Fixing big mistakes

The Big Eraser, on the Mall in Washington, D.C.

Today while driving, and then watching the news tonight on T.V. something hit me about all of the political ads.  These people are perfect.  They never make mistakes.  Their opponent makes nothing but mistakes.

No one likes to make mistakes.  But we all do.  Without mistakes, we would not learn how to do things better; to be better.  If we are not making mistakes, we are not trying. 

A personal hero of mine has always been Thomas Edison, the esteemed inventor.   What I love most about him is that he understood his own shortcomings, and worked tirelessly until he solved a problem.  One of my favorite quotes of his is:

If I find 10,000 ways something won't work, I haven't failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is often a step forward.   

I admire Edison for understanding that he had to make mistakes in order to move forward.  While I understand that the politicians have to play to sound bites and that they are trying to paint themselves in the best light, they defeat themselves, in my eyes, by not having the willingness to admit that they have made mistakes along the way and have learned from them.  

Follow up:  I just fixed a typo.  Another mistake fixed.

 

 

Shhh..it's Secret

Artist rendering of Secret Squirrel, right, and his longtime accomplice Morrocco Mole

In his never ending quest to find yesterday's celebrities in today's settings, investigative journalist Jim follows every lead, and leaves no stone unturned.  If you will recall, last week Jim tracked down the former leader of the Gallactic Empire, Darth Vader.  Now going by the stage name of DJDV, Vader is in charge of spinning the viral at a downtown dance club.  Vader is enjoying his retirement from the big screen and finds spinning discs relaxing, yet exciting at the same time.



As promised, Jim is now hot on the trail of one of his favorite Saturday Morning superstars, Secret Squirrel.  It is common knowledge that most animated super hero's are modeled after actual living people.  As a lifelong member of the Secret Squirrel Fan Club, meeting his hero has always been a big dream of Jim's.

Jim's SS fan club patch.

Jim began his quest anew in recent months after reports that the James Bond-esque rodent was in retirement at a local park.  As can be expected there were several imposters trying to cash in on
the famous squirrel.

Jim scoured one park after another until he came across who he thought was the actual Agent 000 of the International Sneaky Service, but as the picture below shows, this was just a street performer looking to steal his fifteen minutes of fame.

Just another Secret Squirrel impersonator.

 After many months of searching, Jim came upon a promising lead.  It seems that S.S had been attracted to the mighty northwest forest of Washington State.  As detailed by an anonymous lead who identity cannot be divulged, it seems that the attraction of larger than normal acorn trees and virtual anonymity was the main attraction for the move.  Leaving the glamor of the spotlight was no doubt a big change for the bushy-tailed spy, and Jim knew that finding him would be an even greater challenge than searching the city parks.

Then, weary from days of endless searching, Jim was in need of a break.  Not even noticing the sign on the restaurant, Jim sat at the center of the oak and chestnut counter and ordered a coffee. Jim was unknowingly nearing his quest (or in layman's terms, he was getting warmer).  The sign on the front of the store was:

 After a couple of sips of coffee, and a bite of nut loaf, Jim took a good look at the short order cook behind the counter.  Sure he had aged, lost his Fez, and was now wearing contact lenses, but Jim still recognized the incomparable sidekick of the greatest spy the woods has ever known.  Although he would not divulge the whereabouts of his old pal, Morocco Mole did allow a brief interview and a picture with our reporter. 

Morocco Mole,left with our reporter

Morocco during his time on the Secret Squirrel Show

 For Jim, the thrill of meeting the best buddy of his childhood hero was unimaginable.  But the search continues.  Stay tuned.

Speaking of Ben...

A couple of years ago, a guidance councilor from a local junior/senior high school called my office and asked for some help.  The school was having a career day for their eighth grade class, and it was this person's job to line up speakers for the morning.  She explained to me that the goal of the school was to provide the kids with an understanding what different career paths they could take.  She was wondering if I would be willing to come in and give a short speech about the building trades, and what opportunities they presented as a career choice.

As she was giving me the hard sell as to why it would be great if I would agree to it, my mind began to wonder what other professions would be speaking that day.  "Mmmm...uh, huh", I kept saying as I was not listening to the sales pitch, all the while picturing doctors, lawyers, astronauts, and great actors such as Ben Affleck speaking before me.  I played out a scenario where the speaker before me would have dazzled the kids with his time traveling machine, and then I would be introduced as, "Now we have the guy that fixes your toilet".  "Mmmm...uh, huh" this was going to be great.

Then I thought, "I bet Ben Affleck can't install a water heater with his fake Bawhstin accent, and his superior acting skills".  I saw Good Will Hunting.  Old Ben didn't even know how to swing a hammer.  And the guy with the time travel machine, fu** him!  Big deal.  I bet he wouldn't know how to fix his boiler if it broke down, and would have to freeze his butt off until I got to his house and replaced the thermo-coupling on his pilot assembly.  Take that science guy.  How do you like me now?

In my zeal of my imaginary competition with all of the other professions in the world, somehow I agreed to do the speech.  I think that I said one "Mmmm...uh, huh's" too many.  In that one fleeting moment, I was going to show all those kids that the trades were the way to go.  About five minutes after the call, Ben Affleck and Bill Nye the Science Guy had left my head and I was left with the realization what I had just agreed to do.

I had taken a couple of public speaking courses in college.  I knew that a good public speaker has to engage his audience.  Get the kids interested in plumbing...what could be hard about that?  Oh well, I had a couple of weeks to think about it, and if all else fails, I would just wing it.  And I was quite sure that I was over the reaction my body had to public speaking in the past.  Imagine taking a nice, long, cool drink of sand and cotton balls, and then trying to speak out loud.  Yeah, I was sure that I was over this.

So I began to think how I would engage the kids in this interesting career path.  My first thought for my speech was to go over the five unwritten rules of plumbing.  They are:
      1. Tight is tight.  Too tight is broken.
      2. Shit does not flow uphill.
      3. Hot on the left.  Cold on the right.
      4. Don't bite your fingernails.
      5. Pay day is on Friday.                                                                                                                         

I could hear Ben Affleck in my head saying, "Yeah, wicked pissah Joey boy.  Funny stuff", so I knew that this approach would be a box-office disaster.  And besides, I never really understood Rule # 5, and Rule # 4 I learned the hard way when I was an apprentice.  Let's just say you never forget the taste of the stuff of Rule # 2.  No, let's leave the rules out of it.

I decided the best way to go was to just wing it on the day of the speech.  After all, these were just kids, and I had been coaching kids for years and was used to speaking in front of a whole bunch of them.   I would ask a couple of questions about plumbing, electricity, and carpentry and these kids would relate.  I would make a few jokes, and by the time I was done I would have convinced an entire class of 8th graders that trade school was the way to go.  And, if there was enough time left, we could all break into the Bill Nye the Science Guy theme song, or maybe watch the Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez blockbuster Gigli.  Riveting.

So the big day came, and I was due to speak at 9:30 AM.  I got to the school at 9:00 and sat in the back of the auditorium.  The speaker before me was a young woman who was a massage therapist.  Ok, so no doctors, lawyers, or Hollywood icons (think: Gigli)  "I got this", I thought to myself.  The massage therapist did a great job.  She had visual aids, was concise, and even told a funny story about her work.  Before I knew it, she was done and I was being introduced.

I am not going to say that my speech influenced a group of 8th graders to not want to be doctors or lawyers.  And I am not going to say that I bombed (much like the 2003 romantic comedy Gigli, starring Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez).  Let me just say that I remember what the sand and cotton ball cocktail tastes like, but I had a bottle of water with me.  I winged off a few funny stories about my trade, and the kids seemed to like it.  I did not bite my fingernails (refer to Rule #4), but the experience was not the most comfortable for me either and I was really tempted to to gnaw on a knuckle or two.

When it was all said and done, I could tell that most of the kids were really not that interested in the trades, or becoming an electrician or a plumber.  And I can understand why.  When you are an 8th grader, you should aspire to be Bill Nye the Science Guy, or a doctor or a lawyer...I did. When you are 13 or 14 years old, you want to be a baseball star, or the first woman President.  You want to be an astronaut, or a dentist, or the first person to fly to Mars.  At that age, you should dream big dreams.

I poke fun at Ben Affleck.  He may not be the best actor, but he is doing what he loves to do.  Ok, so Gigli was a bomb, as were a couple of other of his works, and his Boston accent is so forced that it could make shit flow uphill (Refer to Rule # 2), but he seems to be a good husband and father and is providing for his family in a job that he loves to do.

 In my speech to the kids, my most important point that I made is that you have to love what you do for work, so much so, that it is never work.  You must look forward to getting up everyday (well, almost every day) to go to your job.  Dream the big dream, but enjoy the journey most of all.  And look forward to Friday because that is apparently when you get paid.  

Darth Vader's new gig

                           
                                                         Darth and Jim before the show

Ever since the last movie, Jim was in search of what happened to Luke Skywalker's father.  It took years of searching, but he finally caught up with ol' Anakin Skywalker spinning discs at a downtown club in a city known for it's edgy entertainment emporiums.

As is evident in the picture, Darth still has the helmet head from years of wearing the get-up from his days as the leader of the dark side, but after some time in the sun, he has lost the pasty pale skin tones acquired from years under the cloak zipping throughout the cosmos trying to defeat the Rebel Alliance.

Darth seems to be happy playing the hits and asked Jim to join him behind the turntable booth for a quick lightsaber duel (toys of course).

Jim's next quest is to find his old pal from Saturday mornings, the incomparable Secret Squirrel. Stay tuned.

Rah rah rah be true to your school

I guess for me, choosing the purple school had been somewhat of a letdown for the first five or six months.  That is of course except for the Senior/Freshman dance that they had back in October.  This school did not have a gymnasium for dances, so the cafeteria tables were all folded up and put away for the big night.  All of us freshman boys were lined up along the walls, too afraid to move, and not having a clue what was going on, while the freshman girls and most of the senior boys and girls were dancing and having a blast. 

The purpose of the Senior/Freshman dance was for the seniors to dance with the freshman to help welcome them to the school, and to help assimilate the newbies into the school.  Every now and then, a senior girl would come over to ask one of us freshman boys to dance.  For us freshman boys, meeting a senior girl was even better than meeting a rock star.  Every time one of our buddies was asked to dance, all of the other guys would stand there with our mouths open, then turn to each other and simultaneously say "Wow", then hit each other and laugh like little girls.

When Elizabeth came over and asked me to dance, it was like time all of sudden stood still.  I tried to be cool and say "Sure I would love to", but I think I muttered something that sounded more like "Yabba, dabba, doo".  She grabbed my hand and took me out the dance floor and we danced one quick fast dance.  Well, she danced.  I just looked like I was squishing ants and batting at flies.  I remember not knowing what to do with my arms, and had the incredible need to keep rolling up my sleeves.  Tough to do with a short sleeved shirt on. 

When the song ended, and the music slowed down, I froze.  Do I run back to the wall?  Do I ask for her phone number?  What do I do?  I was sure that she had fulfilled some sort of contract with the nuns by dancing one dance with a freshman boy, and could now leave. But then Elizabeth put her arms over my shoulders, and continued dancing.  I cannot honestly say that I do not remember anything else about this dance with her, except that we talked, I actually spoke articulately.  We talked about the school, and some of the teachers, and we laughed.  Here I was, a geeky little freshman dancing and having a conversation with a senior girl. 

When it was over, she said thank you, and although I thought for sure that I would inadvertently repeat my "Yabba Dabba Doo" line, I thanked her instead, and real words came out of my mouth.  She went back to her friends as did I.  She went back having done a really nice thing, and I went back different than when I went out on the floor.  Yes, she was a senior girl, a rock star,  but in the previous five or six minutes she became way more than that in my eyes.  She became a really nice person, and a friend who continued to say "Hi" to me for months to come as we passed each other in the hallways.  

As I was walking back to the wall, at that very moment, I really did feel that I was a part of this school.  Except for one thing.

In that purple brochure, a special emphasis was placed on the sports history of this school.  For me, the purple experience would not be complete unless I played on a sports team.  So here it was in early March, and I had missed football tryouts, spent the winter watching basketball and hockey games from the stands because I had not been born with the genes that give the talent for either one, and I had been cut from not one, but three baseball teams.

In leading up to tell of my next attempt at athletic glory, I remembered this story about Elizabeth.  I remembered why making a team meant more to me than just playing a sport.  The school had given us freshman the chance to be welcomed by our peers, and for me that really did happen the night of the dance.  I really loved this school at this point, and really loved being a part of the tradition.  I finally understood the meaning of the Beach Boys words: be true to your school now.  I had learned to be able to speak 'non-Flintstone' words to girls thanks to Elizabeth, but now I just needed the lettermans' jacket so I could, as the Beach Boys said, let my colors fly. 

Striking out

The postings for cuts for the three baseball teams went up outside the basement office of the athletic director on the morning following the last day of tryouts.  More correctly, the rosters for the teams were tacked to the bulletin board, and if your name was on one of the lists, you were on a team.  My name was not on the Varsity roster, strike one.  Nor was it on the JV roster, strike two.  Finally, I swung at the Freshman roster and, strike three...yer out.  And there I stood at the plate glass window that covered the bulletin board, and stared in disbelief.

I was young and naive and at first could not understand why I did not even get a chance to show what my best baseball talent was, namely, pitching.  My first youthful reaction was to feel that it was just not fair.  Naturally, it was not my fault that I had not made the team, it was the head coach's fault.  I hit every pitch thrown at me.  I fielded balls in the outfield, and actually made a throw to second base that caught a greedy base runner.  I shagged balls in batting practice.  But that damned head coach never let me pitch, and that is the reason, I concluded, why my name was not on any roster.  It was not fair.

The truth of the matter is that I was young and naive to think I had chance to make any of the teams.  I was a 'walk-on' candidate, trying to roster on what turned out to be a state champion baseball team.  The machine that made that team successful had begun several years before on the baseball fields all across our city and beyond.  Baseball was serious business for the coaches of this team. They coached in the senior and junior Babe Ruth leagues, held camps for Little League players to help develop their talents, and even worked with area college baseball teams to help develop their players talents and abilities.

I had no knowledge of all of these camps.  I had stopped playing Little League years before, and never even tried out for Babe Ruth ball.  No, the reason that I did not make the baseball team had nothing to do with the coach's unfairness to me.  The reason that I did not make the team is that most of the guys that did make the team had been working at baseball for years and had earned their spots on the roster.   The coaches knew these kids and had seen them play, and could fit them into their scheme.  Of course, I did not realize any of this then. 

Part of the beauty of being young and naive though is that you can shrug off adversity and move on to the next challenge.  Next to the bulletin board where my name was most unfairly not listed was a sign up sheet for another varsity sport tryout that was to happen in a couple of days.  I wrote my name down and headed off to science class.  Baseball be damned.  I may have struck out on this sport,  but now I was going to strike out on a new adventure.  I had a new pitch to throw.

Trying out

The brochure was so shiny and you could still smell the fresh ink on the pages.  Pictures of happy smiling people, lots of activities to do, sports teams, history, and pretty girls.  For a kid in the 8th grade, I was mesmerized by the brochure for this great school.  I just had to get in.

At our Catholic junior high, all of us 8th graders were being wooed by the four Catholic high schools in the city.  One of the school was all-girls, and one was all-boys.  The other two were coed.  My choice was clear from the beginning.  There was no way in hell I was going to spend the next four years with a bunch of guys snapping their towels at each others naked asses in gym class.  I was still haunted by memories from grade school of all of my male classmates and I having to swim au naturale at the Boys Club every Tuesday.  Just the thought of repeating the scene of being with a bunch of naked dudes in a swimming pool did not appeal to me (I just realized why I quit the YMCA a couple of years ago).   Besides, this school seemed more like a military boarding school to me, and I just knew that I would not thrive there.

The all-girls school seemed intriguing for obvious reasons, but I did not have the legs for the watch plaid skirt, and I knew that swimming naked just did not happen there, even though I thought about that a lot as a young man, but that's another topic altogether, and this is a PG rated blog.

The two schools left went neck and neck in my decision process for a while, but the purple and white brochure just haunted me.   The mascot for the purple school was a medieval armored horseman called a Guardian.  He looked tough and rugged, and had no interest in naked gang swimming.  The other school mascot was a dude called a Nap who kept his hand in his shirt and wore a cape.  Also, the school colors were powder blue and white.  The choice was clear.  What the hell is a Nap?  Powder blue and white? (I know who Napoleon was).

I wanted nothing more than to play on a varsity sports team in high school.  I wanted to earn my varsity letterman jacket and wear it all year round, and hopefully get my picture in next year's school brochure.  I understood that as a freshman that I probably would not make a varsity team, but I was willing to pay my dues by playing on freshman or JV teams.  I was just a lanky thing with arms and legs that looked like car radio antennas, but I was determined.

I went to the athletic directors' office the second day of school, which was located in the basement of one of the buildings to inquire about football tryouts.  He told me that they went very well ... about two weeks ago. He said that if I wanted to try out for water-boy there was a sign-up sheet. 

The next chance to make a school team would be in November.  Basketball or hockey.  I can't dribble, and I can't skate so it looked like I was going to have a chance to bulk up all fall and winter, and ponder if being a Nap really would have been all that bad.

Baseball tryouts came in early March and I was ready.  I had played for my grammar school, and in Little League.  I knew the game, and could pitch fairly well.  I had learned to throw a curve, a slider, and even had the beginnings of a knuckleball.  I learned from my brother's friend who was one of the great pitcher's for that all male high school that I had mentioned before, and had gone on to coach for that school.  There were three baseball teams having tryouts; varsity, junior varsity, and a freshman team as well.  I though that even if I could not compete with the sophomores, juniors, and seniors for varsity or JV, I could surely make the freshman team.

There were no ball fields at my high school.  We were located on a city block in the inner-city.  The tryout field for baseball was over by the airport, about five or six miles away.  The seniors and juniors hopped into their cars with all of their buddies on the first tryout day.  If you knew one of them, you could hitch a ride.  The school did not provide transportation to tryouts, so unless you figured it out, you were pretty much screwed before you even had a chance to tryout.

Not this kid.  There was no frigin' way that I was going to miss baseball tryouts.  I jumped into a car with about ten other kids.  I knew the guy that was driving from the cafeteria.  He liked to throw food at freshman, and I think he beaned me with a brownie about a month ago.  I pulled my hat down over my face and did not make eye contact with him.  I had someone's cleat digging into my leg, and the guy who's lap I was sitting in seemed a little too friendly, and I thought that I recognized him from Tuesday's at the Boys Club, but I did not care.  I was going to tryout for baseball.

After the first day, it was clear that the varsity team was full of seniors and juniors  I suspected that the JV team was going to be mostly juniors, sophomores, and maybe a couple of freshman.  I set my sights on the freshman team.  The next day, the same scene in the school parking lot happened with everyone scrambling for a ride.  Once again, I jumped in with the Cafeteria Kid and Mr. Friendly, and off to tryouts we went.

For my turn at bat, I hit three of the ten pitches into left center field, two grounded through the middle past the short stop, two up the third base line, popped up two, and fouled one over the backstop.  These pitches were puffballs with no real heat on them, so hitting them was not a big deal.  That said, some kids did whiff.  My confidence was growing.

The Varsity coach lined a bunch of us up and asked what positions that we played.  When I replied "pitcher", I was sure that he would be impressed.  "Why don't you try outfield", he smirked instead.  "Sure coach", I replied hoping that he would like my willingness to do whatever he wanted, and would let me pitch later.


I never got that chance and I did not make the cut.  I was bummed, but I knew that I had given it my best shot.   I realized shortly after that this coach was heavily involved in the Babe Ruth baseball league and knew a lot of the kids trying out.  He knew who his pitchers were before tryouts even began.  He had no interest in some lanky kid with antenna arms.  I was happy for my buddies that made the team, and even happier that I did not have to ride in Mr. Friendly's lap for the rest of the season.

So baseball did not work out.   In my next posting, the story continues with Plan B.   Right now, I need a Nap.  Ha!

The Old Neighborhood Reunion

I grew up in the north end of the city.  There were very distinct neighborhoods with little Cape Cod style or ranch houses all neatly aligned along tidy little streets.  Each house had a single car in the driveway, a mom inside whipping out meal after meal for the family, and a manicured lawn with a dog sleeping on it.
Born during the baby boom years meant that growing up, you were one of about a zillion kids in the neighborhood.  If you came out of the house, and your friends down the street were not around, chances are your friends up the street were.  You always had something to do, and were never alone.

Our neighborhood abutted a huge city park with 400 plus acres of golf course, ponds, woods, trails, and playgrounds.  We had basketball courts, baseball fields, a hand-ball court, a zoo, and many other kid-friendly amenities at our disposal.  We grew up in the city, but with the park, we felt as though we were in the country.  The park was our common backyard, and whether or not you took advantage of it's treasures, it was there as a buffer from living in an industrial city.

The friends that I made growing up in that neighborhood have been friends for life.  We were ushers or bridesmaids in each others weddings, are godparents to each others children, and some of us still see each other on a regular basis.  Many of us that live further apart still call, text, or "Facebook" all of the time to keep up with each others lives.  Even if you were not an immediate friend back then, because you grew up in the neighborhood, you are a friend now. 

A couple of years ago, a few of us got together and decided that it was high time to start a neighborhood reunion.  The first year consisted of mostly our immediate-aged friends.  We met at the golf course clubhouse bar.  We shared some food and drink, and had a great time reminiscing.  We caught up with stories of our kids and laughed about the memories that we shared growing up.

Last year, the party grew.   Two of my best friends organized the event and we had nearly 100 people show up.  All generations from the neighborhood came.  People came from out of state.  People that still live there walked up the street to catch up with old friends.

And this year, it will be no different.  The hall is booked, the mailings, emails, Facebook notifications, and word of mouth is going out.  This year it is my turn to organize the proceedings, and I say the more the merrier.  If you know the neighborhood, have friend there that you want to see and want to take part, email me, Facebook me, comment below, or send a smoke signal and I will get you the details.  It is coming up soon so don't delay.

Get the goat.

Poor Mrs. Lasky.  She just never stood a chance the day that she decided to take on my father.  It really was her own fault for sticking her nose where it didn't belong, but this was always her way, and on this particular day, she just stuck it out a little too far.

I guess a little background is in order.  Before I was even born, before John F. Kennedy was elected President, before there were any highways leading there, my parents rented cottages on Cape Cod.  More specifically, they rented cottages in Dennis Port off of Lower County Road.  For years they and some of the neighbors from home would rent cottages in the same neighborhood on the Dennisport and Harwich town line.  We stayed on Division St., the Donabedian's stayed on Arden Rd., and the Mooney's stayed in different places nearby.

Even though they rented the same houses year after year, my parents and their friends took the annual spring weekend trip to the Cape without us kids to rent the houses.  They would all get rooms at the Holiday Hearth Hotel in Yarmouth, dine out at a few nice restaurants in Hyannis, play cards at night, visit the barren beaches during the day and just enjoy adult time away from the kids.

Every fall, usually between Halloween and Thanksgiving, they would venture again to the Cape, sans kids, and pretty much do the same thing.  They all enjoyed themselves visiting places, and dining out at nicer restaurants than they could do with their broods tagging along.

Our summer vacations were usually two weeks long, and besides beach time, our folks would entertain us kids with go-kart track trips, trampoline rentals, mini-golf and driving ranges, trips to Provincetown and Martha's Vineyard.  And Seaview Playland with "The Barn of Fun" was my favorite place of all.  The barn had all sorts of arcade games with one whole room dedicated to Skee Ball.  There was a mini-golf course and a par-3 pitch and put nine hole golf course.  There were paddle boats and an ice cream shack.  We would have cookouts nearly every night, and on the middle weekend was always the massive clambake and lobster feast.  What was great about this was that we had not only our immediate family, but our neighborhood friends as well.

As the years went by, and as things changed different neighbors came and went.  Kids grew up and no longer spent the two weeks with the families.  As the changes happened, so did our summer rental cottages, but not in a bad way.  You see, while Division St. was nice, it was small.  Our next rental was Easy St., for one year, followed by Lawrence St. where we stayed for probably about three or four years.  Each home was nicer than the last, and were actually year-round houses whose owners rented in the summer.

In 1970, my folks stumbled upon a different house.  Though smaller than Lawrence St., this house on Dexter Snow Road had so much more going for it, not the least of which was that the Swan Pond River was in the backyard.  Swan Pond River is actually a tidal inlet that comes directly from Nantucket Sound and runs through a marsh to Swan Pond.  People up and down the river, and at the pond have small fishing and pleasure boats that they use to access the Sound.

My folks had found their heaven on Dexter Snow Road.  They loved waving to the boaters that ran up and down the river.  They loved feeding the ducks that would waddle up to the deck of the house.  And mostly they loved that their kids would all get together on the middle weekend of the two week stay to visit and have the clambake and lobster feast as we had done so many years before. 

There was only one rule that the owners of this little paradise on Dexter Snow Road had.  No Pets Allowed.
Well, our beagle, Shadow, was hardly a pet.  Mom used to cook her pancakes for breakfast, chicken or steak for dinner, and God knows what else for snacks in between.  Shadow slept in the bed with my parents, and had her own chair in the living room at home.  They would take her out for rides if they felt that she needed to get out of the house.  No, Shadow was no pet and Mom & Dad would have nothing to do with leaving her at home for our two weeks at the Cape.  For years, we hid her as we went in and out of the house, fearing that the "no-pet police" would catch us.

                                          Shadow, on the deck overlooking Swan Pond River

So, on one particular middle weekend, my brother who was minding the house back home decided that our family cat should make the two hour trip to the Cape with him in the back of his '69 Volkswagen Beetle.  Naturally terrorized by the trip from hell, our cat, who had never been beyond our driveway back home, hid the entire weekend in the house.  We all made sure that she did not get out, and she was content to stay under one bed or another.

As all weekends do, this one came to an end on Sunday night.  My sisters and their husbands packed up their cars for the trip back home.  My brother packed all of his belongings and put the cat in the travel cage.  As he set the cage down on the deck to gather some belonging from the backyard, the door popped open and Sandy the cat took off.  A posse was formed, the search party spread out through the immediate area, and Sandy was found hiding under the deck.

This is where Mrs. Lasky comes in.  You see, this little old, nosy lady owned the house across the street from the place that we had rented for years.  She knew all the comings and goings of the area, and we use to joke that she was the watchdog that the owners of the properties hired to keep order with all of us renters.  For years, we had managed to keep Shadow's presence from her, as we never heard from the owners about our little rule infraction.  While we were all searching for the cat, she took notice that we were all calling, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."  Busted.

As we were loading the cat crate into the VW, Mrs. Lasky made a point to wander over to get a better look to confirm the feline contraband.  As luck would have it, Shadow the beagle was gnawing on her rope leash in the backyard at the same time.  Mrs. Lasky, in her most stoic, librarian-ess voice shouted out that there were no pets allowed at our rental home.  With his hands fully in the cookie jar, Dad began to explain the circumstance to the little busy body.  Just then, Shadow came bolting around the corner, having successfully broken free of her years of backyard exile.  Shocked, Mrs. Lasky exclaimed, "Oh, you have a dog too!"

Knowing that the jig was up, and fed up by years of wanting to tell the little bitch off, Dad let loose with, "Yup, we have a dog, a cat, and *#@$! goat.  Joe, go get the goat!"  The whole family burst out laughing and I will never forget the look on Mrs. Lasky's face.  She stood there shocked by our total lack of concern for her admonishment, and by our reaction to Dad's hilarious outburst.

We never heard from the owners of the property about our pets, and rented the house for a few more years, Shadow included.  We always figured that either Dad's display that day put the fear of God in Mrs. Lasky, or that the owners of the property cared for her nosiness about as much as we did.  Yes, we got the goat that day...Mrs. Lasky's goat.