MaineCourse

(In the Spirit of a) Happy New Year

Dan dancing with Drucilla Strain at our wedding reception in 1984.
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Fang

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Here’s another photo (Adam spied her in First Snow) of my dog, Fang. Her previous owner called her Jill, Jilly Cakes, Jilly Pops, girly names to be sure. That was before the dog learned to join me at construction sites where men, standing knee deep in snow, rip walls down while dressed in animal skins . The name Jill? It had to go.

Fang is a man’s dog. She wakes me in the morning (bark, bark), alerts me to invisible threats (bark, bark), and, as I say, joins me at work. Pictured here, you can see a slavering Fang preoccupied with a baseball (fond memories of her previous owner’s son?). Soon Fang will be fitted for tool carrying cargo bags. Last night she chased down a doe and brought me the hind quarters for dinner.

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Disclaimer: "The editoiral board at 136 Central St. is not responsible for the content, the opinions, the thoughts, the daydreams or pretty much anything that spews forth from the creator of this blog. "

The King is Dead

Part III The End
by Rakkity

The father-son games took on a serious character that infected outside life. Sometimes the weekly game of racquet-le-ball with the son and the game with the Dominator fell on consecutive days, and the tendons complained with a vengeance. Dancing across the court against the son one day, the father stretched too far, and stopped short with a sudden pain in his calf. He found himself unable to walk except with a mincing single-step, and a week passed before the over stretched limb mended and games could resume. Later, in a game against The Dom, in a battle that was fought to the penultimate service, he collapsed on the court in a collision with a wall that suddenly materialized in the wrong spot. Recovery from this took only a day, but brought on a sense of impending doom.

The father had a respite when The Dom went on a long journey to see his ancient Nanny in his Oz homeland, and, coincidentally, the son betook himself on a journey to explore the far corners of the kingdom with his friends. The father relaxed and recuperated by competing against the daughter, and was fresh for battle when the son returned six fortnights later at the end of summer.

The first autumn game against the son was a lopsided victory 15-0 for the father. From that the son learned, by his absence from the court, he had lost some of his "feel", and this turned his mind to the science of the game. He began to go for the "kills". But his wits were not quite up to the treachery of the father. In the son's absence, the father had noticed that one of the daughter's shirts wasthe identical blue of the playing ball, and it was difficult to see the ball in play when it passed in front of her. Eager to take all possible, even minuscule, advantages as they presented themselves, he acquired a vest of bright blue. In subsequent games against the son, he contrived to rotate after returns so that the ball would pass between his body and the line of sight of the son's. The split-second disappearance of the ball caused a slight hesitation in some of the son's shots, giving the old man a slight advantage, and an occasional point that might not otherwise have been his.

The father began to try the move-to-center ploy, in which after service, he would solidly occupy the center of the court, the most advantageous location for the return. He would not quite cause a "hinder" (the term for blocking a return). The scores became a little closer as the son adjusted to the these distractions and improved his smash and spin. Taller, and longer-limbed, the son simply stood behind the father and struck the ball by reaching over and around his obstructing father.

During another game, the son made a spectacular dive across the court, "killed" the ball a hands-breadth above the front wall, and made a spectacular collision with the side wall. The father said to the son, who was resting on the floor with a satisfied grin, "You may recall the former winner of the Outer Kingdom Games last year. Don Herbango Golongo-Gofargo. He won a game with the same kind of dive, except that he didn't survive the collision with the wall." His son was shocked. "you mean he died?" Well", said his father, thinking that he could cool his son's exuberance, "his body survived, but his mind is still locked in that dive. He lies on his bed with a smile, and when anyone speaks to him, he swings his arm wildly, rolls his eyes as if making a kill, drools a little, and falls back to his bed asleep." The father noted with some satisfaction that the son's next few dives were more cautious, but his memory was short, and soon he was colliding with the walls with abandon again. "So much for cooling exuberance", thought the father.

The games went on much as before, the father winning systematically, exploiting what edges he could find. A close game ensued. The father's brow dripped with sweat, and some drops of perspiration fell on the ball. During his serve, he noticed that the wet ball made an unusual spin on its bounce, baffling the son. He put that into his repertoire, not for general use, but for occasional crucial services. The sweat ball won now and again, and the son never seemed to notice the treachery.

The father's desperation continued as the season's weather cooled. One night on his way home, as he bounced his ball on the cold curbstones of the lane under the lamplights of the lane, he noted that the ball was gradually losing its bounce as it cooled in the frigid air. His thoughts turned to treachery and sleights of hand. The next game with his son was of a late frosty evening, and as the father walked to the game, he carried one very cold ball in a small open-weave basket by his side, with a second warm ball in a pocket by his belly. He carried both balls into the game court, the cool one concealed in his treacherous blue vest.

The father had won (as always) the previous game, so the son (as always) had the first serve. The father gave him the warm ball, which bounced its normal bounce, and the father had some fortune in sending it to a quick "kill", which the son missed despite a desperate dive. The father reminded the son that Golongo-gofargo still lay in a coma. It was the father's serve now, and with a flick of his wrist, he contrived to replace the warm ball with the cold one. His service smashed the ball into the corner, where it died with a feeble bounce. The son's furious swing just barely grazed the ball. Before the son could recover and touch the ball, The father was already on his way to the the corner to retrieve it, "What was that?" the son cried. "Oh some new spin the Dominator taught me yesterday," laughed the father, as he set the ball for another serve. This time it was to the other corner, and the ball died almost as before. The son managed a feeble return, which the father was able to kill. "Well, that's two points anyway", he thought, "but the ball is warming up now, so it's a regular game from here on out." The son was on his game that night, and lost only 12-14. The cold ball had been the margin.

The father was getting worried. He couldn't use this trick again. He experimented with warming up the racquet strings, cooling them down, but nothing worked reliably. He studied the techniques of The Dominator that week, but he had mastered them all. The Dominator had little more to teach. Science and treachery seemed to be winding down.

Time moved on, and the season turned. The leaves were falling from the trees, spattering the ground with copper and gold, when the son made his great step forward. In a match that lasted two hours, the father won the first game, 15-10, and then the second game, 15-11. Sweat dripped from the brows of both players. The ball itself was drenched, and its spin was out of control. The father was breathing deeply, thinking deeply; the son was composed and alert, and breathing gently.

The final game went all the way to 14-14. The serve changed hands half a dozen times without a score. The rallies continued with a dozen returns, and still there was still no further score. The son served; his drop shot fell off the back wall, the father scooped it, returned it low to the front, the son dove and killed it a half a hands-breadth above the floor. The old father stood frozen, unable to move, while the son beamed with a toothy grin on his face.

Outside the nightingales sang. The church bells tolled the hour. The evening breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. Inside the court, the two players stood and looked at each other. The father smiled and put out his hand toward the son to shake, and said, "The king is dead, long live the king."

--the end---...

First Snow

Most of Us

I was showing Susan old family photos when I stumbled onto this one. I know the people, but what was the event? And is that a baking tray of beef balanced on an old coffee can? And a container of something I'd never admit to eating - Cheese Whiz?
First row: Mark Schreiber, Sammy, Karen Schiff, B.J. Sullivan, John Lewis.
Back row: Ginger, Greg, Bonnie, Brian, Tess, Me, Diane, Bonnie Bortle and Jim McMahon.

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Christmas Eve In Pictures

Photo Gallery

Christmas '04 Images

DAN DOWNING

Whereas McAllen saw a white Christmas (Cristy’s pool…) , in Boston in was a white day after Christmas.

Becca, having made it back in one piece by train -- broken foot in a cast -- is on her way with Sarah and Pat to Connecticut, Barbara L has moved to rehab at Emerson with hers, the Jims are on their way home with Casey, Greg's picking up his Mom at Logan, and quiet again reigns at Linda and Dan's. And Paxie says "I need rest".

Only a few images remain.

Merry Christmas

Diane’s a cookin’, Flo’s pacing, Susan is airborn, Matt is playing with his new iPod, the Finlays are probably packing for their road trip to Acton... and me? Dodging all responsiblities as usual.

Jazz Stompers

I've heard about the Yankee Jazz Stompers for quite a while, from Flo, who sends me the print out of the weeks events at Concord Park. Yesterday, as we were dropping Flo off after lunch, I could hear music wafting from the entertainment room and it was indeed, The Stompers.

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Patti Finlay, Christmas 1997, Torroemore MN.

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A blog with photographs to rival mine.

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A glimpse into the Downing family Christmas.

Christmas Past

Peter and Emma Finlay, Christmas at Torroemore, 1997.

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Not A Toy

Diane bought a duffle bag with this cardboard inside - It's sole purpose to maintain the shape of the bag. We were about to toss it when we spied this warning label.

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Expiration Date

It's six degrees outside, the snow crunches underfoot, and the drafts in our house force us to huddle around the wood stove. Perhaps that's why I've been thumbing through photos of our trip to see Peter in Hawaii three years ago. Diane and Peter "relax" in the lobby of the hotel before we leave for the airport.

Grim Reaper

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Diane and Friends

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Susan's Arrival

Susan’s plane arrived right on time - 2:16 P M - and from Logan Susan publicly transported her way to the West Concord T stop, which is but feet from Concord Park. Maybe thirty seconds into her visit, Flo assaulted her with complaints about “The Hole. ” The glop they serve, the atrocious bingo, the lack of a bathtub (“I can’t live another month without a tub.”) and the people. However, she did say she liked the coffee. And we thought Flo was a CP convert.

Sadly, our plans to scurry to La Cantina for cheese quesadillas and, most importantly, margaritas with rocks and salt (they make the best) were scuttled. The town suspended the Cantina's liquor license. We settled for near undrinkable margaritas (too sweet) at Scupper Jacks.

Good Humor Zone

"Just heard Terry Gross do her 1990 interview with Paul? Brown, who died
last week at 53 of a heart-attack. He was the fireman who became a writer.
I actually mentioned him to you, as the result of an NPR broadcast in a
late nineties that featured his life and work.

I thought you could publish your life on the internet, and, low and
behold, that’s pretty much what happened. The Blog appeared. Now
you’re being discovered: by your self, your family, not mention an
endearingly wide circle of friends. Maybe that’s where it ends, happily,
without the wide world looking in, and the heart attack looking out.

When I thought I would write you about this story, I suddenly remembered how I had been reading the obituaries since I was ten. Not formally, but I'd always notice in the succeeding years how I’d fixate on the death of some kid slightly younger than me. My reflex would be ...Well, I made it past him.

Funny how I hardly ever think about those thoughts, yet they were a
regular fixture in my thinking for years and years, only to be replaced,
for some time, by the feeling that I would be shot in the back on a dark
city street, or in restaurant, which is why I hated sitting with my back
to the door, and why dark city streets make my neck hairs stand on end.
And why, I suppose, my dream would deal with that anxiety by featuring a
dark urban night, where I suddenly faced a circle of figures with clubs,
to which I responded, “Oh, I get it, this is a stickup.” And so it goes.
There’s the fireman, dead. You, writing about deaths and your near-death
experiences, and there's me, still in my childhood factory of apocalypses,
ringed by a good humor zone. "

Holiday Train

South Haven and Annandale are the towns nearest to Torroemore.



An estimated 1,000 people turned out on a frigid night in Annandale Monday, Dec. 13, to greet the Canadian Pacific Railway’s Holiday Train and donate items of food to the Annandale Area Community Food Shelf. The 12-car train, outlined in thousands of lights and with a Christmas tree atop the locomotive, pulled to a stop at the Oak Avenue crossing near Annandale Memorial Park.

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Auntie Sue and her daddy.

Friends

Ginger and Diane in Monument Square in Concord in 1969.

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Diane’s high school boyfriend, Craig, died last week and his memorial service is today. As Diane said, “I thought those emails from West Nyack would never end.” Ginger offered to accompany Diane, and together they drove to New York. They left yesterday and spent the night in the Comfort Inn in Nanuet.

Monday night, Diane, doing her best to fit her journey to New York into her already overloaded family/work/holiday schedule was obsessing about, well, everything.

“What are you going to wear?” I asked. I thought the question would help her focus. Diane prepares the night before for her work day and frequently asks, “What should I wear?” I always glaze over.

“A black skirt and a green or black sweater. And if it’s cold, my black coat. Is that too much black?”

“For a funeral?”

“I can’t decide between my black skirt with the circles at the bottom or my shorter wool skirt. Which one do you think I should wear?”

“I like the shorter wool skirt.”

An uncomfortably long pause.

“Do you even know what the skirt looks like? The one with the circles at the bottom?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

A much shorter pause. I could feel the guillotine descending.

“Do you know what my black wool skirt looks like?”

“Of course not.”

Three Girls

Patti, Florence Hotze (Flo's mom) and Diane.
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Orchids

Michael, Patti and Diane. The year? A long time ago. The event? Might have been a Canning anniversary celebration. Why post it? I stumbled onto yet another box of old photos as I was cleaning our guest room, preparing for Susan's arrival on Friday.

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I Want a Steroid Free Tree

Chris Rad

Every year we collect Hallmark special edition baseball ornaments. Included in past collections were Mark McGuire, Jason Giambi, Derek Jeter and Mickey Mantle. This, by the way, is how we teach our children tolerance. The Yankee ornaments can go on the tree and live in peace with the Red Sox ones. When we pulled out this years ornaments Mark announced he wanted a steroid free tree (in jest of course) and therefore McGuire and Giambi would have to "sit out". Matthew, who is by nature a completist...if they are there they must be included, didn't take to this very well. "Did Mickey Mantle take steroids?" No, I replied, but he did drink himself to death. "So he took beer?" Yes Matthew, he took beer. Lots of it. It was agreed that heavy drinkers could stay on the tree. Then there was the Nomar issue. There he was in all his Sox glory with the hook in him waiting to be included. What to do. Matthew decided Nomar could sit on the branch with Derek Jeter as he believes they are friends. In the end the steroid issue was settled with Matthew proclaiming one branch the "steroid branch" and there sit Giambi and McGuire. I joked that having them both on the same branch might make the tree sway to one side with all that muscle. He wasn't amused. This year Hallmark has chosen Barry Bonds for its commemorative ornament. We choose to not invest as he is one steroid user too many.




Me and Mom circa 1966

Art and Music

Steve Howard and the Accidentals playing at last Thursday night's opening at Frederick Scott Gallery in Sudbury. Not pictured: Matt, Robby, Diane, Chris, Mark, and Caroline.

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Zarro The Dominator

Part II of the King-Is-Dead Trilogy
by Rakk

( Part I )

A retired wizard, Dom Zarro, from the far-off and fabled lands of Oz,
happened to settle down in the little borough of Bowie-by-the Bay, and
began to look for challenges and challengers to meet his mettle. He had
heard about this father-and-son duo who played racquet-le-ball, and
decided that he might un-retire his old racquet, and see if he could
generate a little action, perhaps even to the point of reviving his
old skill on the court. It had been many years since he had played,
and many a flagon of Old Tooths Ale had bulged his belly, but he was
pretty sure that the grazers and Z-slashes remained in his repertoire.

By chance, one day, when he was leaving The Ace-in-the-Corner Pub, he
almost ran into a man hurrying along the cobblestones with an oddly
shaped package in hand. "Begging your pardon, my good man", he said,
"are you a player of Racquet-le-ball? And in that packet, is that by
any chance..." "But sir", said the hurried gentleman, as he paused
to look carefully at the wizard, "Do I have the pleasure of meeting
The Dominator?" Dom Zarro smiled and replied, "It has been many years
since I have been called The Dominator! Please call me Dom." The
other said, "And please call me Rakk."

Not a day passed before the two gentlemen found themselves on
the court. And certainly, the years had taken a toll on The Dominator,
but still, his Z-slash shot was a fearsome one, as the ball ripped
from the left wall to the right on his serves. And when he happened to
occupy the front of the court, the Z-slash shot kissed the front wall
so slightly and low, it required a dive of desperation for Rakk to
return it. But Rakk had observed the sag of Dom's belly, and used his
old strategy, serving to the right wall, then the left, then the right,
until Dom was gasping for breath, and barely able to continue.

The games continued on a regular basis, once a week, always two days
before, or two days after a father-son game. Rakk was careful not to
wear himself out by scheduling games too close together. The wiles
and sneaks of the wizard paid off when the father had to contend with
the ever-growing skill of the son. The Z-slash shot completely
baffled the son, and every trick that The Dominator pulled out of his
decades-old repertoire transferred over to the father's games against
the son. Months of brutally desperate games passed, and it was as if
the son was not playing his father, but The Dominator.

But time wore on, as it will, and still after months the son had not
beaten his father. Time made his legs lengthen in adulthood, so also
his arms, and it became harder and harder for the father to sneak a
ball past him. His speed and agility increased as fast as his height
and reach, and the grazing Z-slashes had to be ever more accurate for
the father to win.

-------end of part II---------

Identify This

What is this? No idea? Click here

Small Talk

I’ve written about Georgia before; George is his given name. After you load up your lumber you have to pass by George, and wait while he matches your sales receipt to what is in your truck. When he finishes, he snaps the pink copy from the white and hands you the white. As he says, and I know this from experience, he’s not only looking for stolen goods, he’s making sure you leave with all you paid for. However, Concord Lumber didn’t have a guy in a guard box eight years ago, before the men in trench coats helped themselves to half a dozen nail guns.

Georgia is way past retirement age. He works because he hates to sit, and I suspect, because he needs more than his wife to talk to. Unless there are trucks pushing your rear bumper, you can’t say, “Hi” and “Bye.” I don’t even attempt to. We’ve talked about : his garden at home, the flower boxes he maintains next to the guard shack, where I’m working, his truck, my truck, other guy's trucks, driving into Boston ( he’ll never do that again), and so on. Mostly small talk. Today I had more up my sleeve.

I rolled down my window and Georgia asked,

“What’s new and different in your life?”

“Georgia, how do you deal with loss?”

“Lost? When something is lost?”

“No, loss. As in death. When people die, how do you deal with that?”

“You just do. It’s a common thing. It happens a lot.”

“I know it happens a lot, but you’ve experienced more of it than I, so I figured you’d have some ideas. Pearls of wisdom?”

I could see he’d been prepared to roll eyes when I told him I was working in a far off suburb, not to answer this kind of question. But then he began... .

“My father died when he was eighty-six from a heart attack. That’s how I hope I go. My mother took seven years to die. It was agony. But she was ninety-seven, as was her mother when she died. My wife’s sister died last year. She had oldtimer’s disease. She didn’t know nothing from nothing, and I mean nothing.”

“She had what?”

“Oldtimer’s disease. And I think my older sister, Doris, has a touch of that. I was talking to her, she lives in College Park, a suburb of...”

“Somewhere in Maryland...”

“Atlanta. She told me she was having four boys over to play cards. I thought, that doesn’t make sense, so I asked her, how old are these boys? She said, ‘Young fellas.’ I let it go at that and then I called my younger sister.”

“How old is Doris?”

“She’s eighty-four.”

“And your younger sister?”

“I think about seventy-four.”

“And how old are you, Georgia?”

“I’m eighty-two.”

“Jesus, there are going to have shoot you to get you to leave. I didn’t know you were eighty-two.”

“And everything changed at eighty-two. Eighty-one, I was fine, but as soon as I hit eighty-two... . I get tired now, I can’t do as much.”

“Back to Doris... .”

“I told my younger sister about ‘the boys.’ She had asked me earlier if I’d noticed anything strange about Doris, and I told her, yes, but I couldn’t quote anything. This time I could. You know what? My younger sister told me those young fellas aren’t boys, they are dogs.”

“And I bet they don’t play cards.”

Georgia laughed.

“No, I don’t suppose so. They had to move Doris into a ...what do you call it...not convalescent home, but ... .”

“Assisted living?” He didn’t know he was talking to a an expert on the subject.

“That’s it! She was living in a big house, a nice house, and you know what happened when they moved her?”

I could only guess.

“She had a fit.”

Tres Stooopeeed

Two Sundays ago, Rick played his last piano gig of the year. I’d hoped he’d play holiday music, but he did not. Dan, who sometimes joins us, brought his poodle, Paxie. I’m still amazed at how that dog brightens Flo’s compatriots. Everyone wants to hold her, everyone but Lois(seated next to Flo). Lois told me she never had a pet growing up and regretted it, because now, she doesn’t like animals.

Lois taught French in high school and when I told her Dan spoke Frenc, she instantly engaged him in conversation. She then turned to me and said, well, I don’t know what she said, and I told her so. “Dan speaks French. I don’t. ” Lois turned back to Dan and said something about me with the word stupid in it. I know because it was unmistakable - stooopeeed. Dan laughed, I laughed, even Lois laughed. Dan egged her on, “You mean tres stooopeeed.”

Co-conspirator

Steven, innocently, sent me this photo of the Golovcsenkos taken at Mark and Judy's new house. Clockwise: Simon, Annie and Steven, Mark's mother,Judy, Mark, Mark's wife, Judy, my co-conspirator, Steven's brother, Igor and Karen.
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Warm Wishes

Mike,

If you’ve not thought of this already...posting the Q’s christmas pic I think would be great.  Get Jan to tell you where she bought their little coats.  I thought that was one of the cutest cards I’ve ever seen.

_C

Aunt Myrt

Aunt Myrt, Mark Queijo’s mother’s eldest sister, recently celebrated her ninetieth birthday. What to give a woman who must have most everything she will ever need? Click here to view her daughter Lois’s inspired idea, but first think 90 and think pink.

Semi-Formal

Peter and Patti's daughter, Kate.