Public Relations!

For those of you who do not know me personally, I dye my hair. Oh yes, this blog is going to be full of bombshells! Anyway, I’ve been dying it since I was 25. I found my first gray hair at 19 and I was 50/50 salt and pepper when I was 25. Ugh, I inherited my Mom’s genes. Every male on her side of the family went totally gray by 30...and I’m another.

Sure, it was out of vanity I started coloring it. At 25, you aren’t supposed to look old at that age. Back then, I used to hang out quite often by the beach near Paddy’s in Misquamicut. Having gray hair very nearly gets you “banned from the beach!”

There is racism against everything. The biases out there are against overweight people, too thin people, where you live is another, what your job may be. Judgment is a constant occurrence and it can change hour to hour. And to tell the truth, I engage in too. You can’t help to size someone up the first time you meet them. Also, your decisions on people you know change as your perception of them changes. The problem with those appraisals is that they may be totally unfair and negative.

“Put your best foot forward!” I heard that one as a kid from my Dad, but he was keenly aware of it all due to his occupation.

I’ve said to those who know me that I don’t dye it for them, I color it for people who don’t know me. You’d be very surprised at how the public treats you if your hair is gray or not.

There are times when I let months go by when I don’t dye it. It gets annoying to lather that goo in as it gets all over everything…and dyes everything else too. The walls, floor, towels and my shirt get to be Clairol #14 as well.

One time at Home Depot several years ago, I had bought two fence panels to fix my fence. My German Shepherd was large enough to gallop and crash through the rotted sections to the rat-dog in my neighbor’s yard. I did not want to explain to the little kids who lived there why my dog ate theirs.

Out in the Home Depot parking lot, I had an easy time sliding the first fence panel onto the roof of my Mazda. The roof was nice and metallic slick. The second panel didn’t go so well. Wood on wood doesn’t slide to well. I was man handling it into place when out of the corner of my eye I see and hear a young man running towards me saying: “Sir! Sir! Let me do that! I can get that up there!”

I stood back as the kid shoved the panel up into place. Now my hair at the time was longish and quite white. I surmised he thought I was far too old to be moving fence panels around. That explains the “Sir” I was hearing. He seemed proud of himself helping me out and I thanked him.

I thought to myself, “Wow, it’s happening once more, I’m 68 again.”

So, at 25, I colored it to keep those too early genes from expressing themselves. I was 25, not “old.” Now, I do it to keep from being judged ready for the old folks home.

Thank God It Wasn't a Dream

I don’t remember many of the dreams I have. Mundane dreams are forgettable. In the first few minutes of waking up, most of my dreams evaporate away. Children dream of monsters, spaceflight or yellow zebras on skateboards. Adults dream of taking the car to the mechanic.

But this morning I had a dream of someone I haven’t seen 27 years. SueAnn D. came back to me this morning.


I met SueAnn at a friend’s home 27 Aprils ago. I never did forget it. Then as now, I can tell you what she was wearing the first time we met. She had on a pink Oxford shirt, white capris and a light brown leather coat. The hazel eyes, dirty blond wavy hair and a delicate face quickly interested me. It’s amazing how guys can be spellbound in a nanosecond; I was.


We piled into my old Chevy Nova for a cruise. SueAnn, Dave and I were crammed into the front seat, with me driving. Rachael and Scott took the back seat and slid all the way down to make out, completely ignoring us.


Sue and I found out we went to the same schools but of different grades. We had a fun time comparing teachers we both had. Dave kept to himself, greedily sucking on a joint and the two in the back seat were hidden under an old, slightly mildewed quilt I kept there.  As Sue and I talked, our eyes met and there was an inviting stare that two people who like each other will give. That stare occurred while driving on Blackstone boulevard in the East Side of Providence. I remember that as well.


Do I spill my mind further? Hell why not.


June is a great month for full moons. They light up the landscape enough to read by. That June moon lit up place here nicknamed “Canada Dry” by we locals. Canada Dry has fields of sand, white pine trees on small hills and much needed privacy. Sue and I were there one June night.


Sex is different for guys vs. girls. We get so lost, immersed and focused that nothing else exists. That night with Sue, I may have gone further. When I was with her then, you could’ve lit off an M-80 near me and I probably would not of heard it.


I thought she looked that pretty that night.


Well, like many of my relationships with girls, it was either her, I , both or our friends who screwed it up over real or imagined reasons. Sue and I never made it past that summer.


I didn’t dream of that particular memory of Sue this morning. What I did dream of was her typing out her college application to Rutgers one night so long ago. And that typing in her room was all it took to have me thinking of her this morning.

Crikey!

I heard a voice I haven’t heard in a long time, Steve Irwin’s. I don’t usually watch TV, but I’ll have it on at times as background noise. This morning I hear, “..’ahlo Bruce’s and Sheilia’s! The CIA drawpped one of they-uh satellites awn Aus-STRILE-ya.”


I lean over to peek around the wall and find out Irwin made a movie I never knew about,
“The Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course.”


One of the funnier moments in Irwin’s life was when he was explaining on Laurer’s Today Show about why he teased his crocodiles with his baby daughter Bindi. If you remember, there was footage of Irwin bouncing his baby daughter on her feet about 15 feet away from a pond of crocs. Of course, Irwin got a ton of shit from doing that.


Laurer, finally asked Irwin “would he have done anything different” if he had known he’d become a world wide embarrassment.


Irwin answers:


“Mite, I’d wish I’d had gawn soifing that die.”


Off screen, you could hear one of the Today Show's cameraman start giggling at that comment. So did I.


Too bad he died. Though it sort of seems fitting he was taken out by a ray. It reminds me of how Sam Kinnison‘s life was ended, considering his life style, by a teen drunk driver.

Teach Them Early and F Them Up!

Israeli Girls Writing Hate Messages on Artillery Shells

This time I have to change the names to protect the innocent.


I used to ride the bus when I attended kindergarten. We’d all meet at the intersection of Mayfield and Evergreen around 7am. There were about eight of us, all in various grades. We’d play there to burn the time, barely keeping off the neighbor’s lawn as we were warned. Two of us there were from the LaSalle family, an older brother and younger sister who was my age of five.


The LaSalle’s lived about three blocks over. Once I describe the house and lot, you’ll immediately get just what kind of family they were. Walking down Constitution street where they lived, the homes were mostly Capes, with small front yards that were well kept, that until you came to the LaSalle yard. The LaSalle’s had no front yard to speak of really. There was no lawn save the open dirt and some ratty looking bushes. The gray bare wood porch leaned far too forward to seem safe to stand on. The house was a faded yellow color that flecked chips of paint to the ground. There were times you could walk by the house and hear shouting inside from Mom or Dad…and then a loud THUMP of something, followed by screaming. You didn’t know what just happened but could imagine it with all your will.


The five year old, Jen LaSalle, was a tiny, skinny girl with an unfortunately too narrow looking face. For her size, she seemed easily breakable. The dark eyes and hair suggested a trace of foreign-like gypsy in her. She wasn’t an ugly kid but she didn’t fit in with the typical Irish or Polish pedigree that was our neighborhood. While at the bus stop, she didn’t speak up too often like the more gregarious kids did. When she did talk, it was usually one on one.


For the time I did know her, Jen had a perpetual, dirty looking cast on either her right or left arm. When asked how she broke it, she had a short curt answer that killed any further attempts at learning why. Being curious, we asked her older brother who confessed that she “fell a lot.” Now, this was 1969, DCYF probably would not be alerted to that. It was true that kids fell all the time then. You’d have to have the burn marks of iron on your chest to get the school or State suspicious.


Jen sported, I swear, the same three potato sack dresses girls her age wore then. It was either the yellow, blue or pink one she constantly wore to school. I suppose her Mom cycled which color to wear every few days. Jen wasn’t dirty but the filthy cast, the same clothing and her barley brushed out wild hair didn’t give you the impression she was all that hygienic either.


Kids, even five year olds, have a pecking order. They ape their parents, older siblings and friends on how to play that game. Kids learn very quickly about the rules that allow you to climb on that ladder, or to push others off of it. Jen and her brother didn’t climb too high on that ladder. Her older brother, being more contentious, had little problem fighting for one more step that many though he was usurping, but Jen rarely fought.


One time at our bus stop, the other girls had learned of something and teased Jen to show her butt. “C’mon, Jen, let us look, c’mon!” Jen protested, “No! Go Away!“ The girls ganged up on her and yanked her dress up, panties down. On her butt and part of her thighs you could see the red marks of a belt.


I usually sat behind her when we rode to school. At most times we didn’t talk too much but my curiosity took over and I asked, “What happened?” She shot around in her seat and said, “None of your business!” She coupled that with snarling face that shut me up. She was still stewing about being pants-ed and ill treated by the girls. As we got to school and got up to leave the bus, she turned around and told me, almost apologetically, “It doesn’t hurt anymore anyway.”


A month later, Jen disappeared from our neighborhood and class. Her brother said an aunt came to get her and was going to live with her from “now on.”


That wasn’t the only family I knew of around here that was a mess.

Tales of the Wily Homeowner

Put, put, sput, put, put….RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! CRACK!



My neighbor is courting his death this morning by cutting down his own huge maple tree.


I once helped a neighbor do that a few years ago. I had stopped by Billy’s to see what the noise was all about. It was coming from his backyard when I see him and a neighbor trying to cut down a maple whose trunk was about three feet thick. So, I had to jump in.


They were using those cheezy Home Depot electric saws, three of them in fact. Apparently all three had chain blades duller than butter knife. As the blade heated up, they’d switch off to the next saw to use.


We were going at it for thirty minutes when a stranger came into the backyard and watched us for a bit.


“Are any of you guys licensed arborists?” he finally shouted.


Tom, who was up in the tree trying to rope off a large bough, shouts down, “What’s an arborist?”


The guy then tells us we are about to kill ourselves due to how we were making the cuts. He then goes to his truck out front and comes back with a “climber’s saw.” What luck we had, a real arborist was visiting his friend across from Billy’s house that morning.


A climber’s saw is a gas powered chain saw. It has a dirt bike engine’s torque ratio and the name on the blade support said, Husqvarna. And yes, there is or was a dirt bike brand name of Husqvarna. The “licensed arborist” explained to me our chain saws we were using were good for cutting twigs. He fires up his monster a digs right into the base of the tree making a v-cut. That took him about 56 seconds to do. He then tell us to yank on the ropes as he makes an opposite “check cut.”


I ran like a scared little girl when that tree started to come down. I swear it was headed straight for us, but apparently the way the guy cut it, if fell off to the side. Where he wanted it to fall.


He told us later that we would’ve dropped the tree onto the neighbor’s fence and their pool had we kept up the cuts we were making. There’s experience for you, and the right tools.


So, I await the sound of someone’s roof crashing in, the shouting and sounds of approaching fire trucks as this guy’s tree comes down today.

My Little Schoolhouse

Patty Hearst,  aka "Tanya,"  Posing with an Uzi for the Symbionese Liberation Army

Reading the story I wrote about my fervent Nixon supporting neighbor reminded me of another ardent politico I knew. This time it was a teacher.

 Ms. Barbados, yes...Ms. She was a mid 20 something fifth grade teacher who ran one of the three fifth grade classrooms in my grammar school. I never had her but knew all about her due to our class being next door to hers. Every other day, we’d hear her screaming at her class over God Knows What. I don’t think she took anything lightly as she treated everything as a fight to the death. Her dark brown eyes had the ability to screw you to the wall. Now that I look back on it, her fervent teaching ways stemmed from her "Revolutionary Zeal."


Ms. Barbados was a fierce, left wing, womens libber socialist. She was the only teacher to wear jeans while teaching and many times she kept her dark long hair under a blue or red bandana. It wasn’t too hard to imagine her in camouflage carrying an AK 47 for Che Guevara. The school’s principal, Valmour Collette, kept wide berth of her.


It was 1975 when I was in the fifth. That year you saw the leftwing was winning wildly. The Woman’s rights movement was exceptionally hot with Helen Reddy and women refusing to wear bras.  In Congress, the Church Committee was trying to castrate the CIA. I can remember a news story of a Congressman holding up an electrically powered pistol, used for really quiet assasinations and questioning some CIA deputy about it.  Also, you saw the continuing rise of the environmental movement. Do you remember that Crying Indian commercial and the polluted rivers?


One day, our class was invited to watch a movie in Ms. Barbados’s class about pollution. We all piled in there, carrying our chairs from our classroom and trying to find a decent spot in front of the movie screen. Before we could watch the movie though, we had to listen to a political speech from Barbados.


She went on…and on…about pollution, the corporations and every other right wing evil out there that was poisoning our precious Earth. When she finally shut up, we got to watch a documentary on sudsy rivers, filthy beaches, and countless shots of smokestacks belching black soot. The move ended it’s tour of Filthy America with a moral saying “It’s about time we ended this destruction of our country.” There was final shot of smokestack being imploded and crashing straight down under it’s own weight. At that moment, the kids who had Ms Barbados as a teacher all started cheering wildly at the sight.


I and the other kids from our class looked around in slight surprise. We didn’t all cheer that explosion. Then again, we weren’t little foot soldiers in the Barbados Revolutionary Force for the People.


I didn’t hate her or her politics. At 10, what real positions do you take on “issues“?  I found her to be a bit intolerable with her strident nature.


There is no way she could get away with that in today’s schools. You can't unbend a paper clip in a classroom today without being accused of making a pointy weapon. And never mind training a classroom of 10 year olds from a copy of Das Kapital.

Wha---?

I had a strange experience the other day. A friend came up to me and asked, “So, what’s the good news in your life?” It was a greeting I wasn’t’ used to.

“What’s the good in my life?” I silently asked myself. I had to search for an answer. Surely I must have some good news. I was stumped.

He then said. “Ha! If anyone asked me that I’d have no answer at all either!”

I swear, I can list all the pain in the ass things that bug me to no end if you asked me. Hell, I have it memorized!

I knew what he meant. He was saying we have a tendency to account for all the bad, and ignore the good in our lives.

"Names Were Barely Changed to Protect the Innocent"

More blue collar comedy from the past…



I remember telling you all of the keg party spot we had. Well, there were others as well, but all situated along the Ten Mile River as was the “back of the Park” one I told you about.


One such spot was Daggett Fields. It was a reclaimed marsh pit built up for little league baseball teams. In the back of it were the woods and river, and plenty of places to set up a keg.

I was not there for this particular story but I was assured by many others that it happened.

Our cast includes an Officer Jainey (a sort of cleverly disguised name) and a John Parker (not so cleverly disguised). It involves a Friday night keg party and small town relationships.

That night Officer Jainey and a another cruiser show up and creep through the woods with their flashlights to surprise the partying teens. The teens flee into the woods. They managed to hide well due to the warren of wetlands that are a bitch to navigate if you do not know them. Jainey and the others can’t pursue them so they exact revenge by stealing the keg, six packs and whatever is worth taking.

After lugging the beer back down to the baseball fields where the cops had parked, Jainey yells back into the woods…

“Hey you little assholes! We got your beer! What do you think of that!?”

To which, John Parker yells out from somewhere in the darkness of the woods…

“Hey Jainey! I’m fucking your daughter!”

Apparently I’m told that Jainey did not need to know who shouted that. He knew exactly who that was. He then yells back:

“Parker! You little fuckin’ son of a bitch, you get your ass out here right now!”
Parker, being too smart for that, just stole deeper into the wetlands and disappeared for the night.


*****


And that’s the latest from Lake Pawtucket-be-gone, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.