, sister, look at his stats and the team performance for 2014…the only reason they weren’t in LAST place was because of the the wretched Red Sox (you’re welcome).

  But I couldn’t write any of that, because of the my darling nieces (twins, Naval Academy, so proud of them, won’t burst their bubble):

  Niece Jane and Niece Susan like this.
• 

   Why do they like something like The Yankees? Because they can’t help that they were born into a Yankee-loving family. I don’t blame them for that. I blame my sister Mary for jumping teams. She used to be a Red Sox fan! But she moved to Connecticut and poof! All of a sudden she’s wearing pinstripes!

  I kept my cool even when Niece Susan piled on.

  Niece Susan: What a class act!

  But when Sister Mary decided to message me (translate: HARASS) to Like and Post Clever Things about the splediferous glory of Derek Jeter-after, note this insult to injury-she commanded me to sit through a clap-trap, vomit inducing interview where he Explains His Spotless Reputation. Pardon me while I just…BLEUURRRRRGH!

   I was in a bit of a pickle. I don’t like to behave badly toward my nieces but I wanted to send a gentle, subtle reminder to my dear sister that I really can’t take the D-bag Jeter love-fest. That I found the entire 2014 Yankees season an over-the-top farewell tour to a great player who’s best days were behind him and he should have been riding the pine for the year instead of popping out and bumbling infield plays.

  “Sour Grapes!” You say? Yes, you’re right. The Red Sox sucked worse than Jeter in 2014 and I just can’t muster any fake r2spect for #2.

  Sheesh, does anyone else get that? He’s Number 2!

  This is my best ripost to Sister Mary’s  demands. I believe it is in the spirit of what she asked and certainly in the spirit of what Mr. Jeter clearly believes of himself.
• 

   Me: Stay Majestic Derek Jeter

  
• 

   Me:  For you are nearly as legendary and mythical as a Merman

  
• 

   Me: Men don’t just admire you, they want to BE you

  

  5 hrs · Like
• 

  Niece Susan: please stop mocking my future husband

  Uh oh, I think she’s onto me… but I can’t stop now…must bring it home!
• 

   Me:  Common men can no longer wear mala beads because you have shamed us with your how you perfectly display them on your manly chest

  
• 

   Me:  Thank you for all you have given us during your brief stay on our planet

  
• 

   Me: This is how we feel with you gone…but we will remember your awesome message to all of us mortals: “No one will ever be as amazing as me”

  
• 

  Sister Mary: Most excellent tribute to Jeter, Elizabeth, your sincerity is undeniable. Derek says thank you!
• 

  Me: You are most sincerely welcome.

The Whistler

I am confounded by social media. There are days I swear I’ll delete my FaceBook account and transform that wasted time into a productive hobby such as a search for a cure for dropsy or bilious fever. I am afraid to tally the hours I’ve squandered scrolling and re-scrolling through my “newsfeed” for… I have no idea. I can’t stand the viral posting that overflows (literally these days: Ice Bucket Challenge-Enough!) with the latest FB thing.  Yet there are times I am so happy to have found and old friend or distant cousin that I haven’t spoken to in years. It allows me to keep in touch with my oldest son in Korea with little to no inconvenience to our lifestyle or bank accounts.

Today was the kicker. Today I shut my mouth. Today I stumbled upon something from my teen years that explained a man that was, as best as I can describe him, my first Urban Myth.

A picture of The Whistler. He was a guy who walked everywhere-I mean Everywhere. We would see him almost every day walking through our small town. Then several hours later, if we drove to ten miles to Worcester or fifteen to Clinton, we might see him again. Whenever we saw him, we’d beep or yell and he would respond with the loudest whistle I’d ever heard from a human being. Sometimes the whistle was quick, other times it was several notes and if he knew you, it was a ten second symphony. If I was riding my bike or with a group of my girlfriends, and waved at him, he’d whistle then yell, “You’re getting prettier every time I see you!” He never broke his stride, which was faster than most people jog, and he was in fantastic shape, as you can see by this T shirt which gives his name and age: Walter Barch, 60.

This is what his brother wrote over his picture: “He had a swagger like no other! Punchin light poles, and hearing his whistles from blocks away….he was a childhood memory….the Fox…The Whistler…Walter Barch”

The Whistler

He wrote his story on his clothes. Usually it was just his name, sometimes his age. He had one sign that said “HEYYYYY!”  which made me think he liked Fonzie from “Happy Days”. Sometimes there he wrote a long paragraph but that was impossible to read because he was always moving too fast to see what he wrote.

This is a copy of the comments regarding Walter Barch. The photo was a TBT, or Throw Back Thursday photo, posted by his brother. The comments in italics are by his brother, all other comments are from people who remember seeing Walter Barch, or the Whistler around central Massachusetts.

• 45 People like this.
  “If only they had Nike trackers back then. I would see this guy all over central Ma. The good ole whistler!”
  “My favorite time was seeing him carrying wood on his shoulders walking down Rt 9!!”
   “We’d drive by and yell “The Whistler!” and he would blow us a loud whistle!”
   “Omg we would toot and yell and he would wave.”
   “I remember him”
   “He was cool…..I always love to see him because he would whistle for us”
  “OMG! He had his life story written on his clothes and body! He was also known as The Whistler! Remember him ________?”
  “There is a movie _____ called titicut follies a documentary on bridgewater st hospital. He is in it.. I remember him walking everywhere too…”
   “I remember him well!!!!”
  “Great picture. Where on earth did you get it?”
  “was wondering what happened to him.”
  “Worcester’s icon yes I always as a kid would love to see him walking down a street my father beep and see this man turn and bellow out the whistle you never forget…..”
   “Wow totally remember him punching light poles !! How the hell did u find him?”
   “Its called “throw back” Thursdays…or I like to call it a blast from the past…I don’t divulge my secrets….here’s a little bit about Walter…..he was a veteran, he was convicted of fondling a young girl and did 12+ years…when he got out he would always whistle to let people know he was coming and where he’s been so he’d always had can aliby and never be caused again. He lived on Eastern Abe in Worc. And was a Sgt. In the u.s. army….also a top boxer in the 50’s & 60’s….he was shot in the neck while serving time and part the cause for his memory loss and his “claw” hand. Did you ever notice he would swing his arms vigorously from side to side(and one hand was always bent)..that’s the claw….ohhhh now you remember huh????!!!

  He could hold a conversation with you while walking blindly backwards as well but you’d never see him not moving…..
  Walter died in the fall of “95” and is burried in Otis Air force base’ National cemetary, Bourne Mass.
  Walters favorite quote: your getting prettier and prettier every time I see ya!”“I loved the signs he’d wear hanging off his neck on his back….HEYYYYYYYY”
  “How about Angelo? White haired and beard up and down Route 9 with a grocery cart.”“And Reggie. Black guy with a Yankees baseball hat.”
  “Angelo…yes…we called him Moses…he lived under the bridge on rt. 9, lake quinsigamond…..
  The yankee…died in a tooling house fire….
  That was rooming house! Lol“
  “____! How do you know all this! WOW!”
  “He wasn’t just a friend…he was my brother“
  “Wow! I remember him…the whistler. He would walk so proudly. Didn’t know the whole story. I do remember that he had his story written and he wore it. I can’t remember though if the story was about what happened to him. Thanks ____ for sharing.”
   “____, he was your brother truly? I used to think he was such a strong man…..I never knew his story either….. Remarkable! I want to see that swag from you too !”
  “he was accused and sentenced to a crime he never commited that was his cause for walking“
  “Spent a long time locked up for bullshit“

  ---

  There are times I am amazed by what I stumble onto on social media. Today is not a day that I’ll moan and groan about how stupid I think FaceBook is.

  ---

  “Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

 

Artie

My first “selfie”, December, 2004. It was to show how happy I was with Artie

Artie, the One Dog Party. The perfect description of this Artie.

I found Artie on the internet, I admit it was love at first sight. I had wanted a scottie since  my fourth grade report on FDR’s scottish terrier Fala. I had been on the Scottie Rescue list for a couple of years with no luck, so in 2004 I decided to try to expand my search. I found him from a Texas breeder who showed scottish terriers.  Artie, real name Double D Sir William, didn’t make the show dog cut due to a very skittish personality.

My timing couldn’t have been worse; it was a terrible time to think of another dog. We already had one dog, she was a great dog and didn’t seem to be pining for company.

Not only that, we were going  through a lot with our family in 2004. My husband was traveling back and forth to his parents house every weekend, a three hour trip each way every weekend when I sprung, “I have found the perfect dog!” on him.

I remember his face when I tried to explain how much I already loved this “Artie” dog.  I could see he was tallying it up yet as yet another thing to do when he was beyond overloaded with family, job, house, travel, dog…now another dog?! We talked it over (through many tears on my part) and we agreed the time wasn’t right for another dog. But I continued to look at pictures of Artie and mope around about not having him. What really happened was that Dan contacted the owners in Texas and surprised me with Artie for my birthday.

I can’t tell you how surprised I was, how happy I was, and now when I think of it, that I don’t deserve such a wonderful husband. Artie was the best birthday present. Ever. Then I lost Artie. Twice.

The first time was on the very first night we had him. He took off down the street when we let him out. Luckily two people saw him bolt into a neighbor’s yard, but it still took an hour of searching a dark yard in the middle of the night to find a little black dog who either didn’t know his name or his new owners.

The second time I lost him was two days after the first. I had taken him to the beach to experience the ocean for the first time. He was walking on the jetty when suddenly he disappeared between the rocks. I ran up to get him and I just couldn’t find him! It took another ten minutes of searching between every crevice in the jetty to finally pull him out. Honestly, I had my doubts that the dog would last a week.

Artie settled in

He survived the first week without getting lost again. Then our first dog died unexpectedly which made him more skittish and I remember wondering how on earth this dog rationalized his new home? Either he was getting lost or the established pet died off when he showed up. Thankfully, he settled in, became my very favorite and the darling of my eyes.

He grew less skittish over time, and in looking over  all my photos, I see that Artie is everywhere. Vacations, ski trips, hikes, and bike rides.

You see I had the above image of me on my bike with Artie in the basket. Yes, that’s what I saw in my mind and expected all sorts of wolf whistles when we hit the pavement. Sadly, all I got was the theme song of “Wicked witch of the West” when people saw Artie in the milk crate on the back of the bike.

This is what Artie looks like on the back of a bike

We got a second terrier named Honey about five years ago to help bring Artie out of his shell. She quickly became alpha, a complete attention hound, which endeared Artie all the more to me. Despite their many differences, they seem good for each other.

Dogs in the window

Dogs with haircuts

Dogs lying down…okay, you get it.

We did a lot with the two terriers as well.

Hiking/camping in Maine

But there’s Artie, always my darling.

Artie died today. He was ten, not very old for a terrier but he had cancer and it was at the point that he was in pain all the time.

The hardest part about having a dog is that you outlive them. It’s just a harsh fact goes along with the territory. You have to say good bye in the saddest way, even when you think you know how much it will hurt, nothing really prepares you.

He was a great little dog and I’m grateful that he was able to share a good life with us.

2014 New Year’s Resolution? All Set!

Hot Pants are the New Black for the New Year! Yes, that’s the 2014 me!

Ahh, winding down on the close of the old year. Christmas is done and now is the time to look to the future. Resolutions and good intentions were my thoughts as I plunked myself in front of my computer. Lucky for me, my Facebook newsfeed cracked any  New Year’s resolution dilemmas I might face this year thanks to this:

Zaggora slimwear! Slimming Hot Pants that burn calories for you by using your body heat! Get 30% off today with coupon SLIM30!

Okay. Deep breath. Hot pants, burn calories and 30% off? Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God!!!! This is almost too good to be true! Could it be that Hot Pants are coming back and they are actually going to make me burn calories instead of shaming my stumpy thighs?

I think I fainted.

I am a child of the Seventies. Hot Pants were Hot. There wasn’t any such thing a Daisy Dukes (honestly, that woman was a hayseed who rolled out of  a barn loft while making out with her Uncle Cousin and landed on her head). No, no, no, Hot Pants were the rage. The ultimate contradiction because there was absolutely no pants to them at all! They were in  Teen Beat and Seventeen magazine, winter or summer. Cool girls wore them under frumpy skirts, ditched the skirt on the way to school and tried to not get sent to the principle’s office for wearing something barely legal in public. They were the subject of almost every joke on Laugh In, Flip Wilson, and Sonny and Cher. Nair’s “Who wears short-shorts” commercial came out in the 1970s. I can’t tell you how excited I am that my fashion dream is making a come-back and will help me burn calories. And save 30%!

So no dreary declarations of less chocolate, cookies and crap in 2014. I am looking forward to stepping out in ensembles like these. I will accessorize each outfit, especially if a drum majorette hat and baton are required:

Majorette Hot Pants–major babe I think!

I won’t even care if my hat looks like a perfectly popped Jiffy Pop popcorn pan because everything looks good with Hot Pants.

Horizontal stripes never looked so awesome.

OF COURSE I will have the Hot Pants bicycle outfit. With suede boots. Note to self: Why have I never worn suede boots while riding my bike before??? No, I won’t forget that racy midi-top. Hmmm…those slimming hot pants better burn some major calories or I might have some trouble with this little number.

I am a hot pants, cool bicycle girl!

Now you must be aware that Hot Pants are more than just skimpy shorts. Most of the deal with wearing them is attitude. You can’t pull off Hot Pants (ooops!) unless you have Hot Pants Charisma.

I’ll bet you a paisley velvet pair that I’ll discover that I can’t walk around wearing them them unless I’m swinging my hair and snapping my fingers. It’s the Hot Pants allure.

Just walkin’ in my Hot Pants and snappin’ my fingers.

It’s a kind of lifestyle that needs to be practiced otherwise it looks a bit awkward.

ooh, that needs a little work.

I am so happy Hot Pants are making a big come-back in 2014. Part of their magic is they make all of you look really, really great.

Wow, who knew Hot Pants could make the rest of me look so DY-NO-MIIIIIIIITE!

If there could be a best Christmas memory…

City Winter

Of all the things that need doing right now, writing this takes priority over wrapping, cleaning, baking, sifting through the garbage to find my niece’s misplaced gift card…

Christmas has become so much of what has to be done: shop, shop, shop then wrap, wrap, wrap, run out of tape, run to the store and buy a dozen useless things but forget the tape. Decorate, make lists of things not to forget like something for our son’s music teacher, the mailman and garbage men–which just crossed my mind because that list is probably with the missing gift card.

Yes, I’m nostalgic for the Christmases of my childhood. I want to feel what I felt about Christmas without the obligation and anxiety. I want to say, “Merry Christmas” without wondering if that term is offensive. How do you feel excited about the season when it is rushed with decorated department stores at the end of September? Yet how can it be I let things go the very last minute? When did peace on earth, and good will toward others include a new Lexus or Jeep?

Our youngest son is sixteen and I assume it’s been years since he believed in Santa but this morning was the first time I asked him when he knew “About Santa”. He couldn’t recall but said it was more of an awareness that the Santa phenomena wasn’t true rather than a harsh serving of reality.

I had quite the opposite experience.

My birthday is in early December and just before my eighth birthday I decided to take a look under my parents bed. I swear I hit the jackpot! There were bags with stuffed animals, a Barbie kitchen carousel, ski sweaters and hats, board games and a macrame kit. I had no idea why my mother decided to make my eighth birthday my banner year. It never dawned on me that the amount of things under the bed was enough for five kids or that Christmas was also just around the corner. Therefore on the morning of my eighth birthday I was not only quite disappointed, I was also shocked. My parents were Santa Claus. And I got a Peace & Love sweatshirt despite my announcement that hippies scared me. It was NOT a banner year.

I wasn’t the only kid to “find out about Santa” that year. I went to a small neighborhood school and there were just two classes to each grade. We not only knew all about each other, we knew all about the extended families of our classmates.  In 2nd grade, one of the most asked question was, “Hey, do you know about Santa?” There were two answers to that question: 1. The Sad Yes or 2. The Wide-Eyed What? It was a rough time for kids who asked What? because they got a flat-out harsh dose of reality in either, “There is no Santa” or “You still believe in Santa?” I don’t know which was worse.

By third grade, it was a given that we all “found out about Santa”. We were jaded little people and our shock-talk moved into the Mystery of Where Babies Came From. Until the day we were waiting for our music teacher to show up. The music and art teachers traveled from school to school so there was a standing rule if the teacher was late, we were supposed to sit quietly in our seats. Which never happened. We group gossiped instead because music and art was the only time our two classes were in the same room at the same time. The gossip that morning was that Kenny still believed in Santa.

Kenny was a regular classmate, but absent that fateful day. He was good at math. He had a paper route. He was usually picked second or third for kickball at gym. There was nothing special about him until the music gossip revealed that he still believed in Santa. We, as a class, decided we should help Kenny keep believing in Santa. I remember Carl Oliver, the biggest kid in class (probably because he was at least two years older than the rest of us) announcing, “Nobody tells Kenny about Santa!”

We didn’t. It wasn’t exactly a campaign, it was more like protecting your little brother or sister from finding out. It gave back some of the magic of Christmas to keep Kenny believing. Kenny’s best friend, Michael Jeska, was designated as his protector from the truth. Nobody messed with Michael. Even in 3rd grade, he was a square block of Polish muscle.

We managed to “Keep Kenny Believing” in 4th grade as well. Word circulated just after Thanksgiving that Kenny still believed. I remember watching him deliver papers in the afternoon, thinking he was so lucky yet tragic because he still believed.

It fell apart in 5th grade. We were at indoor gym and we played dodge ball. Hard-core dodge ball with the red ball that made a boink sound when it peened off your head and felt like a slap if you got it in the back. Darryl Denson was the best at dodge ball. He always either caught it no matter how hard it was thrown or managed to make tremendously athletic leaps and pirouettes to just miss a hit. That day Kenny got Darryl. It would have been noted as The Day Darryl Denson Got Beat at Dodge Ball if the following never happened: Kenny threw a straight shot that Darryl tried to catch but dropped. Kenny started whooping and running around the gym. Then we all started whooping and running around Darryl who was sitting on the ground sulking. Mr. Kyle stopped our nonsense by getting us to line up at the door. We were supposed to be quiet before we left the gym but everyone was pounding Kenny on the back and laughing. It was a really big deal until Darryl turned on Kenny and shouted, “Who cares? You’re so stupid, you still believe in Santa Claus!”

The gym went silent. Kenny looked confused then his face dropped when he saw the looks on all of our faces. Carl Oliver shouted, “Shut up Darryl!” which confirmed it for Kenny. It was a crushing blow for all of us.

I remember many of us trying to get Kenny to believe again. We told him Darryl was wrong and mean and to forget about him but it was useless. I also remember our teacher commenting at how quiet we were that afternoon, “What’s the matter with you all?” she asked the class.

It didn’t strike me until much later how we all acted in a selfless, protective manner, without adult guidance, to keep something special for one of our own. And it was a way to keep something special we all once had but grew out of. It was remarkable. I am certain if a parent or teacher told us to make sure Kenny kept believing in Santa, we’d have run over each other to be the first to blow it for him.

I know this because I revisited that protective desire with our sons many years later. And the wonder of how long we had to make something extraordinary and delightful in a season where consumerism reigns.

Apollo 1, Honey 0

Boston Red Sox fan here, full of stupefaction and short on sleep. Forgive me if I make no sense.

Game 3 had this:

The Will Middlebrooks Obstuction play that ended Game 3. Boston Globe 10/26/13

Followed by Game 4 with this:

Kolten Wang picked off 1st to end Game 4. Boston Globe 10/27/13

Which makes for anything but a boring series.

Yet life continues despite my baseball obsession, lack of sleep and wide-ranging emotions. There is a sixteen year old son to feed because he is still running cross country, considering college and preparing for SATs among other things. There is a wonderful husband to badger about things flit across my consciousness like “I changed my mind, we do need a shelf in the bathroom and do you really think Middlebooks purposefully obstructed Allen Craig?”

Finally there are two spoiled rotten terriers that have absolutely NO consideration for my current fixation of the moment and act up to pull me right out of the things I should me concentrating on…like will Stephen Drew get a hit in this series?

It is because I am distracted and sleep deprived that I’ve been taking short cuts. It’s had little impact on Dan and Charlie…but the terriers…cutting corners with two pampered pooches…there is a price to pay for that. 

Especially with this one:

Honey. Don’t be fooled, at times she is pure evil.

You don’t bend the rules with Honey. You don’t turn your back for a minute, you don’t say, “Oh, just this one time…” because this little dog has been sprayed by a skunk four times. In the face. She tries to attack Pit Bulls, Rottweilers and German Shepherds every time we go for a walk…she believes she’d  take them all at once given the chance. She lunges at dump trucks and delivery vans. It’s a her daily goal to bite an old person. She would take a chomp out of a baby stroller if we didn’t keep her on a tight leash. She had to get a stuffed animal monkey head cut out of her small intestine because that stuffed monkey was going to be eaten no matter what. In a nutshell, Honey is a heart attack.

Last spring we moved away from a fenced-in yard which means the dogs have to be taken out on the leash first thing every morning–gone is the convenience of shoving them out the back door. What a pain.

We also now live across the street from two yappy Corgis called Nike and Apollo. Odd names for Welsh Corgis, especially since Nike is really fat and Apollo is, to put it simply, morbidly obese. Nike and Apollo derive their exercise from eating and barking. I think we’re good for them though. Since we moved back, Nike and Apollo have really upped their barking which is good for their cardiovascular health… but bad for nearly everyone else. They love to bark at Honey because of the great reaction. Their barking makes Honey absolutely insane. It’s quite a scene when Artie, Honey, Nike and Apollo are out at the same time. And I wonder why the neighbors aren’t friendly?

I try to time our walks to avoid Nike and Apollo. Thankfully they don’t just bark at Honey, they bark at everything so it’s not difficult to figure out when they are outside.

Yesterday morning I was tired, really tired. The game ended after midnight yet our spoiled dogs still had to start their day at the usual time: 5:30 a.m, regardless of a late bedtime. Lack of sleep clouded my judgement. It was dark and very quiet at 5:30, no one was up or out. I decided to just let them loose in the back yard because the main reason they get up so early is to for food, not terrorized–that’s what I told myself anyway.

Fat Apollo. Ready for anything.

The second Honey was out of my reach, Nike and Apollo started barking and she took off. I yelled, “Honey! No! Come back!” only to see her make a bee-line for Apollo, the fattest Corgi, and in my estimation, the easy target. I could see it all in slow motion and began to calculate how much this would cost us. It crossed my mind that we might even have to get rid of her as she sprinted toward the mini-sofa with a dog face. Apollo pivoted on his big fat belly and braced himself for the hit by trying to dig his feet into the sidewalk–quite a task I’m sure. The street erupted with barking and then there was a high-pitched shriek. A second later Honey came tearing back down the driveway and ran up the back steps.

I jogged over to the corgis who continued to shatter the early morning quiet with their screechy barks while their owner glared at me from his front porch. Neither Nike nor Apollo looked injured, in fact, they waddled around on their sidewalk with a little more swagger than I’d ever seen.  I called out, “Sorry!” and retreated to our house.

Honey was huddled in a heap on the back porch, shaking and cowering–which is something she does when she’s been REALLY bad. I started to yell at her then I noticed some blood on her face just beneath her left eye:

Corgi bite on Honey’s face

Apollo got her! My fear of getting sued evaporated, I became dumbstruck at Apollo’s gutsy move in the heat of a full-on attack. Thankfully he missed her eye but he managed to get a good chunk of skin and hair just beneath it. That will heal. The worst of her injuries right now is her pride. And her feelings are hurt, very hurt. There’s quite a bit of drama that implies she will never get over this.

Cowering behind Artie? This is not Honey as we know her!

This could have been a major dog disaster.  She was aiming to plow into Apollo as if she was diving into a vat of butter. I have to give the Dread Apollo credit–as enormous as he is–he just planted himself for the onslaught, ready and waiting, and he emerged victorious.

Today has been quiet. She is managing to choke down her meals but she is subdued on our walks. She has been hiding behind Artie, sighing at my feet or cowering under blankets.

Beaten by Apollo…oh the horror and humiliation!

We shall use this brief hiatus of peace and quiet to think about tonight’s game.