SEX!

Sgt. Berry Benson, was a veteran from South Carolina's McGowan Brigade, Wilcox's Division, AP Hill's Corp of the Army of Northern Virginia. He enlisted three months before Fort Sumter at the age of 18 and served through to Appomattox. He got around to composing his reminiscences he hoped would go down amongst his descendants for a long time. Reliving the war in words, he began to wish he could relive it in fact. And he came to believe he and his fellow soldiers, Gray and Blue, might be able one day to do just that. If not here on Earth, then afterwords in Valhalla

“In time, even death itself might be abolished. If not here on Earth, then afterwords in Valhalla. Who knows, but it may be given to us after this life to meet again in the old quarters, to play chess and draughts, to get up soon to answer the morning roll call, to fall in at the tap of the drum for drill and dress parade, and again to hastily don our war gear while the monotonous patter of the long roll summons to battle.

Who knows, but again the old flags, ragged and torn, snapping in the wind, may face each other and flutter, pursuing and pursued, while the cries of victory fill a summer day. And after the battle, then the slain and wounded will arise, and all will meet together under the two flags, all sound and well, and there will be talking and laughter and cheers, and all will say, 'Did it not seem real? Was it not as in the old days?'”

        “Memoirs of a Confederate Scout, 1878”

I won't speak of war. I have no experience with it and am unqualified to proffer the slightest view on what battle must be like. But, as all guys can attest, we love reliving the greatest moments of our lives. Whatever they are, and due to being our own memories, they are quite exceptional because everyone regards their distinctive lives to be the Greatest Show on Earth.

And I ain't no different. There never will be another life exactly like mine. And yours won't be duplicated either.

When I look back, I am glad I have been lucky enough to have a list of victories. Victories that to others may seem petty, and to others may seem unattainable. “Ze perspective ist dependent on ze viewer...All ist relative..ya?” is what Einstein would say. It is all relative. What you or I value and what you or I scorn maybe be incredibly different, but we both assign the same emotional weights to them.

If you get a group of forty-something guys together, the conversation may turn around to our telling stories of the feats we accomplished when younger. Yes, some of them are fish stories and become longer and larger with each telling, but there are sincere ones as you can tell by reading the storyteller's face.

We spoke of losing our virginity the other day.

The first girl whose virginity I ruined, along with mine, happened on a blanket under pine trees not two miles from this house. In truth, it was a mutual act. I would never have been able to accomplish this without her concession, and she so willingly conceded as she was in love with me. I was with her, too.

At such a young age, you know nothing as you own not a bit of experience. At that age too, you are unwilling to admit it. You strut before your friends in order to maintain that aura of coolness. God forbid you confess that you are green and slightly spooked by something you've never done before. You are keenly aware of your reputation and know that “good stories” complete the gossip circuit in under eight hours.

By week four of our blossoming relationship, we both knew what was about to happen soon. There's that excitement and trepidation too. “Will I screw this up? Will she laugh? Will she cry? Will she become pregnant? Will she just plain love it? Wow, I'm gonna get LAID!!” I didn't learn till later what thoughts she had about it, they were almost exactly the same as mine.

There's an old saying, “Don't push the river, it runs by itself.” I think we both learned that, or rather gave into that as we became more inflamed. We eventually learned to just let things evolve on their own. There was no “right way.”

I was half hypnotized then really. I forgot a lot of that apprehension due to seeing her lying there nude. That ol' motor was running well on it's own. However, that actual mechanics of docking the Space Shuttle to the Space Station does require some engineering. I couldn’t call down to Houston for any advice!

After a few attempts, I got it. My very first reaction that managed to slice through my intoxicated euphoria was...”Wow...Is that what she feels like in there? I didn't imagine that!” After that, I didn't need to push any rivers, you just flow with it all.

Later on, she admitted to her surprise that she wasn't injured at all. Her worries were of:

“Oh my god! It's gonna hurt! It's gonna hurt! He's trying! It's gonna hurt! It's gonna...Wow...so that's what he feels like?”

We were both surprised in ways we didn't predict.

Who knows how long we lasted...or rather me. I can't remember. It wasn't long HA! When you're sinking and drowning in your “first time,” time dilates and contracts.

Later on, we both admitted that the discoveries we made about one another, were the real lesson and fun. Still, the whole thing was a garden of delight, one that I'd relive in an instant, with all the silly fumbling and newbie mistakes.

So, how's that, tying a Civil War memoir to virginity? Ah, reading the book just reminded me of all those little victories we all have. My telling you of my victory of convincing my Dad to buy me a BB gun may come across as boring, but mention SEX...and all heads will turn.

In No Real Hurry...

In this heat, I feel I should be dressed in white seersucker with a Mint Julep sweating on a table before me. All the while peering from under the brim of my hat, through the shimmering heat at the lower back 40, knowing it'll be a fat harvest. The kind of heat that stops even the bugs from persevering.

“Marsh Ron, it sho' be fixin' to heat up like the Devil's own!”

“Why raght you are Scipio...raght you are.”

Idle contentment. This first heat wave has forced it on me. I've always considered the Southern mindset to be dictated, in large part, by their weather. You just can't hurry as you must yield to the taxation that heat can impose at will. This observation, is coming from a Yankee who was never further south than New York City. But I can surmise some things, can't I? 

Summer is for lounging if you can pull it off. Torpidity becomes a sought after virtue and a moral one too.

My plantation is about 40 feet by 50 feet, full with crabgrass, Kentucky bluegrass and a huge assortment of sugar maple saplings I've yet to pare down. I have one cushioned wrought iron chair to relax in. By my feet would be my only servant, a panting German Shepherd dog and he is wholly incompetent as a menial and will not listen to me if the mood suits him.

But it's my estate, tiny at it is.

Yesterday, as there was no real way to escape this heat, I decided to sit under my maple and read a book. If I sit still, not think of this heat, it will cease to have much effect upon me. I have copious books to choose from and the problem is that I've read them all three to four times already. But I do that, you know, re-read them.

I found my old copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion. It's a great read of late 60's and early 70's California. Apt enough, the first chapter goes on to describe the hot Santa Ana winds and of a local murder. She describes well the hard bitten desert life these people live. She ties in the murder, the divorces, alcoholism and general ugliness of the people to the inhospitable climate. I then wondered if all the shootings in Providence are a prelude to a long, hot summer, with more gunfire to come. Well, not on Tara, not on my homestead I say to myself. I hope. Though they can still burn Atlanta you know.

Occasionally, I close my eyes, rest the book on my lap. There is little sound save for the wind in the trees, and perhaps the occasional sound of a jet curving over Seekonk to make it's approach to TF Green. That hot noon stillness was barely interrupted by a car I heard pass by, and that muted as well.

In time enough, I found myself stretching further and further out in the chair, taking longer breaks from the book. I finally nodded off during one. An hour, perhaps two floated by without my knowing really. I came awake, with the dog chewing on two by four that's meant for that purpose. He just looked up, noticed I was awake and went back to his job. I swear I felt as if I was asleep for just 20 minutes. No. I was out for a good two hour when I finally went into the house and saw the time.

That...was an excellent use of my time yesterday.

5:48 AM

“The early morning has gold in it's mouth.”

--Benjamin Franklin

He's right. I agree with Ben about this but not because I can be productive. I agree because the morning, this particular morning, opened up beautifully. I have tons of free time now and I don't have to get ready for much of anything save the occasional early dental appointment. I do get up early because years of doing it have stuck with me. I find it hard to sleep in as I regard it as a waste of good time, even if nothing is on my calendar.

Today, I opened my eyes, rolled over and saw it was 5:45. I was lying there wide awake and thought, “I might as well get up.” I get up, push the excited dog out of the way to turn off the a/c and get into my usual summer dress, tee shirt and swimshorts. I then opened the door to my bedroom and stepped out into the hallway, and I was hit with a wall of residual heat from the day before.

I pass by the thermostat and wonder just how warm is it at this time? It was 82 degrees in the living room. Wow! I thought to myself, it's not going to take much to climb fast today.

I go out by the kitchen door, with the dog bounding out into the backyard and I smell that summer morning air. There is nothing like it and it never lasts more than a couple of hours. As I step into my backyard, I am blinded by the low rising sun that's already heating everything it alights upon.

I sit down on a crappy lawn chair I own and watch the dog bounce around the yard, sniffing here, peeing there and I see that golden light that slants through the trees, fences and spider webs. I can be one of those people whose surroundings can effect my mood. Then again, who isn't like this? So, I'm sitting there, looking around the yard feeling pretty damn good about things. There is nothing special about June 21^st, except it being the first day of summer; and that would've been missed by me had I not looked at the date. Still, I managed to have that elusive pleasure that never can last more than a few hours. True, it's short, but I'll take it.

These summer mornings aren't dead quiet like a November morning can be, but it feels quiet. The birds are chirping away, the bugs are buzzing and I can hear the distant, dull roar of Route 95 that's about two miles from me. But, even with this noise, it feels as if it belongs.

And what's to come, since we're not into the Dog Days, are the morning ground fogs. Those I like as they seem to be conjured by some unknown force. In Pawtucket, we can't get those really thick fogs you see a mile to the east in the thick woods of Rehoboth. Here though, about 20 feet up into the trees, you can get that layer of mist crawling along like an unhurried stream. They never live long, as the first hour of sun will make them vanish before your eyes. All mists, and everything about a morning, vanishes in time. 

 

Carpe Diem! Grab it while you can!

Stupid Me vs Smart Me

Weeks can pass by, and most experiences are pretty mundane and repetitive, but on a rare occasion you get one that is completely new to you. I had one I can add to my list.

I'm not sure if any of you have had skipped heart beats, extra ones or ones that seem like it's tap dancing away. I have had them since childhood and they were very infrequent. There were times back then where I'd feel this long lasting “whummmmp” in my chest and my heart would return to it's regular beat. You'd think it was getting bored with the same 1.2/4 measure and decided to change things up a bit.

So, late in this past May I'm lazing about the house when I get them again. “Oh, it's back...haven't felt that in a while.” I say to myself. But this time they decided to take on a different beat. They didn't stop but kept up in frequency.

As the late afternoon wore on through the night, I was starting to get worried as this hasn't happened before. By 2 AM, I'm sitting on the couch, afraid to go to sleep because I didn't want to shut my eyes and “wake up dead” the next morning. Also, I had the phone on the lamp table, waiting to hit 911 if things really took a dive.

All this time I had the typical male conversation with myself.

“Ahh...You've been through this before, it always goes away. Relax. Don't freak and make it worse and it'll calm down.” This was said by the Bad Guy Angel on my shoulder.

On the opposite shoulder, the Good Guy Angel said:

“Idiot! You're an unmarried, very single guy who lives alone with a dog. You know what type of decisions you guys tend to make when it comes to health issues? REAL BAD ONES! Get your ass to the hospital!!”

So, after a few minutes of my grappling with myself, I go. But part of me was pissed off because I was going to the ER on a Saturday night with all the other loons, drunks and shooting victims.

I put on cleaner, nicer middle class clothing, comb out my hair and wash my face to make a decent impression. I know, I worked in healthcare and patients are judged! Showing up looking like you live under a bridge doesn't endear you to the medical staff at all.

I arrive at the reception desk and the girl there takes my name and complaint.

“When did this start to happen?” she asks

“Uh...I guess around 4 PM.” I answer

“...and you're showing up now?”

There are Mom's everywhere ready with the sarcastic comments.

So, rather quickly they get me on a gurney, shirt off, pants legs rolled up to my knees and they wire me up with god knows how many electrical contacts. While they were doing that, I feel a stab in my left arm as another nurse is drawing blood. And on top of that I get a dozen questions from another one about..everything.

Soon enough the Dr comes in, reads the EKG and asks me several questions. I answer “no” to all of them. She looks at the EKG again and says...”There's nothing wrong with you...This isn't the profile to any heart attack I've ever encountered.” With that she ambles off to the next patient.

So I lie there...wondering what the hell is wrong with me then.

So I wait and wait and become real bored. I start to pay attention to my surroundings so I can be entertained by the other patients that the Pawtucket EMT's are bringing in. They stop near my room to check in with the Dr. One funny moment was when the Dr approached one patient and says, “Whoa, I can smell him from here...just how drunk is he?”

The EMT says, “Oh, he's WASTED...we found him on the sidewalk down by Division St.”

“Room 4” the Dr points too...

Fifteen minutes later another gurney stops by my room, the same Dr comes again to get that triage report.

“There's a 60 millmeter long laceration on the lower left calf..and um..what looks like a pistol whipping on the head. I counted about 20 individual abrasions..”

All the Dr says is...”Sigh...put him in Room 2!”

By dawn she comes back to me and in a more affable mood to talk. She tells me the EKG did record those extra heart beats and she says, in her best opinion, “They're just palpitations, they're pretty benign but can feel very shocking. You'd be surprised at how many people get them. Do you drink caffeine to excess? Do you get wound up fairly easy, kind of frenetic?”

“Uhh...well...I do like...” and am cut off before I can answer.

“Excess caffeine can ramp up your adrenalin you know. That's a sure way to get extra beats.”

It's fun having parts of your personality laid out on the table by someone you you've never met before. 

I'm then taken off all the wires and such and told to go home with an appointment with a cardiologist for the future, just to be sure you know.

On the drive home the two angels appeared on my shoulder.

The Bad Guy Angel says: “Oh, nice move jerk, you've lost a night's sleep. You know you're going to lose the better half of this day zonked out. Next time, run to hospital if you get the sniffles!”

The Other One tells me, “Great decision...most guys in your situation would be found dead 48 hours later, with your hungry dog munching on your ankle.”

I Need a Butler...

I don't get sick a lot, thank god. But when I do I can turn into a little kid. But hey, I'm male. You girls have to deal with pain on a regular basis and learn how to cope with it. Us guys? We can tolerate a laceration on our arm 5 inches long or say a good thwack to the head, but if it's some low level, grinding chronic misery...forget it. We're “tough” because we can tolerate a huge amount of acute, instant pain, but not the day after day variety.

I can thank T.L. For coughing his brains out last Friday while were playing Trivia. I sort of wondered then if I'd catch it. Well, no need to wonder now. I knew there was something wrong when I woke up two days ago with that sore throat, which in hours shot up my nose, into my lungs and felt like it settled into every muscle in my shoulders and thighs. Ugh. It's still surprises me how your own immune system can make you feel like crap. It's in the process of slaughtering ten's of thousands of viruses and while doing battle, it's beating me up as well.

The problem here is that I live alone with a dog. There is no one to do the daily work around the house when I'm laid up. Today, I woke up early to take the dog out, fed him and whatnot and then promptly went back to bed. Dishes in the sink? So what. Dog track mud onto the kitchen floor? Screw it, I'll clean it up later. Perhaps MUCH later.

Here's a funny (and I don't mean to be gross) story about being sick. When I worked in the nursing home, I got to try out the latest version of the Norovirus at times. At that time there were 80 genetic variants and you have to try each one on before you get immune to them all. If you've never had it, you don't want experience it. It won't kill you in the least but you swear that you are dying. It makes you feel you ran a Marathon, puking the whole way.

I came home from work one night and for some reason, I just sat down at the kitchen table and rested my head on it. I was dead tired but so much so I didn't question why. I just fell asleep there. At 10 pm, I woke up, sitting there, sort of half dazed from being so wiped out and I started to feel that grumbling in my stomach.

“Oh no...oh no...I can't have it...can I? It's sickened patients at work now, but do I have...” My self talk ended quick as I had to run to the bathroom.

I made it, but with my head nearly into the toilet bowl and puking, I thought this to myself.

“OH SHIT..I HATE THIS...I HATE THIS...AND NOT ONLY DO I HAVE THE NOROVIRUS, THE 2000 FLUSHES CONTAINER NEEDS TO BE REPLACED!”

Ugh...nice time to find out the 2000 Flushes canister in the top tank was empty.

For the next three days, nothing got done in my house. I managed to take care of the dog but barely.

These past few days are like that. Nothing has been done. But thank god it's not the norovirus.

Quaint, But Pull Back the Curtains...

Last night I sat on the phone with a friend who gave me places to type into Google Earth. I read off some street names, pull up pictures and this helped him trip down memory lane. The places he named off very few know about and in the real sense represent frontier towns.

Happy Valley, Labrador , Argentia Island New Foundland, Renazzo Italy are a few of the very out of the way points he'd want me to find.  After describing a Renazzo building he says, “Oh Wow! You can see that building? It's where my cousin Luca grew up in! Damn...it's still there!”

These tiny hamlets had a population of under five hundred when he visited them. After forty years or more, the community may have have doubled in size. He also mentioned the strange nature these small towns have.  There are disturbing locals, the rampart alcoholism, drug use and the incest he found common throughout the world in these tiny locales.

One of the creepiest towns he visited was here in the USA. Eastport, Maine. It's the last fishing village along the coastline of Maine before you cross into the border of Canada. As of today, it may have 1,000 people now.

Eastport, along with St Andrews in Canada, which is just over the border, both celebrate the 4^th Of July and Canadian independence with a week long party. Each year too, the US Navy will send a representative ship to dock in Eastport in commemoration of this. The Navy bridge staff will meet with the local politicians and invite the public to tour some parts of the ship. After the formalities are taken care of, the ship's personnel can get some time off to party with the locals. This is what my naval friend told me what he saw in Eastport.

Along the wharf of that town, he saw about six to eight Passamaquoddy Indians circled around a blackened 55 gallon steel drum, filling it with wood, garbage and whatnot, then setting it aflame. Not too long after that, theses Indians were passing a large bottle firewater amongst them. He said they looked pretty rough looking and greasy due to probably not showering in days. He was told the Indians and locals don't mix too well together and to stay away from them as much as possible. My friend made the stereotypical quip that these drunk Indians eventually started whooping it up and singing.

The whites on that peninsula looked like your typical Americans, but were either stoned to the gourd of showed the scars of years of drinking. I mentioned to him how can someone drink that much for so many years. “You can't Ron, but they can.  Think about it. What is there to do when your stuck out here, 100's of miles from the nearest decent city?” “All these small towns do is eat, drink, do drugs and try to fuck one another...and that means your sister or cousin is fair game too...there just isn't enough other, different people. It's an island all to itself!”

At a formal dinner aboard the ship where they invited the local politicians, some of the better off families, he was asked by the Lt Commander and Captain if he noticed all the people in town had nearly the same last name.

“B. so far, I've counted five family names...have you noticed this?”

B answers..”Yes, and did u notice they're all flaxen blondes with the blue eyes? Think about it, five family names to about 600 people in this port.”

B goes on to tell me these same families have been mixing the same genes with one another for over 100 years.

The other point he brought up, and it's not specific to Eastport, were the strange personalities you run across in small towns. He had met this woman who was one of the local dealers of pot there and went for a ride with her and her brother to get stoned. This was when they didn't drug test bridge officers or the enlisted on Navy ships back then. She pulled the car into some wooded grove away from everyone, lit up a few joints and they passed them between each other. After the stone began to take effect, he tells me the brother in the back seat started to moan and groan, shake his head back and forth all the while rubbing his crotch. The sister said..”Oh don't worry about him, he always does this when he gets high...been doing that since he was thirteen.”

“Perhaps we should get back to town.” B suggested and getting a bit worried.

“Ron, he creeped me out, but what was even weirder was his own sister dismissing what he was doing.”

He went on. “Ah, I should not have been surprised, you find this stuff in every small town no matter where you are in this world.”

“It's no wonder Stephen King managed to come up with so many bizarre people in his novels, he lived with them! He's writing from direct experience!” This may be very true!

B told me a lot of these people tend to stay in their home towns, or the kids try to flee and start a new life but end up coming back. Not too many reach escape velocity.

“Alot of these small towns, you grow up in them, get a shitty education, have no real other skills besides fishing and even lousier skills when it comes to dealing socially with other people elsewhere as you have NO experience with different people. It's no wonder why they can't compete with others in the city and come running back.”

I've seen some small, quaint fishing villages on the New England coast, but I never then thought of weird factor that may be in each one. Then again, I've never been to outpost towns in Labrador or Greenland nor lived with them and learned of their apparent strange homelife either.

The Neighborhood

What to write about..what to write about...

I'll try not to make this heavy. I know, I know, I can pack these little stories fat with information and then try to generalize it to a higher plane, all the while making every sentence as rich as a double cheesecake made with caramel. It's not easy to chew or digest.

This problem occurs because if you put me in front of a keyboard and a blank page, I flashback to my college days, with it's term papers and get too damn serious. You have to get that A somehow, someway.

So...here's a summer memory I was witness too a while back.

Our family was not the type to have screaming arguments the whole neighborhood could enjoy. Sure, there was friction, but it was handled discreetly.

We did know a family who didn't give a rat's ass who heard them though.

Tom wanted to play football and was searching all over his house for it. He was then starting to blame his mother for hiding it as she used to complain about us tossing it in the driveway. There were many times the ball slammed against the side of the house with a good WHUMP and that got mom to shriek at us for it.

Tom kept looking and complaining, spitting invectives at his mom who was now getting visibly pissed off at being accused of purposely hiding it. Finally Tom storms out of the house with us in tow, shouting back another insult to his mom for not even trying to help.

As a parting shot to her own son, she says...”If I do find that damn ball...I AM going to hide it on you!”

Then Tom snaps back at her...

“If you do find it...I want you to shove it up your ASS!”

____________________________________________________________________________

Here's another battle story from another summer...

Chuck, I and a few others were lazily wasting away another summer evening on the sidewalk in front of Mr Page's house that was directly across from mine. When your 13, you're allowed to flagrantly blow away your precious youth.

We were bored. We were standing around, talking, bragging, kicking patches of sand and grinding the weeds that pop up through the sidewalk with our feet. Chuck then decides to grab a lower branch of Mr Page's dwarf maple tree and hang there, slowing swinging himself to and fro when we heard this loud crack.

Chuck didn't fall far but in his two hands was that lower bough of the tree. We all looked at one another in surprise and Chuck just tosses the branch onto Page's lawn like a used Dixie cup.

This brought Mr Page out in a hurry.

“What did you do to my tree? Who are you?!” he yells to Chuck

Chuck, treated all adults and teachers with contempt and he was a real smart mouth as well back then. So he answers Mr Page with a...“Nothing...it's just a branch..it'll grow back...what are you worried about??”

Mr Page became incensed. This little punk just damaged his tree and told him, in a way, to stuff it.

Page could get pretty red faced when angry and he goes on...

“Grow back....? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON MY PROPERTY!!”

Chuck, being oh-so-cool and the delinquent he was, says.

“Hey..it's a Free country...”

“A free...?” was all Mr Page said before he took after Chuck.

Now, Mr Page to us 13 year olds looked like he was about 70 and near death anyway. In reality, he was in his late 40's, gray haired and a bit obese. But in our eyes he had one foot in the grave.

I've never seen a old fat man run as fast like Mr Page did. I thought out of shape sluggards couldn't move quick. He took off after Chuck like an Olympic sprinter. So did we, we weren't going to miss this entertainment at all. Chuck., ran as fast as he could as well and nearly made it home when Mr Page managed to cuff him with his hand, unbalance him and send him crashing into the sidewalk.

Mr Page then grabs Chuck the scruff of his tee shirt and starts dragging him home. Chuck was dirtied and dripping blood from the side of face and crying now.

Chuck's Dad, came from his house after hearing all that commotion and started defending his son, right or wrong to the consternation of Mr Page. I suppose a neighbor slamming your own kid into the ground might cause you to take issue with that.

So after some yelling and “I'm gonna sue you you sonafabitch” Mr Page finally went home and Chuck's Dad was smacking him as he pulled him into the house.

There are some dull, lazy summer evenings that unexpectedly put on a nice show!

Roller Coasters and Bitches

It's been a long while since I've been to an amusement park, let alone one on the level of Six Flags. Unlike work or refinishing a floor, you don't ordinarily sit down and plan fun. This time was worth it though.

The first ride we got on was one of the best/worst. This thing called Goliath pulls you up 120 feet. For a few seconds, you look at the Earth below and feel your body weight “falling” into the restraining straps as you stare down twelves stories. It then drops you straight to the ground till the point you think you're going to go splat, then the rails holding the car whip around to pull you out of that dive with G forces that slam you into your seat. I was grunting to that pressure. Also disorienting is not realizing just where the hell I was as the world kept spinning this way and that. The more fearful feeling is where the rails aim you at the ground or at a tower near you and you swear to God you're going to smack it.

But you don't.

Then it all comes to a fast halt and you are where you began, but your heart it pounding and for me, I was panting like dog. Then you climb out of the ride with wobbly legs and wanting to do it again.

There was one ride I wanted to try but my scaredy-cat self said NO NO NO. It looked like a reverse bunji jump. Two large cranes 200 feet tall YANK you up and let you bounce around like a you're attached to that elastic. The G forces claimed on that ride approaches five times those of gravity. The Space Shuttle doesn't give you that much I'm told. Had I done that ride, my neck would've been gained an extra inch from being stretched.

Other than getting a near whiplash or minor concussion...it was a fun day.

____________________________________________________________________________

The Today Show gave me an idea to talk about. Spoiled rotten girls.

Ann J. (her name barely changed) was in my grammar school classes of long ago. She came from a home that was slightly wealthier than most of ours and we were all made to know it too.

Grammar school lines everyone up for everything. Line up for recess, line up for lunch, line up for the weekly trip to the library and on and on. I've seen Ann fight with the girls who were in the front of their line and sometimes ours when mixed.

“Hey! I was in front! Move it! You took MY spot!” some poor sap would protest after Ann cut in.

And then I remember this from Ann J with that Nelly Olson sneer on her face.

“I'm supposed to be in front!!”

“Supposed to be...” Wow, talk about entitlement.

I ran into Ann a few years ago at the Stop and Shop in Seekonk. She never changed. As we were talking, she made sure I found out the roof on her house was being shingled with wooden staves. 

Now curious, I ask: “Where do you live?”

And she answers that with a dripping satisfaction: “Well, we live on Cedar Hill Terrace now.”

Cedar Hill Terrace in Seekonk is an admirable street to live on to tell the truth. It's not the best, but it is very nice.

I almost wanted to say to her.

“What's the matter Ann...you're not wealthy enough to live in the Hamptons on Long Island?”

I didn't. But I really should have said it...in the same manner she punked us all off in fourth grade.

****

I went to Saint Ray's in Pawtucket. Saint Raphael Academy I should say, god forbid I speak of it in common terms! The school back then was a quasi-religious/quasi-prep school. I say that because the De LaSallian Brothers in the late 70's, for the most part, were liberalized to hell. There were a few notable exceptions to that and it'll come up as I continue.

Imagine this though. No, don't. Because I was there when it happened. St Ray's requires you to attend at least two religious classes per year. They're mostly designed to get your Confirmation finished. Anyways...A Brother (that's what you called them) ran a “Christian Action” class and he started the semester's first class off with this.

“Look, We're going to be talking of Jesus, the Catholic religion and how you and the world should fit in it.”

There's a pause...

“For those of you who don't really believe in all this stuff...I can understand...So just listen, do well on the tests and there won't be any problems whatsoever.”

This coming from a Brother who attended colleges, took vows and spent time in foreign schools as per his mission before returning to the United States.

This is how liberalized the Church became in our Parish by 1980.

Wow, I'm really getting off topic here...I was supposed to be telling of spoiled brat girls. Please hold on as I get back to this.

Sorry. I have to add this tangent. You know why I like telling stories such as this? No one can interrupt me as I do. You just try to tell a story that requires more than 90 seconds of attention to a group of LIVE people and either their Adderal wears off or someone in the group, for fear of losing the spotlight, will cut in with a comment or story of their own to regain that desperately needed attention.

Ok, I'm done.

Soooo...I was sitting in the front row of a Chemistry class that was run by one of the very few CONSERVATIVE, BY THE BOOK, OLD SCHOOL Brothers when Natalie (another barely disguised name) goes up with her corrected test in hand to talk to this Nazi Brother.

When you sit in the front row, you constantly see this, kids going up to talk to the teacher about a test, an assignment or god knows what. You tend to ignore it as it's just boring drivel after a while.

But Natalie...gave all of us some entertainment that morning.

Let me flesh out Natalie.

She was one of those cute girls. A sex kitten type with those eyes that can open doors and make the boys carry her books up eight flights of stairs and buy her lunch after. She knew it and played it flagrantly and openly. She was very confident in her skills and didn't reign them back in any discreet way. She used her cat shaped eyes and innocent/slut ways like a club.

She never cared for me as I didn't get suckered by her technique. I was of NO USE to her then.

So, I'm sitting in the front of the class just hearing bits of Natalie's conversation to Brother Himmler. I overhear some consternation on her part for failing the test, just bits and pieces mind you, and not quite the entire conversation. And then, I hear the Brother shout out this to her face.

“I don't GIVE A SHIT who you think you are or who your “Daddy” is! YOU never studied for this test and YOU failed it...GO SIT DOWN!”

Natalie sheepishly and without making any eye contact with anyone, slinked to her desk, sat down and didn't utter a sound.

I knew then what she tried to do. She really couldn't use her sixteen year old female sexual power on a religious Brother, so she tried to manipulate him with her “well standing family” and status to get a better grade.

Brother Heinrich wasn't having any of that...

Living Fairly Fat Off My Ancestors

“When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.

People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying school masters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years.

And above all -- we were wet.”

….and another quote...

“...you, the privileged, the chosen, the pampered, with nothing to do but go to school, hang out, do a little studying, go to college, get into a money-making racket, grow into your fat forties, still whining, still complaining, when there are millions around the world who'd offer fingers and toes to be in your seats, nicely clothed, well fed, with the world by the balls.”

*****

I read Angela's Ashes when it came out. I didn't identify with it at all, even with being third generation Irish. How could I? I wasn't born and grow up in a rainy slum. I could identify with the culture, the drinking and the Irish mindset at times though. That, I was introduced to.  I also know I am Shanty Irish vs the Lace Curtain kind when it comes to breeding.  What does that mean? Well here's an old joke to detail that a bit for you.

What's the difference between Shanty and Lace Curtain Irish?

Lace Curtain Irish wash their hands after pissing in the sink.

Other than that. I'm Irish mostly through my looks. Snow white hair by thirty, pie faced and slightly bandy legged that can give a an odd gait at times. Years ago, while in a Misquamicut bar by the beach, my friend and I were talking to an older local who kept saying I was Irish as “Paddy's Pig.” I had to ask in what way as I didn't know what that “look” entailed. “Jezzus boy! Go look in the mirror!” I was told.

Ok, so I'm connected to the Green Isle via genetics.

Luckily for me, I never inherited the DNA for drinking my guts out. That I'm grateful for.

There is one thing I can agree with McCourt. He did remind me of how damn good I have it when compared to the rest of the world. Even though I don't live in the Hamptons, have ownership of a Rt 128 biotech firm or have hit the lottery, I ain't doing bad. When compared to some in El Salvador, I live like a King.

And yet, like McCourt mentions, I still bitch. I wish this or that would happen. Or I wish this or that didn't happen. Or I get annoyed with some aspect of my house, leisure time or life and I make changes to that, only to repeat that again with some other feature in the future.

Never totally satisfied...

You do this too you know!

So, it's nice being reminded that in comparison, life doesn't really suck at times.

Falling Into Place

I swear June and September have the best weather at times. I get up this morning and when I stepped outside there was that perfect air. There was a nice dry and cool breeze tossing the leaves on the trees some. It sort of reminds me of that languid motion of the reeds in rivers, slowly waving left then right.

You know the day is going to turn out pretty well since your mood has been set on “ahhh!”

I like agreeable surroundings...and who doesn't? You need the right features and some came together this morning. Not only is the air perfect outside but in this house as well since I leave the windows open quite a bit during the summer. Add to that the wafting of the curtains and an old Walter Egan song playing on WCIB 101.9...and things fall into place.

That scene is one of many that can just fit just right without any effort.

If live in a congested city or a packed suburban neighborhood like I do, you understand the front steps are a veranda. Last night at 1 AM I drive by Jack's house and see he's out on his steps so I stop by and sit down to shoot the shit for a while. There was nothing of import to discuss as the conversation drifted from local gossip, to Curt Schilling and other nearby news. This lasted to about 2:30 and the air was still warm enough to tolerate being out that late. What's nice is that we weren't the only ones up. I could hear sounds drifting from other houses. I could hear someone listening to a repeat of the French Open, another was clanking their dishes in the sink. An occasional car full of teens would drive by slowly, not interrupting that calm.

And finally I go home. I do those things we all do to tie up the house for the night. I finally crash into the bed and there's that one last look at the curtains waving in the window, glowing to the moonlight.

I guess the other three seasons provide these moments, but summer is the king of them all!