A number of years ago, my family took its second cross country camping trip, and this time we were heading all the way to the West Coast. My Aunt and Uncle had given the family tickets to Disneyland, so of course, that was one of the destinations of interest. We picked up my oldest sister in San Francisco, so that she could join in on the fun. She had stayed behind to finish painting the family home. Our first visit to California was indeed a memorable one, the Redwoods, San Francisco, the Big Sur, and ultimately Anaheim and the Magic Kingdom, but something that I will not forget was my introduction to the rolling "R".
My sister and I were talking about some of the Spanish words and names that we encountered while heading south along the coast. We saw places to eat Mexican fare serving "burritos" with flour "tortillas" and "frijoles". It became our passion to pronounce those words with the proper roll of the "R". When we'd see a Taco Bell, my sister would wave her hands from side to side singing, "Taco Bell, Taco Bell". It became her signature trademark while in California. Naturally, another of the many stops along the way were the Spanish missions founded by Junipero Serra. You can only imagine the 2 of us rolling our "R"s and my sister singing her little ditty.
When I later lived in California and then went on to Mexico to further my education, I was reminded of the rolling "R" and that jingle sung by my sister years before. In fact, we have been known to "rrrelive" those "wonderrrful" memories when we have gathered since that time. These are the "trrruly grrreat trrreasures" from the past. Gracias para todas las memorias mi hermana!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Break a leg for good luck, I say
While watching the Olympic skiing events, I am reminded of the expression, "break a leg" and how it's used to wish someone good luck, in spite of what how that may appear. If someone actually broke a leg after such a "wish" of good luck, I think most of us would absolutely be mortified. Well, sometimes you can break a leg even with lady luck "at" your side; lady luck in this case was my older sister.
When were we kids, you could often times find one or more of us tagging along with my folks when they'd do their errands. We took rides along the Merrimac river to JM Fields, to The Mill in Exeter for fabric, or maybe to the A&P just down the street. It gave us time together and kept us out of trouble; a win win situation, I'd say.
Once, I remember going with my sister and Dad downtown to the local Western Auto to pick up some thingamabob. Who knows exactly, but we had driven our old blue Ford sedan, one of those with the fins in the back, circa 1955. After completing our business with Mr. C. Rousseau, who reminded me of Uncle Albert (Ed Wynn) in "Mary Poppins", my sister grabbed my hand and led me to the door where we stood in the alcove off the sidewalk. My father had already gone out ahead of us and was standing on the street side of the car, which was parked right out front. Meanwhile, my sister gripped my hand tightly and cautioned me that there was a cyclist coming down the sidewalk. In my excitement to be with my Dad, I broke away from my sister, only to put this biker and me on a collision course. CRASH!!! There we were in a heap...of trouble. The young fellow on the bike, I believe, walked away OK, but I couldn't walk. My Dad had to carry me to the car, and off to the hospital we went for Xrays.
You probably have guessed it by now that the Xrays confirmed my Dad's suspicion that there was more than just a bruise. With the whole summer ahead, what could be worse than wearing a heavy plaster cast? Apparently not much. Except for swimming, I played whiffle ball while batting from a chair and a whole host of other things. In fact, my father had to replace the cast about once a week, as I wore them out just as fast as he could put a new one on.
If only I had listened to my sister and held her hand, I would have avoided this whole little incident from my youth. Now that I have aged and presumably matured, I still cherish the "hand holding" I get from my older sisters. They have always been there to pick me up when I've been knocked off my feet, just like my Dad had been on that day many years ago. I do have 4 intelligent, wonderful, and fun loving "ladies" at my side, "the sisters". I love them all, and consequently, I do consider myself very lucky indeed!
When were we kids, you could often times find one or more of us tagging along with my folks when they'd do their errands. We took rides along the Merrimac river to JM Fields, to The Mill in Exeter for fabric, or maybe to the A&P just down the street. It gave us time together and kept us out of trouble; a win win situation, I'd say.
Once, I remember going with my sister and Dad downtown to the local Western Auto to pick up some thingamabob. Who knows exactly, but we had driven our old blue Ford sedan, one of those with the fins in the back, circa 1955. After completing our business with Mr. C. Rousseau, who reminded me of Uncle Albert (Ed Wynn) in "Mary Poppins", my sister grabbed my hand and led me to the door where we stood in the alcove off the sidewalk. My father had already gone out ahead of us and was standing on the street side of the car, which was parked right out front. Meanwhile, my sister gripped my hand tightly and cautioned me that there was a cyclist coming down the sidewalk. In my excitement to be with my Dad, I broke away from my sister, only to put this biker and me on a collision course. CRASH!!! There we were in a heap...of trouble. The young fellow on the bike, I believe, walked away OK, but I couldn't walk. My Dad had to carry me to the car, and off to the hospital we went for Xrays.
You probably have guessed it by now that the Xrays confirmed my Dad's suspicion that there was more than just a bruise. With the whole summer ahead, what could be worse than wearing a heavy plaster cast? Apparently not much. Except for swimming, I played whiffle ball while batting from a chair and a whole host of other things. In fact, my father had to replace the cast about once a week, as I wore them out just as fast as he could put a new one on.
If only I had listened to my sister and held her hand, I would have avoided this whole little incident from my youth. Now that I have aged and presumably matured, I still cherish the "hand holding" I get from my older sisters. They have always been there to pick me up when I've been knocked off my feet, just like my Dad had been on that day many years ago. I do have 4 intelligent, wonderful, and fun loving "ladies" at my side, "the sisters". I love them all, and consequently, I do consider myself very lucky indeed!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
No skeletons in this closet
According to the general theory of relativity, a black hole is a region of space from which nothing, including light, can escape. Although these are thought to be found only in the celestial sphere, there has been mounting evidence that, in fact, they may be found right here on earth.
My parents still live in the only family home that I have ever known, and its 6 bedrooms were an absolute necessity for the passel of children. There were always places to hide, like in the "cubby hole" under the stairs, under any one of those many beds, or in the basement, although you'd have to deal with the "boogey man" if you went down there. However, my mother's closet was the place to be, if you really didn't want to be found. Remember hiding in amongst the clothes at the department stores when you were a kid? Well, that's how it was in "the closet". You could bury yourself in there, with the dresses and long coats hanging down to shelter you, as if you were in a cave. She even had this hanging laundry bag that we'd climb into to hide as well. At times perhaps, there would be more than one of us in there as part of some game, such as hide and seek. It seemed like it was a giant vacuum that just sucked us in, only to release us at some future time.
The "closet" at the top of the stairs provided us with a place to play, but of course, it was designed for a different purpose. There were several rods for hanging the clothes, and my mother even had me add 2 more. There were some built in drawers towards the back which were later removed because it was hard to get at them. She even installed a suspended hanger on the inside of the door. This maximized the use of the space, but seemed to minimize the "personal" space. Closing the door even became a challenge at times.
I remember one Christmas when Mom asked me to "find" some gifts that she had safely hidden away in her closet, and unfortunately for the recipients, they were carefully misplaced in her time capsule. Naturally, after enough time had passed these sorts of things would emerge to be re-gifted. Equally, the wardrobe collection could have provided a time line in fashion history, and some, to no surprise, have come back in style.
The days of hiding ourselves or things in the closet have long since passed, but the closet remains and is perhaps slightly more organized today than in yesteryear. However, it really doesn't matter because I will always remember the memories that came "out of the closet"; and we apparently never lost a soul in that hallowed space because I can't remember ever finding a skeleton in there!
My parents still live in the only family home that I have ever known, and its 6 bedrooms were an absolute necessity for the passel of children. There were always places to hide, like in the "cubby hole" under the stairs, under any one of those many beds, or in the basement, although you'd have to deal with the "boogey man" if you went down there. However, my mother's closet was the place to be, if you really didn't want to be found. Remember hiding in amongst the clothes at the department stores when you were a kid? Well, that's how it was in "the closet". You could bury yourself in there, with the dresses and long coats hanging down to shelter you, as if you were in a cave. She even had this hanging laundry bag that we'd climb into to hide as well. At times perhaps, there would be more than one of us in there as part of some game, such as hide and seek. It seemed like it was a giant vacuum that just sucked us in, only to release us at some future time.
The "closet" at the top of the stairs provided us with a place to play, but of course, it was designed for a different purpose. There were several rods for hanging the clothes, and my mother even had me add 2 more. There were some built in drawers towards the back which were later removed because it was hard to get at them. She even installed a suspended hanger on the inside of the door. This maximized the use of the space, but seemed to minimize the "personal" space. Closing the door even became a challenge at times.
I remember one Christmas when Mom asked me to "find" some gifts that she had safely hidden away in her closet, and unfortunately for the recipients, they were carefully misplaced in her time capsule. Naturally, after enough time had passed these sorts of things would emerge to be re-gifted. Equally, the wardrobe collection could have provided a time line in fashion history, and some, to no surprise, have come back in style.
The days of hiding ourselves or things in the closet have long since passed, but the closet remains and is perhaps slightly more organized today than in yesteryear. However, it really doesn't matter because I will always remember the memories that came "out of the closet"; and we apparently never lost a soul in that hallowed space because I can't remember ever finding a skeleton in there!
Monday, February 22, 2010
BBM's, a Collector's Edition
Zane Grey may have been the J.K. Rowling of his time, or at least my father thought so. Stories of travels out West, buffalo hunts, and gun fights were all part of the story line for this prolific early American writer. It developed into such a passion for him that he became a founding member of the Zane Grey Society and even a past president. As a byproduct for his enthusiasm to find a complete collection of first edition ZG's, the Maine coast became the target area for those coveted collectibles, and thus the family book buying missions were spawned.
There usually wasn't much of a scheduled agenda for these trips. The overnight accommodations were predetermined, but that was it. My sisters typically made the arrangements at any one of the dozens of mom and pop motels which dot those Maine coastal communities. Some of them had been destinations for us when we were making our way to the old homestead in Canada years before. I guess it was deja vu all over again. Breakfast, often times was followed by several stops at the used book barns to do some early "recon". When a rare book was discovered, everyone shared in the experience, and if there was an accompanying dust jacket, oh boy. Naturally, the grand kids were very much front and center too. After a morning of "wandering" along the roadways of Maine, the hunger pangs would remind us that there might have been an alternate purpose to those trips, getting a little "down home" cooking. There were the usual stops of course, both for books and food, but occasionally a stop to check out those "rare" antiques could be expected too.
Over the years, I do think my father found his share of valued first editions, and I, too, found a gem once at one of those hallowed haunts on my way through Elsworth. My father and I still talk about it, even today. However, the real treasures from those BBMs were not the books or the unusual antiques, but the priceless memories that were created for all to share. Hey, everyone. Come over here, and see what I just found!
There usually wasn't much of a scheduled agenda for these trips. The overnight accommodations were predetermined, but that was it. My sisters typically made the arrangements at any one of the dozens of mom and pop motels which dot those Maine coastal communities. Some of them had been destinations for us when we were making our way to the old homestead in Canada years before. I guess it was deja vu all over again. Breakfast, often times was followed by several stops at the used book barns to do some early "recon". When a rare book was discovered, everyone shared in the experience, and if there was an accompanying dust jacket, oh boy. Naturally, the grand kids were very much front and center too. After a morning of "wandering" along the roadways of Maine, the hunger pangs would remind us that there might have been an alternate purpose to those trips, getting a little "down home" cooking. There were the usual stops of course, both for books and food, but occasionally a stop to check out those "rare" antiques could be expected too.
Over the years, I do think my father found his share of valued first editions, and I, too, found a gem once at one of those hallowed haunts on my way through Elsworth. My father and I still talk about it, even today. However, the real treasures from those BBMs were not the books or the unusual antiques, but the priceless memories that were created for all to share. Hey, everyone. Come over here, and see what I just found!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
A Car Named Toby
For many students, the thought of having a car, especially in high school, helped tremendously toward feeling that teenage independence. Well, when I was in HS, the thought of having a car wasn't even on my radar. Fortunately for me, my parents were generous with the use of their cars. I remember on one occasion asking my father for the car, and he handed me the keys and a few bucks for gas. He then asked who was driving since I didn't even have my license at the time. This was in stark comparison to the close parental controls that were in place for the older siblings. Either they had become wiser with age or perhaps just worn down by time. I prefer to think that they were simply wiser.
I purchased my first car when I was living in California during Graduate school. I finally reached my limit of riding my bike to work in the dark or borrowing a friend's car. I will admit that my legs were in pretty good shape from all the exercise though. After completing my degree, I drove across country in my little Datsun. I made stops at my sister's in the Grand Canyon, my Aunt and Uncle's in Iowa, and finished when I pulled into the family home in Massachusetts. The trip home capped off the 3 years on the west coast. The stay home was short lived, however, as I was soon planning my exodus to Mexico to start the next phase of my education.
So, what was to become of the Datsun? My younger brother stepped to the head of the line to take the keys. At the time he was working as a life guard at the beach, and he was in need of transportation. Who more logical than a well tanned life guard should be driving that California set of wheels? No one. He nicknamed it, Toby.
Several years later while I was home for some time off, I needed a car and Toby was still in service. A few modifications had been made since I had last sat in the driver's seat, The most notable was that those keys I had handed over years before were no longer needed. The car started with the push of a button, clever and interesting at the same time. If the door bell button didn't work, you could always resort to hot wiring it.
I am not sure what ever happened to Toby, but I believe there are many other untold stories associated with that first car. The irony in this case is that today's cars have adopted a similar technology, the push button starter, only the one found on Toby was slightly more rudimentary. Now, which button was it to start the car again? Ding, Dong. Sorry, wrong button!
I purchased my first car when I was living in California during Graduate school. I finally reached my limit of riding my bike to work in the dark or borrowing a friend's car. I will admit that my legs were in pretty good shape from all the exercise though. After completing my degree, I drove across country in my little Datsun. I made stops at my sister's in the Grand Canyon, my Aunt and Uncle's in Iowa, and finished when I pulled into the family home in Massachusetts. The trip home capped off the 3 years on the west coast. The stay home was short lived, however, as I was soon planning my exodus to Mexico to start the next phase of my education.
So, what was to become of the Datsun? My younger brother stepped to the head of the line to take the keys. At the time he was working as a life guard at the beach, and he was in need of transportation. Who more logical than a well tanned life guard should be driving that California set of wheels? No one. He nicknamed it, Toby.
Several years later while I was home for some time off, I needed a car and Toby was still in service. A few modifications had been made since I had last sat in the driver's seat, The most notable was that those keys I had handed over years before were no longer needed. The car started with the push of a button, clever and interesting at the same time. If the door bell button didn't work, you could always resort to hot wiring it.
I am not sure what ever happened to Toby, but I believe there are many other untold stories associated with that first car. The irony in this case is that today's cars have adopted a similar technology, the push button starter, only the one found on Toby was slightly more rudimentary. Now, which button was it to start the car again? Ding, Dong. Sorry, wrong button!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Head and shoulders above the rest
"Chance awaits the prepared mind" is a quote that has been attributed to the famous Louis Pasteur. If you subscribe to this idea, then an individual will assess those opportunities and make the most of them; and the true measure of success then becomes how you deal with those opportunities. There are no exceptions. I know one young man who has been faced with his share of challenges, but he has overcome them for sure.
Since he is the youngest of his siblings, it was more difficult for him to break free of the apron strings, or at least for his mother. I do recall he had a rather severe case of separation anxiety, and no degree of Ferberizing seemed to make a difference. Consequently, his parents elected to give him an extra year to develop his personality and self confidence, and however difficult that was for his parents, the decision has proven well worth that wait.
However, what remains the most impressive accomplishment for this gentle giant was the remarkable resolve he demonstrated when he was faced with surgery to correct his scoliosis. The series of procedures were carried out over 2 days with little recovery between them. I will always remember seeing him in the hospital after the second operation, and he literally looked like a caravan of trucks had run over him. I think you get the picture, but during all this, he maintained his wit. When the nurses asked him how he was feeling as part of their assessment, he responded in his weakened voice by saying, "Taller." Of course this brought a smile to his parent's faces, for at that moment, they knew he would eventually recover from this major, life altering event.
How have these experiences impacted young Fredo? Only he knows for sure. However, as he has progressed through his formal education, he has, without question, matured into a delightful young man with a bright future ahead. He has made the most of his chances, but what this shows me is that he has come prepared, and maybe, just maybe, he owes his growth and stability to his parents and in part to those competent surgeons who made him just a bit taller. Happy Birthday you "taller" drink of water!
Since he is the youngest of his siblings, it was more difficult for him to break free of the apron strings, or at least for his mother. I do recall he had a rather severe case of separation anxiety, and no degree of Ferberizing seemed to make a difference. Consequently, his parents elected to give him an extra year to develop his personality and self confidence, and however difficult that was for his parents, the decision has proven well worth that wait.
However, what remains the most impressive accomplishment for this gentle giant was the remarkable resolve he demonstrated when he was faced with surgery to correct his scoliosis. The series of procedures were carried out over 2 days with little recovery between them. I will always remember seeing him in the hospital after the second operation, and he literally looked like a caravan of trucks had run over him. I think you get the picture, but during all this, he maintained his wit. When the nurses asked him how he was feeling as part of their assessment, he responded in his weakened voice by saying, "Taller." Of course this brought a smile to his parent's faces, for at that moment, they knew he would eventually recover from this major, life altering event.
How have these experiences impacted young Fredo? Only he knows for sure. However, as he has progressed through his formal education, he has, without question, matured into a delightful young man with a bright future ahead. He has made the most of his chances, but what this shows me is that he has come prepared, and maybe, just maybe, he owes his growth and stability to his parents and in part to those competent surgeons who made him just a bit taller. Happy Birthday you "taller" drink of water!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
No matter what anyone says about you...
Have you ever sat in the dentist's chair and have them start asking you questions? How the heck do you talk with all that Novocaine and those cotton swabs they use to absorb the saliva? What may be even more amazing is the dentist's ability to understand all that gibberish and make heads or tails out of it. Does any of this sound familiar? Well, for me, I had to answer some pretty tough questions when I sat in that "electric chair" because when I was young, my dentist was none other than my very own Uncle.
When we were kids, my siblings and I would head to Humphrey St. for a little grilling and drilling at the hand of my Uncle. He had a beautiful office overlooking the ocean which provided a much needed distraction from the purpose of our visit. We usually did this in December when our parochial school was out for the December 8th, feast day of the Immaculate Conception. Usually, he did this over his lunch break, so there wasn't always time for the Novocaine. It toughened us up, I guess.
There were several things I remember quite vividly about those trips to Swampscott, but it remains the admonishments that came our way that I recall most. There was one that stands out above the others where he'd say with his finger pointed right at me and his jaw clenched, "No matter what anyone says about you, YOU'RE A GREAT KID." My paranoia always had me wondering what people were saying, but as I have aged, I now realize what the real message was behind those words.
As my Uncle celebrates his four score and then some birthday today, I just want to thank him for the immeasurable contribution he has made to my life, to the lives of all my siblings, and the great nieces and nephews. In the words of Sister Sledge, "we are fam-i-ly". He and my Aunt have literally been just that to us. I am sure I speak for all of us as I clench my jaw, point my finger and say, "No matter what anyone says about you, YOU'RE A GREAT UNCLE." Happy Birthday PJM!
When we were kids, my siblings and I would head to Humphrey St. for a little grilling and drilling at the hand of my Uncle. He had a beautiful office overlooking the ocean which provided a much needed distraction from the purpose of our visit. We usually did this in December when our parochial school was out for the December 8th, feast day of the Immaculate Conception. Usually, he did this over his lunch break, so there wasn't always time for the Novocaine. It toughened us up, I guess.
There were several things I remember quite vividly about those trips to Swampscott, but it remains the admonishments that came our way that I recall most. There was one that stands out above the others where he'd say with his finger pointed right at me and his jaw clenched, "No matter what anyone says about you, YOU'RE A GREAT KID." My paranoia always had me wondering what people were saying, but as I have aged, I now realize what the real message was behind those words.
As my Uncle celebrates his four score and then some birthday today, I just want to thank him for the immeasurable contribution he has made to my life, to the lives of all my siblings, and the great nieces and nephews. In the words of Sister Sledge, "we are fam-i-ly". He and my Aunt have literally been just that to us. I am sure I speak for all of us as I clench my jaw, point my finger and say, "No matter what anyone says about you, YOU'RE A GREAT UNCLE." Happy Birthday PJM!
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