I’ve started watching reruns of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” after dinner.  I enjoy any program that has good writing.  This show had great writing and was a groundbreaking show.  A young woman moves to the big city and learns to balance career with her personal life.  Only one question:  if you are single and making a life for yourself, how in hell did you afford all those clothes?  It is television, after all.

I’ve been haunting the local used book shops for summer reading treasures.  I am accumulating books for future reading. I feel like a squirrel sometimes, hoarding books instead of nuts. My foraging has turned up some good reading – “Naked” by David Sederis (the boy is on acid, I swear); “Water for Elephants” by Sara Gruen; “Following Through – Herbert Warren Wind on Golf”;  “The Road to Somewhere” by James Dodson, and a couple Bill Bryson books “In A Sunburnt Country” and “Neither Here Nor There”.  Next week is a vacation week for me, so I hope to put a dent in this stack of books.  They are next to my bed, screaming out for me to pick them up and begin turning pages.

I have not been in a writing mode for so long thagt it will take me awhile to get back into the groove of writing on a (semi-) regular basis.  For those who may be interested, I’m doing okay.  Really.  Like the rest of the country, I’m economically challenged at the moment and that pre-occupies my thinking at times. I still rise for work at way-too-early in the morning. I am still single, unattached by choice and in no hurry to change that.

I pondered the tree for a moment.  All the Christmas trees that have graced my living room began shedding needles BEFORE Christmas.  What made this tree so unusual?  Then I began to contemplate its existence.   Christmas is in December and St. Patrick’s Day is in mid-March – three months apart!  Why is it here right now?

Here are the possible reasons why this tree didn’t appear until well after Yuletide:

• The owner of the tree was a sentimental sod and wanted to prolong the Christmas season well past January.  They didn’t have the heart to pitch it out the door and left it up in the corner, stripped of its ornaments and lights.  Besides, the pine-fresh scent of the needles gave the room a rustic air.
• The owner of the tree was a lazy bastard and didn’t want to be bothered with hauling it to the curb.  Instead, he rationalized that he would vacuum the dead needles as they collected at the base of the tree.  Once the tree was reduced to brittle and bare branches, and the weather was warmer, they could quickly removed the tree.
• The owner of the tree stuffed down the basement stairs, where it was converted into a scratching post for the cat.  Along with the dead needles was a pile of wood shavings, which meant more work for clean-up

My vote is for #2.  Any way you look at it, the presence of the tree on a Irish holiday, was a cultural curiosity-a pagan symbol appropriated for a Christian holiday, found on the day that celebrated an Irish monk, who converted the pagan Irish to Christianity.

At least it was too cold for snakes, but not for a pint of Guinness.  Slainte!

I like filing my taxes early.  I like it because I get the refund early and it’s direct-deposited into my checking account.  I got my refund on Friday.  I get a boost of energy and inner joy having that money available.  I now have options and the ability to conspicuously consume.  It made me feel normal, almost human.  When money’s tight, you have to prioritize, so it’s liberating to have expendable income.  Yes, I do intend to spend it on non-essential items.  

First,  renew my passport. I now have the ability to pick up and travel anywhere at a moment’s notice.  I feel that the options available to me have now multiplied, that if all the resoucres are in place, I can pursue my passions.  I paid a visit to the post office this morning, filed the appropriate paperwork (complete with updated photos), and  I can expect delivery in 6-8 weeks.

The second item on the list was to purchase a netbook.  I wanted something that allowed me to journal my thoughts and update my blog, and would be mobile so I wouldn’t be dependant on the library for internet.  I bought the netbook yesterday – a  Toshiba NB505 that was on sale for $279.  I did the research on my lunchhour at work, and discovered favorable reviews from users and techies alike.  The downfall to the machine is that it has only 1GB of memory (which means it’s a bit slow ), and that the keyboard is small.  Or at least smaller than my hands are used to with a regular keyboard.  The heel of my hand rests dangerously close to certain command keys, causing strange things to happen.  I love the fact that I can write when the mood strikes and that I don’t have to wait until the library opens.  ( ironically, I am writing this piece at the library.  Fortunately, I don’t have the hour time limit, so I can write for as long as the library is open. )  I can make notes, file them, and copy them into the blog when I am ready. I really look forward to using this netbook.

There isn’t a third item on the list.  Or a fourth or fifth item.  I stopped at two items because those were the only items I really wanted.  I could buy more CD’s (a very good option for the money), eat out a few times (off the Cracker Barrel after I finish), perhaps take in a movie ( I haven’t seen most of the Oscar winners.).  Who knows what I’ll do, but I do know that it won’t be for anything practical.

I spent the first 5 years of my life in  small Connecticut towns.  My mother is from a small Connecticut town; my dad is from a similar town in Massachusetts five miles away.  As I gained a brother and two sisters, we could have to move to a larger apartment or house.  When I was 3 years old, I lived in West Suffield, across the street from a girl with whom I’d have a life-long connection.

K and I have been close friends for most of our lives.  She mostly hung out with my sister and I was “allowed” to tag along.  She would be a constant in the summers my family would spend with my grandparents – my mother’s family.  We could be found in swimming holes, running through cow pastures, and riding in the back of my grandfather’s puke-green Chevy pick-up truck, singing “Angel of the Morning”.  She told me those were the most memorable times of her life.

A few weeks back, my mom had called me on a Saturday, asking me if it was okay if she coould give K’s mom my email address.  My mom and K’s mom graduated high school in the same class, and had stayed in contact through the years.  They would have lunch whenever my mother was in town, which the latest was a few weeks ago. I wasn’t sure why she needed my permission, but I told mom to pass the address along.  A few days later, I received the first of many emails from K.

She’s had a tough life.  Once a promising artist/designer, she’s battled her share of demons; bad choices in men and the fallout of those relationships.  She teeters between confident career woman and insecure girl.  She carries the burden of single mother and sole provider, and she lost her best friend to a heart attack last fall.  Needless to say, she was in need of a friend when we reconnected.

The last time I saw K was at my wedding reception in 1987.  She still had the fresh, youthful face that has since been replaced by one affected by her hard life.  I dug out my wedding video ( I have it because my late grandparents are in the video ) to refresh my memory.  She was cute – just this side of hot – and it made me wonder why our relationship didn’t turn romantic.  I recall visiting her on a summer break from college.  We took a six-pack of beer out to the airport and sat at the end of one runway, watching the planes fly over.  I had tried to kiss her but that resulted in a most humiliating result – she laughed.  It was until last week that I learned that she had harbored a huge crush on me.

After numerous phone calls and emails, we arranged to meet.  She would come to Maine and buy me dinner if I’d show her the art museum and Winslow Homer’s studio in nearby Scarborough.  It was a no-brainer.  She stayed with me and we talked, drank, laughed and dug into the deepest parts of our being to talk about fears.  For her it was the fear of growing old and being alone;  for me it was the fear of getting sick and not having someone to care for me.  We agreed that if we were still alone by age 60, we would get together.  It was a wonderful time.

We all have the same shit.  Some of us get it all at once; others get it bit by bit.  It’s more tolerable if we have someone to share it with.  It always seems less shitty.

I liked Valentine’s Day when I was in elementary school.  We would bring an empty shoebox from home and decorate it with hearts, doilies and little Cupid silhouettes.  Before the actual holiday, I remember walking to Woolworth’s to buy paper Valentine cards, to put in the decorated box of each of my classmates – even the ones I didn’t like.  These were delivered before the start of school, although most of the kids waited until a couple days before – or even the day of the Valentine party.

I remember some of the mothers coming into the classroom to help out with the party.  Cupcakes, cookies, and punch were the standard fare, with those candy hearts or other Valentine candy. It all came together in the last hour of the school day, when we would rip off the tops of the boxes.

Now that I am an adult, I appreciate those innocent times.

Winter has dumped over 2 feet of snow on the coastal towns.  We have more snow that some of the communties up country, and we’d love to truck some of it to them.  They’re also welcome to the ice on the streets, too.  It’s a package deal.  We’ll even throw in a couple windshield scrapers and a bucketload of sand/salt mix.

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But enough ranting about winter – congratulations to the Green Bay Packers on winning the Super Bowl.  I’m a Patriots fan, but I am also a traditionalist.  There are certain organizations who keep it real.  My Red Sox, the Yankees, any Original Six hockey franchise (Boston Bruins, Chicago Black Hawks, Montreal Canadiens, Toronto Maple Leafs, Detroit Red Wings, and New York Rangers), my Boston Celtics, LA Lakers – they respect tradition and respect the fans.  The Packers are owned by the community, not an absentee ownership.  The best tradition in Green Bay  is during training camp. The local kids will carry the player’s helmet while the player rides their bike between the locker room and practice field.  It’s a hoot seeing the grown men riding kids’ bikes, their knees wedged in behind the handlebars, trying to pedal while wobbling.   I find it endearing, almost quaint.  In this age of multi-milion dollar contracts, stratospherical ticket prices, and detached players, this ritual is proof that the game, any game, is the most important.

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I did the preliminary “number crunching” on my taxes – 1040EZ, and the return isn’t what I hoped it would be.   BUT….I will have enough coming back from Uncle Sam to renew my passport.  It is my ticket to get out of Dodge and LIVE!  Not having my passport doesn’t mean I can’t travel, but it limits it to the Lower 48.  I have a friend in Canada with whom I’d love to share dinner and drinks.  Without the passport, unfortunately, she and her paramour would have an empty chair at the dinner table.  I have made a decision that, once my former home is put up for sale and I get my share of the money, I am going to Europe.  I have friends in Germany, Scotland and France, and I want to visit them.  More reasons to get my passport renewed!

The library is busy today with children.  Young mothers and their children are here, looking for the weekly supply of story books.  They crouch low among the short stacks, looking for old favorites and fresh discoveries. Children moved around the room with a random spontaneity.  They find books about dancing feet, snowmen, teddy bears and trains. They create spontaneous dances, twirling with excitement with a book in hand.   There are books that capture their minds and nurture a love for the written word.  They’ll take them home and will cuddle with Mom or Dad tonight, reading a bedtime story, filling their dreams yet dreamed. The books are filled with sumptuous illustrations that capture the mind.  I watch these children around me and I smile. I find joy in their innocence and beauty in their smiles, and they remind me of my children at that age. I wonder how the years have passed so quickly.  What happened to their innocence or the joy of discovery?

There is a storm coming.  More snow on the already white landscape makes the skiers excited, but for us, those who hide behind storm windows, clutching mugs of hot chocolate and dreaming of summer breezes, the prospect of another storm darkens the mood.  I can enjoy the stark white season from my apartment without the slush, the ice, the snow, the cold – all at my convenience.  But Winter is not convenient.  The streets are becoming increasingly narrow with each storm, making driving almost suicidal.  As theplow trucks push the snow back and the banks grow higher, the oncoming cars cannot see you and you cannot see them.  You take a chance and pray, moving cautiously forward and hope to avoid the possibility of an accident.

But Winter has to be taken as it comes, on its own terms.  You deal with it.  There will be snow and ice and cold, so you dress warm.   You cherish the automatic car starter on mornings with single-digit temperatures.  You clear the sidewalks and diveway. Then, after the work, after the shovels and snowblowers go back in the garage, comes the reward.  We can build snowmen and snow forts. The cold air becomes invigorating.  The clear night sky is bejeweled with stars.  The crunch of snow underfoot is a metronome keeping your pace brisk. The rush of a toboggan ride down a steep hill makes you question your sanity.  I have been harsh with Winter.  I’ve forgotten what gifts it offers despite any discomfort.  Sitting here and looking out the window reminds me that Winter is indeed beautiful.

( well, there IS something, but you shouldn’t expect it from your parents.  Let your mind wander where it wants. )

My folks have been in this house for almost one year.  Their old house is still for sale.  If you know anyone who’d like a 2-bedroom cottage an hour away from Acadia National Park, let me know.  If not, I plan to buy it when I win a big money lottery and you’re all invited to visit.  When my parents decided to move, the biggest challenge they encountered after deciding they’d move was for my mother to manage her clutter.  Mom is a packrat and it frustrates Dad.  She’s a quilter, so she has fabric, pattern books, more fabric, a couple sewing machines…did I mention she had fabric?  She also cooks, so there are boxes of cookbooks and loose recipe clippings.  Mom is also the unofficial family historian for her family.  While my Dad was out in the barn tending the alpaca, Mom was working on my Christmas present - a quilt, so I decided to sit with her and go through some old diaries that belonged to my great-grandparents.  My knowledge of my Mother’s family was limited, so this was a great opportunity.  This was a chance to go back in time through the pages of these diaries. 

These were not  typical journals or diaries.  These were written by Connecticut Yankees, the original uptight generation.  The intimate details of their lives were not included in these books.  Their opinions on matters of the day were omitted, as were expressions of emotions.  Think of a typical photograph from the turn of the 20th century – monochrome tones, emotionless expressions, stiff posture – all carry-overs from the Victorian Era.  Nobody is smiling for the camera in these shots.

The daily entries consisted of the high temperature for the day, along with a brief weather observation, short bits of daily events, maybe the price of gas ($3.50 for ten gallons of gas)or groceries (2 1/4 lb. of bananas for 45 cents)…stuff like that.  It was common to find accounts of someone dropping by the house or calling on a neighbor, all from a time when folks did that on a regular basis  My great-grandfather kept track of his stock information in his journal.  According to my mother, if it weren’t for the Crash of ’29, her family would’ve done nicely in the market.  He also kept track of his bowel movements.  Back then they called it “elimination”. That was a growing concern for that generation.  Strange times, indeed.

My great-grandfather died in 1967.  I was not quite 7 years old when he died.  I never knew him and cannot recall any events that included him.  I only know his face from a photo taken in 1961, with my mother, my grandfather (her father), and my great-grandparents.  My great-grandfather has the same expression on his face that he wore when the family had their photo taken in 1917.  That expression gave me no indication of who this man was, what he stood for, and what in life gave him meaning.  What brought him pleasure? Did he enjoy listening to the radio in the evening?  Was he a fan of sports – did he follow a ball team?  My mother tells me that he was stoic and difficult to read, with a face similar to his photograph.  His days were long and full of chores.

The past and its stories have a purpose.  We are not meant to live in the past, but in the stories of another time we can see bits of ourselves.  We can take those bits and reflect on our own lives.  I look back and wonder what of my great-grandfather has been passed on to me.  My words on these pages resemble little of what he wrote; you will not read about my bodily functions, gentle reader.  If I do discover something that grabs at my brain, you’ll be the first to know.

The only people who should be up at this hour are insatiable lovers, all-night truckers, and disc jockeys.  Tom Waits should be singing, “The Piano Has Been Drinking”.

I am back at the hospital, on the opposite side of the clock, as a favor to the supervisor. He cut me a few breaks back in the day, so I consider this payback.  This is only temporary for the next three weeks.  I worked last Sunday night, too.  The 3rd shift handler retired and the department hasn’t hired anyone, yet.  I had been approached to fill the position.  The last guy to fill the slot died last year and I have a lot of living left to do, so I declined.  My mantra is, “I’m doing it for the money” – I’m getting overtime and differential, giving a much-needed boost to my checking account.  It does cut into my day off, but I’d be hanging around anyway

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was a late-night disc jockey.  Hold your hysterical snickering for another time.  It was my first job out of college, not counting the 3 months on an AM oldies station.  I was on the air one night, barely an hour into my shift, and someone from the power company came and cut off the electricity.  It made perfect sense.  The station’s owner would borrow the radio station payroll from his restaurant, and vice-versa.  My first two paychecks bounced.  So when the studio went dark and I grasped the scope of the  situation, my first reaction should’ve been to declare eminent domain and snatch the cassette deck from the production studio.  Afterall, it wouldve been fair, considering I was still owed money.

But I digress.

I was a late-night DJ on the top rated station in town.  It was a country format and I knew nothing about country music.  A perfect match, doncha think?  It took me a long time to get used to the change in my sleeping habits.  I would sleep in split shifts: I’d go to bed when I’d get home at 7AM, get up and take care of business, then go back to bed around 6PM and sleep until 10.  Even on a young body, that shift took it’s toll.  I had to be outside during the day and drink in all the sunshine and fresh air I could.  Otherwise I’d be a zombie, which meant being undead and that was no good.  I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.  Either you’re dead or your not, there’s nothing un- about it.

At this moment I feel quite dead.  I have my trusty bottle of Coke by my side – a couple chugs throughout the night and that helps keep me awake.  I have to inventory and stock Emergency and Special Care Units, and that keeps me moving.  The most difficult part of the shift is between 5 and 7AM.  I should have all my work done.  It’s a matter of filling phone orders until 7.  As soon as the clock strikes 7, I am out of here. But I know I’ll take some time and catch up with my former collegues.

Finally, Winter has come to the coast…and to the rest of the state.  We received 8-14 inches of snow, while inland towns received 16 inches of fresh powder.  Now that the snow has come and gone, the cold has arrived – another gift from our Canadian neighbors.  They are so generous and giving, sharing the frigid temperatures with their American neighbors. There must be something we can offer in exchange. 

Welcome to my world!  This photo was taken from in front of the Eastland Park Hotel, not far from my Hole In The Ground, which means you are deep in Middle-Aged Head territory.  This is the intersection of Congress and High Streets.  Congress Street runs horizontal. The building to the left is the Museum of Art.  It has a wonderful collection – local artists like N.C., Andrew and Jamie Wyeth, Winslow Homer, some great French and Dutch post-Impression art – among others.  I take advantage of the free Friday admission and get a healthy dose of cul-chah.  The building to the right is the old Congress Square Hotel.  Just behind the building is our local NBC affiliate, WCSH (Congress Square Hotel – clever, eh?).  In its heyday, the hotel was the home of a radio station (same call letters), which hosted live broadcasts from its ballroom.  The radio station has since changed call letters and moved to a different location.  There is now an antique shop on the ground level, and artists studios and apartments on the floors above.

If you were to walk up High Street towards Congress Square, you’ll find a small park on your left.  Just before you reach the intersection there is a small brick enclosure with clock works inside. These are the clock works of  the old Union Station train depot. 

The Boston & Maine Railroad made stops here, as did buses.  This would be visitors’ final destination or they’d change trains for the coastal run up to Bangor and Bar Harbor.  In 1961, in a momentary lapse of sanity and common sense, the station was torn down.  Huge mistake! The only remaining buildings were the offices, seen at the left edge of the photo.  The good news was its demolition sparked the restoration movement in my fair city.  It’s truly sad that this building is no longer a part of our city landscape.  There is a certain romance about this building and other depots of the times.  For greater insight of the heritage of my fair city, visit The Squire’s blog, Delerium Tremens.  Click on the link on the right-hand margin.

Since I’ve shown the gorgeous station before demolition, allow me to present what’s taken its place:

Joni Mitchell was right – they paved paradise and put up a parking lot (shoooo bah bah bah bah).