And Now the End of the Story: November, 2014

 

As you can plainly see, I have fallen under the spell of a witch. She is Donna, the Good Witch of East Gadsden Street, Pensacola, Florida. I met Donna a couple of months after Nancy and I decided to go our separate ways. That breakup was much like the previous Kate breakup. It was a rational decision reached by two mature adults. Amicable, I'm happy to say.

Like my two previous Florida relationships, this new, exciting match was made online. I met the lovely Donna on EHarmony's less expensive subsidiary, EDiscord.com. Their motto is: "This may or may not work out; hey, what do we know?"

Well, this relationship has worked out very well, thank you. Donna is a lovely, bright, witty, generous, and talented native North Carolinian who moved to Pensacola not too long ago. She purchased a 100-year-old Craftsman Bungalow in a nice part of town and has dedicated herself to remodeling it with modern appliances, design touches, etc. Donna's skills in this arena are impressive. The girl can hammer, people. I have offered my limited expertise in these areas, but Donna is nothing if not sensible and has thus far demurred.

Donna has experienced much more of the world than I have, with the notable exception of Boston. I am looking forward to showing off my beautiful Boston later next summer. I know Donna will be eager to show me some of her special places and, of course, there will be many locales that we will experience together for the first time.

I really admire Donna's intelligence, her kindness, and her sophistication. She likes some of my ties. I think we have a match here, people. The distance between us is about 60 miles. That allows each of us to continue with our "own lives" during the week and enjoy life together over the weekends. Donna has a significant "own life" which involves serious charity work and a nice group of friends. I like my personal space as well. My life here in Santa Rosa involves golf, napping, and ribs.

Do you baby boomers out there remember the plate spinner on Ed Sullivan? He would frantically run back and forth, trying to get a bunch of plates or bowls spinning smoothly on long spindles while the orchestra frenetically played the annoying Sabre Dance Song. Inevitably one of the plates would start to wobble precariously and, amazingly, just before it fell and smashed to the floor, the guy would notice it and get it spinning again. Then he would add another, and yet another plate and you'd be wondering how can he possibly keep them all going. In the end he'd have all the plates whizzing perfectly on those spindles while the audience cheered wildly. The only one who suffered from this well-worn act was the vibraphone player who had to keep playing that stupid song prestissimo until the end.

Well, friends, right now, on November 13, 2014, this lame blogger is thrilled to report that all of his plates are spinning like little freakin' gyroscopes. I've had the good fortune to meet a lovely, interesting companion. All of my children are healthy, happy, and, rather remarkably, beginning new, promising jobs and careers. My grandchildren are healthy, happy, and one of them is apparently in love. (A little plate wobble there, but whadda ya gonna do?) I feel great; I shot a 76 the other day, and, even better, I wake up each morning feeling that this new day has promise. Donna has had a lot to do with that.

Four years ago my most precious plate fell off its spindle and crashed to the ground. It was very tempting at that time to just give up and let all the other plates fall.

I'm so grateful to all of you for helping me keep my eye on the rest of those plates these past four years.

I just wish I could get The Sabre Dance to stop playing in my head.

Ain't life grand?

A Wedding: June 2014

This very happy story began not so happily in late 2009. It was around then that I had made up my mind to leave my New England life behind and try to start a new life somewhere else. I had no idea that younger son, Matthew, was having the same thought. Obviously, the notion of remaining "home" without our Ada was anathema to both of us.

I remember that Matt came over to my Eastman condo on a Sunday afternoon. He had been living in Woodstock, VT and had been working at a local insurance company. He pretty much hated every minute of it. As a matter of fact, Matt had pretty much hated every job he ever had.

Except when he was playing music.

Starting a few months before Ada's passing, Matthew had become absolutely obsessed with his beautiful tenor saxophone. By the time he came over that Sunday he was practicing about six hours every day, trying to achieve mastery over his horn. As luck would have it, Matt played his rendition of "Blackbird" for Ada about a week before she passed. It gave her (and me) great joy.

"Dad, I'm thinking about moving to Asheville, NC. I'm going to try and make a living as a full time musician. What do you think?"

What do I think? It's almost impossible to make it as a full time musician. Especially a jazz musician. You don't have the experience. You don't have the management. You don't know the obstacles that await you. As talented and dedicated as you are, success in this field has very little to do with talent or skill. Luck has a lot to do with it and your track record with luck ain't so hot.

That's what I thought. Here's what I said:

"Go for it, Matt."

I'm quite sure that Matt would have left for Asheville no matter what I said. After all, he was a grown man when he asked, perfectly capable of defining his own life. I'm also quite sure that telling Matt to go for it was the best piece of advice I ever gave him.

Here's the short version of what happened to Matt once he moved to Asheville:

Matt started playing his horn on the very hip streets of Asheville. By doing so he met many fellow musicians. It wasn't long before he joined several of them in various musical groups. He started getting gigs at some of the local clubs. He was feeling great, confident in his abilities, and delighted to be playing with people who were serious about music. He was broke all the time, but still determined to make it as a full time musician. At some point early on he met Audrey Hagan, a lovely local Ashevillian. It wasn't long before this relationship became more than just a casual friendship. It also wasn't long before it started dawning on Matthew that he wasn't going to be able to support himself on music alone. He decided to supplement his musical income with jobs as a waiter. This would be his hedge against poverty and, if he scheduled his time carefully, would not interfere with his musical aspirations. Meanwhile, his relationship with Audrey became more serious and Matthew realized that he was loved. So did Audrey. It's really miraculous what happens when you realize that you are worthy of being loved. It's like you have a cup or vessel of some kind that you've been trying desperately to fill without success and now it's always overflowing. You can't empty it.

So Matt went from Vermont to Asheville looking for music.

He found something a million times more important.

On Saturday, June 21 Audrey and Matt were married in a beautiful ceremony. Even the most jaded observer would have to admit that here were two people who loved, respected, and most importantly, liked each other. Their heartfelt vows were a testament to how they truly feel about each other.

I was humbled to witness the miracle and to join Jerry and Carol, Audrey's wonderful parents, in the celebration.

Some people are incredibly lucky and love manages to find them at 15. For other people it takes a little longer.

Either way, ain't life grand?

 

With this happy entry, I have decided to end this blog. For the past four years I have bored, outraged, and bothered you with 100 blog entries .

People, you have suffered enough.

Before I hang up my pen, I do want to pay homage to some special individuals.

Nancy entered my life about a year and a half ago. We've been laughing almost continuously since then. We're either crazy or in love. The jury's still out. Thank you, Nancy.

If you've been reading along, you know my son Josh, his remarkable wife Cindy, and their twins Sam and Sara have been through the ringer these last two years. Well, take a look at 'em now:

I suppose I could be prouder of them, but I think I would blow up.

My wonderful brother, Marvin, and his spectacular wife, Sharon Kamowitz, rode in the Pan Mass Challenge for the first time last year and raised a nice sum of money for the Dana Farber Cancer Institute. Both of them lost a spouse to cancer and are completely dedicated to their training. This year they are back at it, training to make it from Wellesley all the way to Provincetown. If you've enjoyed any of these 100 entries, or even if you just hated them a little, I urge you to donate to their ride. Go to the Pan Mass Challenge website and plug in either name and you will be able to donate to their ride. If I find out nobody donated, I'll be forced to continue this blog!

At least three of the regular readers of these ramblings are currently engaged in serious health battles. Please know that I think of all of you often and I know you will prevail. You're all made of stuff that is stronger than anything I can fathom.

One of my goals in writing these entries was to keep Ada's memory alive. I share this goal with Ada's brother, Bob. Whenever he tells me I've succeeded, I feel incredibly gratified. So, with that in mind, I'd like to end these entries with the poem I read at Matt's wedding:

She Smiles

She smiles at the thought of this delightful pair.

She smiles and we feel that smile everywhere.

It's there on Audrey's shoulder; it's in her sunkissed hair;

It's floating on dear Matt's lapel, this smile that's everywhere.

She smiles to see her family, together in one place;

She smiles to see the look of love quite clear on Matthew's face.

She smiles to see the Hagans, such gracious, pleasant hosts;

She smiles as she's remembered in this and other toasts.

She's smiles at this lame poet, at Nancy by his side,

At Josh and Cindy and those twins; no smile was e'er so wide.

So it behooves us all to smile and praise this joyous match,

And say to Matt, in baseball terms, “Willy Mays never made such a catch!”

Thanks for everything,

Much love to you and yours,
Here's that one good sunset picture I've been promising you:

Life sure is grand!
J

An Interview with Vivian Louise Brown: June 2013

Vivian Louise Brown is a five-year-old West Highland Terrier. She currently resides with her mom, Nancy, and this lame blogger in one of the Beachwalk Way town homes in the Sandestin resort, but would prefer something in the more upscale Burnt Pine neighborhood. She detests frogs.

Although she is normally wary of any publicity, Vivian recently consented to an interview. Her only condition was that there be no frogs present.

Good morning, Vivian. How are you feeling today?

Fine I suppose, although I do have a lot on my plate today.

Really? You mean you have some appointments lined up, that sort of thing?

No. In case you didn't notice, I'm a dog. We don't do appointments. For one thing, we don't understand time. To us an hour is the same as a day which is the same as a week or a month. Every time you walk in the door, it's as if I haven't seen you for one of those things I just mentioned, whichever one is the longest. When I just said I have a lot on my plate, I wasn't being figurative. I don't know how to do that. I just meant that there was some extra food on my plate and I'm going to have to deal with that.

You just said you don't understand time. Exactly what do you mean by that?

Wow! So this is what it's like to be interviewed by an idiot. It means exactly what you think it means. As a dog, I have no concept of the passage of time. When you say to me that you're going out and will be back in an hour, this is what I hear: “blah blah blah blah out!”

OK, why don't we talk about something you DO know about. How do you feel about squirrels?

Glad you asked. Frankly, I detest them. I wish they'd do something about them in my Beachwalk Way neighborhood. I hate the way they flaunt themselves; that pompous feeling of invulnerability they display. And I particularly hate their tails.

How do you express these frustrations?

The only way I know. I'll sit under their tree and bark non-stop until either the squirrel moves or you and Nancy force me back inside. I have no choice. That's the deal my people made with squirrels. They flick their tails at us and we bark at them.

Forgive me, but with all that barking, well, it sounds as though you're the annoying one, not the squirrel:

Next question.

Right. Let's talk about sleeping. It seems like you do quite a bit of that on a given day:  

Well, since I don't know what a day is, I'm not sure how to respond. All I know is that your town home has lots of cushions, and pillows, and soft, warm, elevated places, so I take advantage of the comforts available to me. I mean after all I am a dog. Nobody is depending on me to solve the world's problems. I have no other place I need to be on a given day. And while we're on the subject, it seems to me like you are quite a napper yourself. A regular Joel van Winkle!

Very funny:

Hey, if you don't like the answer, don't ask the question.

Fair enough. You said something about elevated places. What do you mean?

Well, there is no doubt that I am short. Compared to you, I'm tiny. Even when you compare me to other dogs I'm on the low end of the spectrum. So my people have developed the habit of climbing up onto high ledges whenever possible so that we can appear to be taller than we really are. I think it's the same deal as your people buying SUV's. Call it vanity if you like, but I like the view from up there.

I see. When you're up there sleeping on top of the sofa cushions, do you ever have dreams?

Sure.

What do you dream about?

Squirrels.

Got it. What about taking a walk? Do you enjoy that?

How can I put this? To me, taking a walk is one of greatest events I could ever hope to experience. Maybe you've noticed my excitement when someone even mentions the word “walk”. Oh, and while we're on the subject, I know how to spell w-a-l-k, so you can stop that tired old ruse. When I hear that word,  I just can't seem to control myself. Here it is in a nutshell (pun intended): The best thing that could ever happen to me is for a squirrel to fall out of a tree. The second best thing is to take a walk. Period.

What do you like about these walks?

What don't I like? I mean the fresh air, a chance to experience new things. I've always felt that travel broadens the mind. Why just the other day Nancy and I were on a walk and we met a cute little Pekinese. I believe you would say we had a moment, whatever that is. She taught me how to say “Hello” in Chinese.

Terrific. How do you say that?

Ruff.

Very funny.

It's an old joke but still a good one.

So what else do you like about these walks?

Well, Sandestin is a really beautiful place with lots of little ponds, great bird life, that beach I can't go on, plenty of other dogs, even these weird people who golf.

Yes, as you know, I'm a golfer myself. Why do you refer to golfers as “weird people”?

What else would you call them? I mean they spend their time trying to make a hard little ball go from here to there and when it finally goes in that cup, they fish it out and do it all over again. Not for nothing, but I've seen a lot of them get as mad at that ball as I get at the squirrels. Look, I enjoy chasing a ball around as much as the next guy, but there's a limit. And you don't see any of my people grousing about handicaps.

Let's change the subject.

Hey, you brought it up. And we haven't even gotten to the expense. I mean between buying the latest driver, and the best golf bag, and losing all those Nassau bets, I imagine you spend about...

Wait. I thought you didn't understand money.

I don't. I just know that whatever it is, you spend a lot of it on golf. Why just the other day Nancy was saying that...

What did Nancy say?

Oops. I think we'd better conclude this interview before I cause a domestic dispute.

Fine. Anything else you'd like to add?

Well, I don't want to get overly sentimental. It's not in my nature. I mean after all I'm not some kind of slobbering retriever or setter. I'm a terrier and we're nothing if not stoic. But, I just want to take this opportunity to let everyone know that living in Sandestin with you and Nancy has been...tolerable. And I'm happy to say that I have consented to stay with you for at least another dog year.

Gee, thanks.

Don't mention it.

50 Years in the Blink of an Eye: May 2014

I have just returned from my 50th high school reunion and the memories of those days have washed over me like a perfect Nantasket wave.

I graduated Boston Latin School in 1964. I'm quite sure I was one of the least distinguished graduates in that proud institution's almost 400 year history. Still, I managed to survive six years of Latin which I suppose is saying something. My eighth grade English teacher, a legendary maniac known to all as Mad Frank Sullivan because he was, provided me with a grammar background that was so solid and airtight, it sustained me for my entire 31 year career as an English teacher. Thanks, Mad Frank.

I hadn't attended any of the previous reunions. I hadn't stayed close with any of my 300 or so classmates with one exception, dear old friend Vin Alabiso. I hadn't returned to the school to visit any particularly inspirational teachers even one time. While I am proud to be a  graduate of the oldest school in America, I must acknowledge that I never really left my mark there. I was at best an average student. My only strength was singing which didn't garner me many points in Ancient History or French class. I was a solid member of the baritone section of the Glee Club. My only chance for high school glory came when I was chosen to be the featured solo singer with the Boston Latin School Stage Band. My big number was "Birth of the Blues." Well, it may have been the birth of the blues, but it was the death of music as we know it.

No one who heard that performance has ever been the same. I threw off their equilibrium.I may actually have injured some of the audience members. Lawsuits were threatened. Ada, who gamely attended the performance, couldn't hear anything in the higher frequencies for several years; as a result, she missed the entire Frankie Valli era.

Needless to say, I was not called back for an encore.

But I digress. I have to say the desire to attend my 50th high school reunion was strangely irresistible. For some reason I couldn't wait to be reunited with a bunch of guys I haven't had anything to do with for 50 years and had precious little to do with back in the day. I say guys because for most of Latin School's storied history, only males attended. When I was there, not only was the student body all male, the faculty and administration were as well. Of course that's no longer true today, thank goodness. Latin School has been well represented by women since the '70's. As a matter of fact, the Headmaster is now a Headmistress. That's probably why Alma Mater's reputation has stayed pristine all these years. I think it's safe to say that had Latin been a co-ed school in my day, I might have made it back for a few more reunions.

Just sayin'.

The reunion weekend also offered me a good opportunity to get in some long-awaited grandchildren time. Of course most of us know that when we make plans, God laughs. That valuable lesson was "taught" to me in October, 2006 and has been reinforced several times since. Originally, I was due to arrive the evening before grandson Sam's annual Special Olympics competition in Weymouth. I was lucky to have witnessed this magnificent event last year and couldn't wait to see Sam, one half of the "Greatest Grandchildren in the World" duo, go through his events. Unfortunately, over 20 inches of rain in a two-day period (that's right: 20 inches of freakin' rain!) and the subsequent flooding all over the Panhandle pushed me back a day and I was forced to miss the Special Olympics event. As luck would have it, I had obtained tickets to that night's Red Sox game for all of us, and I arrived just in time to meet this fine crew in section 32. (Although to be honest, so far this year that could be looked upon as more of a punishment than a treat.) Going to a Red Sox game with these guys would have some extra significance this time around. Almost two years ago I had arranged for Josh, Cindy, and the twins to attend a Sox game as part of Josh's birthday celebration. It was at that game that Josh became convinced that there was something seriously wrong with him, and shortly thereafter he received his stomach cancer diagnosis. Well, this time around there is no cancer, thank goodness. No stomach either, but you can't have everything.

These days, a simple trip to Fenway for a ballgame is a wallet-bustin', sensory-blastin', time-killin' event. The first parking lot I pulled into wanted $60 for a space. To me that's more amazing than 20 inches of rain.

"I'm sorry. Did you just say, '60 dollars' to park?"

"Yup."

"You realize that I just want to park here. I'm not interested in purchasing the parking lot."

"Yup."

"Are you insane?"

"Nope."

I'm not going to bore you with all the thoughts I had about what 60 dollars would have bought back when I first started going to Red Sox games, but one of those items was a season ticket to the Red Sox!

I jammed her in reverse and got out of there before anyone had a chance to box me in, and went searching for a more affordable parking spot in the greater Fenway area.

As one does.

Forty dollars and several mild to scorching curse words later I locked my car and headed over to my beloved shrine to meet up with the twins, Cindy and Josh.

 

The Sox lost to Tampa 6-5, leaving men on third in both the 8th and 9th innings. What the game lacked in performance, it made up for in freezing temperatures and snack consumption. Despite all these headaches, it was a great grandkid time for sure!

While I'm at it, just a word about the Fenway experience these days.

It sucks.

Sorry to be so blunt, but who thought it was a good idea to blare the sound system volume at 11 during every spare minute of the game? Maybe it would be a good idea to build in some quiet time so that people can converse with their neighbors in the time-honored baseball tradition.

After the game we said our goodbyes and I was off the next day for my 50th reunion festivities.

Boston Latin School has been located in the same Fenway location since 1922. The school is surrounded by some of Boston's most prestigious institutions, including Simmons College, Harvard Medical School, and The Brigham and Women's Hospital. This may explain why so many Latin grads go on to become doctors. The rest of us become their patients.

I found the changes that have been made to both the physical plant and curriculum at Boston Latin School to be breathtaking. Accompanied by two delightful student guides, we toured the new wing housing a state of the art library, a new gymnasium to replace the leaky, warped one we endured, and a number of classrooms dedicated to the arts. Fifty years ago the curriculum was old, dry, classic,  and unyielding. It was either science and math or languages. Your choice. There was no attempt to find out what you were "good" at. 

Now, the school has found a way to maintain traditional high standards and expectations while offering students many different ways to demonstrate their talents and gifts. One of my 50-year colleagues said it best: "I would have gladly traded one year of Latin for one year of shop."

I could sense a humane, kind vibe in the place this time around. Fifty years ago the vibe was Dickensian at best. You know, kind of like this:

     "Please, Sir, might I have some more verbs to conjugate?"

This new approach became quite apparent when our reunion class was invited to attend Prize Declamation, a Boston Latin School tradition. Several times a year, students from all classes volunteer to "declaim" or orate famous speeches or dramatic soliloquies or noteworthy letters of historic importance. They recite their selection from memory before their peers in the beautiful Latin School assembly hall.

The best of these declaimers are then invited to compete for Prize Declamation in May. I was thrilled to serve as one of nine judges for this year's event. Listening to these 13 students from grades eight to 12 was a thrill. The audience of students was mesmerized and completely respectful. The recitations were dramatic and moving. It was almost impossible to select the best of them, but we did the best we could. I spent 31 years in education; this event will rank among the best student experiences I have ever witnessed, and I've seen a bunch of good ones over the years.

Later that afternoon we received our "Golden Diplomas" and 50-year pins. I shall wear that pin proudly. 

The remainder of the reunion weekend was dedicated to drinking and eating. I managed to hold my own in both departments. At the big banquet, held in Boston's fabulous Marriott Long Wharf Hotel, I was honored to have been asked by the organizing committee to deliver my poem for the occasion:

50 Years

Those waxy, plastic book covers from Harvard, Brown, and Yale;

That grumpy bulldog, Doyle, predicting that we’d fail;

The tickets sixies bought to the fourth floor swimming pool;

Thus began our journey through the Boston Latin School.

We conjugated and declaimed, played football on the tar,

We boarded old T trolleys, crowding ev’ry car.

With 15 books and notebooks tucked beneath our arms,

We learned three hours of homework had its own sweet charms.

We marched with rifles held at port, the Colonel in command,

Except me and the goon squad, from marching we were banned.

Thursday it was franks and beans, the Hoodsies were sublime.

Floor hockey with a milk carton, somehow we found the time.

Fifty years have passed us by since those Latin days.

Loved ones found and loved ones lost, families that we raised.

Colleges, careers, classmates sadly gone,

But our Dear Mother Latin School proudly marches on

Preparing Boston students from ev’ry social sphere,

Challenging and pushing them, no shortcuts taken here.

So raise your glass to 50 years, to purple and to white,

To Mad Frank, Desmond, and dear Mac, long may this torch burn bright.

The poem was well-received, but not so well-received that anyone bought me a drink. Still, at $8.00 for a beer and $11.00 for a gin and tonic, I guess I understand.

After all, most of us are on fixed incomes.

After two more alumni events (another Red Sox loss and a small golf outing) it was back on Southwest for my return to dear Nancy and my now-soggy Panhandle.

What a school...

What a weekend... 

What a grand life...

Much love,

J 

If You Build It: March 2014

 I built something magnificent.

Now I know how Alexandre Eiffel, Frank Lloyd Wright, or I.M. Pei must have felt.

Friends, when you create something beautiful, something the world values, well, it's almost as if you've earned a small chunk of immortality. (Does anyone know if immortality comes in chunks?)

I will now be remembered by generation after generation long after I've left this mortal coil. There will be some small piece of me for people to admire. Maybe in the future people, just average citizens, will spontaneously gather around my creation and marvel at the genius who built it.

Maybe one of those future admirers will even suggest that those assembled enjoy some refreshments, perhaps some hot dogs and hamburgers.

Or a few pieces of barbequed chicken.

That's right. I built a gas grill.

Remember how proud Tom Hanks was in "Castaway" when he built a fire?

Well, now I know how he felt because I have built a grill. I...have built...A GRILL!

 By myself.

Without injury. 

Maybe "built" is the wrong word. I put the damn thing together following directions that were written in Elvish or some other Middle Earth dialect with diagrams that had to have been drawn by one of the losing participants in an "Even You Can Draw" contest.

Actually, it didn't really matter how poor the diagrams were because they were drawn to such a small scale, the NSA would need a Hubble telescope to read them.

But I was a man on a mission. This gas grill was not about to defeat me. There was too much at stake. Or is it steak?

You may not know this about me, but when I become committed to a project, I can be pretty intense. I once completed a jig saw puzzle that had 130,000 pieces. With no corners. And no picture on the box. And an age recommendation that started with "Postgraduate" and ended with "Nobel Laureate." Granted, at a certain point if the pieces did not fit, I damn well MADE THEM FIT. A Swiss Army Knife, a welding torch, and a pair of needle-nose pliers can work wonders when you need that perfect fit. Ironically, that's exactly how I managed to get into a pair of slim-fit Levis in 1982 but that's a blog for another day.

I approached the grill project methodically. First, I opened the box.

Don't laugh. That was a big step for me. I'm not proud of this but at times I have been known to take on a DIY project of one type or another and then suffer a crisis of confidence when it looked like I might need tools to complete the task. Usually at this point I would put the unopened box aside and tell myself that there would be a better time later. When Ada and I moved to New Hampshire from Hanover, MA, we discovered dozens of unopened boxes in the far reaches of the garage. They all had the same saying printed on the box: "So Easy, a Child Can Do It!"

Not this child.

Well, this time I swore it would be different. Nancy provided some guarded encouragement as I removed the 20,000 or so pieces from the box. "Those look well-made," she offered. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Out," I stammered.

"When will you be back?"

"After you build the grill."

Then I had an epiphany. Millions of people have put gas grills together. Some of those people are even more inept than me. But there they are in their backyards, enjoying a beer, listening to that wonderful sizzle when some form of animal protein makes contact with a red hot grill. To paraphrase Curt Schilling's pronouncement on the eve of the 2004 playoffs, "Why not me?"

So I carefully placed all of the parts on the floor, hunkered down with the ridiculous directions, and methodically started to build this grill. I'm not going to bore you with a play by play account of this undertaking. Let it suffice to say that after some fits and starts, a couple of modest reversals, a late realization that several important pieces were put in backwards or upside down, the grill got built.

I'm thrilled to report there were no left over pieces.

Total cost: $104 (with free delivery)

Total time elapsed: 6 hours and 41 minutes

Time until bone-in ribeye is finished: 3 minutes/side (medium rare)

Ain't life grand?
J

Standing My Ground: February 2014

Yes sir. From now on I'm "standing my ground."

Consider yourselves warned! As long as I shall be a resident of The Weird State of Florida, I shall be standing my ground.

I've been looking for a law like this for quite a long time.

Thanks to the legislative action team at ALEC, the silly, goofy Koch Brothers, and other strange creatures on the paranoid fringes of the right, Florida has truly embraced this statute.

In case you need a Florida jurisprudence review, last year heartthrob George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing Trayvon Martin. Martin was eating Skittles aggressively so Zimmerman stood his ground and killed him. The brilliant jury found his murder of the hoodied teenager justified. It didn't matter to these 12 genius-citizens that Martin was unarmed or that Zimmerman initiated the confrontation. Martin was walking home while black, which, evidently was reason enough for Zimmerman to stand his ground and kill the teenager a few blocks from his house.

Plus, he was eating Skittles.

That's the first time I realized there is something special going on in this state.

Now we have the case of Michael Dunn, another poster boy for Florida's bizarre law. This dude had pulled into a convenience store parking lot to get some more wine. He and his fiancee had already had a few belts that evening but the night was young. A car full of black teenagers had pulled up near him, playing music loudly. Check that...they were playing music very loudly! Dunn asked them to lower the music. Jordan Davis, 17, told him to mind his business. Dunn went back to his car, retrieved his gun, (as much a part of any self-respecting Floridian's car equipment as a cup holder or Altoids), and proceeded to fire 10 shots into the teens' car indiscriminately, killing Davis.

After standing his ground, Dunn left his ground in a hurry and was found by state police about 125 miles away where he was ordering take out pizza for him and his fiancee.

As one does.

Dunn claims that the shooting was justified because he feared for his life. He claims he saw a shotgun in the car. He is completely without remorse and, from what I can tell, would do the exact same thing tomorrow if the situation presented itself.

A potential problem for Dunn is that no gun, shot or otherwise, has been found. No witness saw any weapon. I'm unaware if there were any Skittles. Dunn, who appears to be about 45 or 50, didn't even tell his fiancee about the alleged weapon until the police showed up.

Now, this sounded like a problem to me, but that was before I heard his defense lawyer explain some of the nuances of "Stand Your Ground" to the jury. It seems that one does not have to be actually threatened to start shooting. All that has to happen is that one "perceives a threat" and then it's BLAM, there will be blood!

If you can convince the police that you thought there mighta been a kinda possible threat, you probably won't even have to go to trial. Heck, if your victim is poor and black, you might be out of that police station while your take out pizza is still hot.

As of this writing, Dunn's jury has been "deliberating" for three days. That's three days this murderer did not have to spend in jail because of this ridiculous law.

A number of Republican-governed states have eagerly adopted this law over the past few years. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that had this incident happened in a non "Stand Your Ground" state, Dunn would already be well on his way toward becoming an institutional man and Jordan Davis's heartbroken parents would feel at least some semblance of justice.

So what does this all mean as far as your humble blogger is concerned? I shall keep close tabs on which states allow us red-blooded Americans to stand our ground, and, when I find myself in one of those states, you all better watch out. Don't be munchin' Skittles near me. Don't be wearin' a hoodie. And definitely don't be playin' your music loud. I won't be (held) responsible for what happens if you do!

Second Amendment Solutions, baby!

Ain't life grand (and precious) ?
J

PS: After this was written, the jury did find this man guilty of four of the five charges. He will be going to prison for a very long time. Ain't justice grand?

Learning Again: January 2014

I'm excited to report that I have decided to go back to school. This enthusiasm is not shared by any of the teachers or administrators with whom I will soon come in contact.

One of the local colleges offers a bunch of courses for adults, and I have decided to take one on digital photography. Before I tell you about this course, please allow me to tell you about some of the ones I decided not to take:

Yoga for Fat People:  While I am sure that the stretching one does in yoga would benefit my nagging sciatica, the thought of all that overtaxed spandex was more than I could bear. Also, I remember quite well  that Ada, who took several yoga classes in New Hampshire, was aghast at the number of times the yoga enthusiasts would unashamedly break wind when they had a really great pose going. Sorry, but if I were in the class, there would certainly be some spandex-poppin', wind-breakin' episodes and I just don't want that on my conscience.

The Quilt and How to Make It: My dear Nancy is a remarkable quilter. Here is one of her recent creations:

She gets very excited just looking at patterns and figuring out which fabrics and colors will work. Nancy's finished quilts are really remarkable examples of this fine old folk tradition. If I tried to make a quilt, I'd put my eye out. I'd stitch my fingers together into some bizarre kind of hand-quilt. I'd attempt to juxtapose colors that would cause instant blindness to anyone who gazed upon them.

No, quilting's not for me. Much too dangerous.

Watching Meaningless Sporting Events on TV: I gave this one some serious thought. It sounded like something I might find absorbing. Unfortunately, the class was offered during the telecast of the Winter X Games on ESPN. That proved to be too much of a conflict to overcome.

So why a course in digital photography, you ask. (Forgive me; I know you didn't really ask that but I had to make up that fake question so I could change the subject. We call that "a device.") Well, back in the day I used to own a pre-digital single lens reflex camera. I loved that camera and the cool click sound it made when I pushed the button. The camera was completely manual. I had to decide on the appropriate film speed, shutter speed, f-stop, focus point etc. before taking a successful picture. If I miscalculated any of the above, the resulting picture would reflect the error. I have boxes and boxes of errors. I used to send the pictures out to be developed and wait a week or ten days to view my errors. I had more errors than Don Buddin. (You're welcome, Red Sox fans from the late 50's!) Eventually, like many other people who were swept up in the digital movement, I went to the dark side, bought a point-and-shoot, and, for several years, made almost no errors. No errors, but every point and click picture was awash in mediocrity. I had files upon files of mediocrity to replace the boxes and boxes of errors.

Not conducive to hours and hours of fun family viewing.

So I bought myself a cool new Canon EOS Rebel T3i with a couple of spiffy lenses and enrolled in the digital photography course at Northwest Florida State College. I am told by someone who has taken the course that we will be prohibited from using the camera's "automatic" setting; instead the course will focus on all those other buttons and gizmos I don't understand yet.

Can you spell e-r-r-o-r-s?

We'll see.  It will be fun to learn some stuff again.

One last thing. The course is being offered on Friday mornings. Followers of these lame ramblings know that on Friday mornings my golf group plays for money. The way I see it, all the money I would have lost playing golf on Fridays will more than pay for the photography course.

And a camera bag.

And extra lenses.

And maybe even trips to picturesque places with the lovely quilting lady.

Ain't life grand?
J

A Book Recommendation: January 2014

 

Having been laid up recently with my old sciatic nerve complaint, I've had occasion to read a bunch of books. I read the latest Michael Connolly, which, like all his others, is terrific. Connolly is the Jerry Seinfeld of legal thriller authors. Not that he's funny. On the contrary, there are very few laughs in any of Connolly's books, whether they are part of the Harry Bosch or Mickey Haller series. No, what I mean is that Connolly, like Seinfeld, can take nothing and make it entertaining. Much of Connolly's interest is with PROCEDURE, i.e. the "crime book" that Bosch painstakingly develops with each new case or the courtroom maneuvers that Haller either follows or short circuits in his cases. Connolly spends a lot of time delving into procedures and therein lies his art. I believe I read that Harry Bosch will become a TV character in an upcoming series. I can only hope that Larry David is the producer!

As enjoyable as The Gods of Guilt was, the book that has really captivated me and made me almost glad to be painfully bedridden (note: the preceding phrase was a gross exaggeration and a cheap attempt to gain sympathy on the part of the author; pay it no heed!) is pictured above.

I have enjoyed Bill Bryson's writing for many years. Starting with his signature work, A Walk in the Woods, in which he describes his failed attempt to walk the Appalachian Trail, continuing with his mostly humorous examination of Australia, In a Sunburned Country, and his remarkably thorough A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bryson combines the doggedness of a master researcher with the wit of Mark Twain and the storytelling ability and dedication to truth of Doris Kearns Goodwin. The result is always an appetizing melange of hard facts blended with hilarious or mind-boggling anecdotes. Reading Bryson is like attending the class of the best teacher you ever had. Despite your best efforts, you learn stuff and have a good time doing it.

In One Summer, America 1927, Bryson covers in depth some of the most memorable and newsworthy events in modern American history, all of which happened in the summer of 1927. Each of his key events took on a life much larger than its own and several foretold of the modern America we would come to know in our lifetimes. Most of the events (the Lindbergh flight for example) you know about, at least in passing. The beauty of this book is in the interesting details Bryson provides and the connections he draws between these events. Playing key roles in this book are Babe Ruth, Henry and Edsel Ford, "Silent Cal" Coolidge, Jack Dempsey, Al Capone, and a host of other famous and obscure players who were prominent for one reason or another that remarkable summer. South Shore residents will be thoroughly captivated by Bryson's revelations on the infamous Sacco-Vanzetti case, including his research on the Bridgewater Police Chief who first had them arrested. Great stuff and timely given the national debate over what to do with the remaining Guantanamo detainees.

I had the pleasure of meeting Bryson once. He was teaching at Dartmouth for a time and Ada and I attended a talk he gave one night. He was exactly as he seems to be on the pages of his books: funny, professional, and interesting.

I highly recommend this book.

That's it for now. Although if this sciatic condition persists, I'll be able to review Ben Bradlee's new  800+ page biography of Ted Williams.

More drugs, Nancy, please!

Ain't life grand?

J