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.

So Noah built an ark...big deal.

 I can remember watching my older brother pack all of his gear every February and head off with all the other Boyscouts to Treasure Valley to spend a weekend freezing their butts off in tents that had absolutely zero creature comforts.  He would come home from the trip smelling like a smokey farm animal.  He always said that he had a blast, and to this day reminisces about the winter trip and the annual summer jamboree.  I was never a Boyscout.  I did not have the desire to dress up in a uniform and spend Tuesday nights at our church hall with a bunch of other guys learning how to tie knots, and I certainly was not going to freeze my ass off in some crappy tent in the middle of the woods.  Not this city boy.
I did join the Cubscouts in an attempt to follow in my brother's footsteps.  I can remember that we were given an assignment to make a model-sized boat at home, from scratch, out of wood.  No plans, no instructions, just go home and build a boat.  In order to pass, we had to bring our vessels to the "Cub Den" the following week, and it had to float...and look something like a boat.
The extent of my father's tools at home consisted of a screwdriver that had a broken tip, a pair of pliers that would pinch your fingers when any pressure was applied, and a small hatchet with a broken handle held together by electrical tape, and a blade as sharp as bowling ball. This thing doubled as our hammer too.  Wood?  Well, obviously given that Dad did not have any tools, you can probably understand that there was not any scrap pieces of "hobby building" wood around.
Realizing that I was pretty much screwed, I began scouring around the house for resources.
Hmmm, clothes pins were made of wood.  So was thing that held the basement door open.  Dad had cigar box that was really cardboard, but had fake wood grain paper on it.  Close enough.
As far as tools were concerned, I had the "hatchhammer" to bang in some rusty nails I found in Dad's old 'coffee can of hardware'.  I found a drill bit in there too and used the 'finger-pinchin' pliers to hold onto it while I drilled a few holes in the clothespins and the side of the box.   I used my mother's sewing scissors like a saw by holding them open with one sharp part in my hand, and the other sharp part gnawing at the door holder-open thingy.
I took care of the rickety-fitting parts by painting the whole thing with a thick coat of dark blue, almost black oil-based, molasses consistency paint that my grandfather had used to seal a crack in our foundation.  Naturally, Dad did not have any paint brushes, so I used some cotton swabs that I stole from my sister.  I tried to make-off with a make-up brush, but she caught me. 
I had finished my paint job on the S.S. Disaster on Sunday afternoon.  The Cub Den meeting was on Monday night and when I went down cellar when I got home after school that Monday to get my creation, the paint was...well, let's just say that the palms of my hands turned blue when I touched it.  Ever the resourceful one, I took to drying the paint with my sister's hair dryer (she was still at work).  Not a portable, hand-held blow dryer like the ladies have today.  No, my sister's hair dryer looked like something they used on the Apollo space missions, complete with a hose and the backpack.  I stuck the blue dingy under the helmet, checked with Mission Control, and let that puppy rip.
When I got to the meeting, we all had to put our boats up on the table.  Mike Petredis's ship was a beautiful PT boat complete with JFK's "109" on the side.  Mark Sacco's boat was a battleship with cannons at the stem and stern, and a bridge complete with a U.S. flag.  Jimmy Feeley had a replica of Aristotle Onassis' white yacht with black pinstripes.
And there was my blue righteous refugee raft complete with a cow-catcher door thingy stuck on the front, and clothespins oars sticking out the sides.  Now I won't say that any of my buddies had help with their creations by father's that knew where the Sear's tool department was, but let's just say that I was just a little suspicious.
When it came time to float our boats, JFK would have been proud of Mike's replica, Mark's battleship did perfect maneuvers, and Jimmy's pleasure craft had a happy crew.  When my turn came up, I put the blue box in the sink, and wouldn't you know it, the damned thing floated.  Sure, the water turned a deep rich blue like the Tidy Bowl man had just buzzed by, but the stupid blue box floated and was deemed seaworthy by the Den Master.
Mike, Mark, Jim and a lot of my friends went on to join the Boy Scouts and I am sure that they had great times earning badges and building fires, and whatnot.  Like I said before, the camping thing was just never for me.  My badge of honor in scouting came for me the day my blue cigar box floated just as well as any of the nicer ships in the fleet.  And if you ever tell the Den Master that it was not really wood, or tell my sister how her hair dryer helmet got blue paint on it, I will deny all.

I see nothing. I know nothing.

As I sit here with my laptop in front of me, and my IPhone next to me, while I am watching the Patriots on my big screen T.V., I would like to share an observation, a reflection, and a prediction.
The other night, we took our daughter and son-in-law out to dinner to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.  The kids get out of work later than we do, so we had some time to sit at the bar of the restaurant to have a cocktail, and catch up on our day. 
As people filtered in and out of the lounge, we could not help but notice that all of the twenty somethings could not go more than a couple of minutes without checking their beloved cell phones.  Even as they were having conversations with one another, practically all of them managed to check in with cyberspace every couple of minutes to ensure that they were not missing anything.
One young couple in particular barely looked at each other as they sat at the bar.  Each of them stared into their "life-screens" with that familar blank gaze on their faces.  You know the look.  The eyes are vague and the mouths are open as though they are about to break into an opera overture.  Every now and then, one of them would grunt a syllable, and the other would fein interest and concentration. 
This "time together" was facinating to watch, and while doing so, I thought how disconnected this generation is with what is in front of them in real lives, and more interested in what is happening in their cyber-lives. These portable devices are wonderful tools, but they are also a curse.  No longer are they just convenient telephones that we carry around with us, they are now life lines for us to stay connected to social media, information, and email.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, that I thought about my Dad saying a very similar thing forty years ago about my generation.  Naturally, he was not talking about cell phones, but rather television.  My generation grew up watching television nearly six hours of every day.   Our "cyberspace" was The Brady Bunch, The Osmunds, Hogan's Hero's, Sonny & Cher, The Patridge Family, Charlie's Angels, The Six Million Dollar Man, and so on.  We would stare endlessly into our life-screens of television with the same blank stares that Generation Y does with their cell phone screens.  Dad would like to say to me that my generation was missing out on so much because we spent too much time in front of the boob tube.  Huh?  What's that Dad?  Yeah, I heard you.
So, my prediction is this.  In the near future, Generation Z will not even have to carry around any type of electronic device.  I can foresee there being eyeglasses or implants that will have a constant media blitz of information and connectivity.  Much like Apache helicopter pilots focus their weaponry with their eyes only, these devices will allow us to navigate the internet the same way. 
If I can watch re-runs of Hogan's Hero's on a set of these baby's, then sign me up.  I have to go now, my phone is beeping, the battery on the laptop is about the run out, and the Patriots just lost to the Giants again.  Dad would be so proud.

Fishing for Some Common Sense

I have been giving a lot of thought lately about rules.  We all live by different rules in the many facets of our lives.  We have rules at work, rules at play, rules of the road, rules about just about anything we do.  Go shopping and the rules start the second you hit the parking lot.  Park here, but not there.  Drive in here, and out there.  Get into the store, and there are more rules.  Only three items allowed in the dressing room.  This register for 12 items or less.  Don't squeeze the Charmin.  Rules, rules, rules.
We can all understand that we need rules in order to keep, well, order.  Without rules we would live in a chaotic, dog-eat-dog society.  We need rules to maintain civility, and most rules that are made are just plain common sense to help us live peacefully and in harmony.  Besides, nobody wants their Charmin pre-squeezed.
What got me focusing on the subject of rules is just the blatant lack of common sense that is being expressed in our most important rules of all...our law.  Citing the great  and wise brother of Aristotle, the Philosopher Wikipedia states that, "Law is a system of rules and guidelines which are enforced through social institutions to govern behavior."  To review Civics 101, the laws we all live by are made by people that we elect to represent us, through a process of debate and voting through many levels and approved and ratified by bigger representatives and so on and so forth.  
But back to the common sense thing.  The good and honorable Representative Todd Akin from the "show-me" State of Missouri (pronounced Miz-ooor-rah anywhere east of the Mississippi) came out with the phrase "legitimate rape" and states that in a case of a legitimate rape, a woman's body can "shut the whole thing down".  Now, I am not an expert so I checked with the great and all-knowing Wikipedia, and there ain't nothing legitimate about rape.  Furthermore, if there is a woman out there with these super-human capabilities, well you go get a bright red cape and a mask girl, because the Justice League is in need of a new superhero who is faster than a speeding sperm, and able to stop pregnancy with a single thought.
Obviously, the Esteemed and Neanderthalian Representative Akin covered his tracks when he went on to explain that in the event of a legitimate rape, there ought to be a punishment for the rapist and that the child should "not be attacked".  Oh, well that makes it better.  So just to be clear, in Akin's Mizoorah (which is a spin-off of Dawson's Creek, except that all the guys carry clubs and wear dinosaur skins, and the women wait for the men-folk to bang them over the head with the club), a guy can "legitimately rape" a woman, so that she can get pregnant, carry, and give birth to a child.  Then we punish the rapist guy.  
What's the problem here?  Why is everyone so upset with Akin's logic?  I mean, he covered everything, right?  To review: the rape was legitimate, the wonder of life was protected, the woman got to be a Mom without even having to plan for or consent to it, and the guy got 18 months in prison (actually he only had to serve two weeks with time off for good behavior, and with any luck he was legitimately raped too).
Back to the rules thing, I seem to remember a rule that was made into law back in the 1970's (cough loudly here while muttering "Roe v. Wade") that was based on the 14th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States that gives a woman the legal right to have an abortion.  As far as I know, (and I did check with Wikipedia) it is still the law of the land.  Oh...the woman...that's what Akin forgot about!  I think that the Right to Life and the Pro-Choice people can all agree that in the cases of rape or other violent acts, the woman has rights.  Even Mitt Romney said so, and he knows way more than Wikipedia.
I have always followed certain unwritten rules about how to treat other people that were taught to me by my parents, my teachers, and all those nuns in Catholic school.  No one has to tell me, or any other rational human being, that every and any person has rights as to what happens to their own body.  It is just common sense.  No one has the right to tell another person what to do with their own body.  If we did, I would be the first in line to say to stop face piercings and ear lobe stretching.  Nobody really wants to look at that or finds it attractive.  We all have certain inalienable rights, and if you want to pierce your body, stretch your ear lobes until you can wear them as sneakers, eat trans-fats, drink Dr. Pepper (yuk), or stand in line to go see a Ben Affleck movie, then by all means go do it.
But for the love of God (a phrase that in all seriousness I do not use lightly because the Nuns would be pissed off at me), can these over zealous, and frankly not so overzealous Right to Lifer's just keep it to themselves!  If this is what you believe, then live it for yourself and shut the F up about it.  If you are really that sanctimonious about your belief that any conception is sacred and should be protected by our law, then why don't you adopt all of the children that were conceived from all the legitimate rapes that happen on a daily basis.  Are you not your brother's keeper?  How about keeping his kid around for then next twenty years or so?   Reversing Roe v. Wade will not stop rape.  Did Prohibition stop drinking?
No Americans had more common sense than the Native Americans.  They lived off of the land and respected nature.  They considered all wild things as gifts from a higher source, and knew that they had to take only what they needed to survive.  They respected life in all forms, and never abused the land.  Different tribes would protect their own, and they tried to live in harmony with other tribes.  The Nipmuc Indians from what is now central New England named a famous lake that is located in Webster, MA Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, which supposedly means  "You fish on your side, I fish on my side and nobody fishes in the middle."  I really like that philosophy.  In today's world, we could interpret this as, "you mind your business, I'll mind my business, and nobody do fishy business", or for the right to lifers "you take care of your body, I'll take care of my body, and nobody wants to stand in a long line to go see a Ben Affleck movie".
 In other words, just don't squeeze the Charmin and we will all get along.

Scully's Catch of the Day

Sometimes when things just look too easy and you take your eye off the ball for just one second, BAM!  Everything goes awry.  Not to indulge in a sports metaphor, but in golf this typically happens when a situation just seems so perfect for a great shot, that the golfer, in his eagerness, picks his head up before striking the ball and totally screws up what should have been a sure thing.  Often times this results in topping the ball instead of getting underneath it.  Golfers refer to this as "sculling the ball."
I performed this hurried shot a while ago while golfing with an old business friend.  He screamed, "Scully's Catch of the Day" as we watched my ball dart across the green and into a sand trap and somehow stopping before it went into the pond beyond.  I do not take golf very seriously, so I laughed outwardly at the result of my mistake (while my Irish temper flared ever so slightly inside) and chalked it off to lack of concentration on my part.  But what stuck with me was not only this new expression, but how quickly a vision of "Scully" formed in my head at that moment.
I remember that suddenly I could picture a weathered Irish fisherman pulling his fishing boat into harbor, let's call it Missed Green Harbor, wearing a tattered white cable knit sweater while jawing on the butt end of an unlit cigar.  His boat is full of fish, and as he pulls up to his dock, seagulls fly overhead hoping for an opportune moment to steal a morsel from the deck.  Deckhands scramble to tie off the boat and begin to unload the cargo, hoping to cash out their load and get to the nearest pub for a couple of pints.  Captain Scully directs things from the bridge, as he shuts down the ship's engine and makes sure that the bilge pump is working.
The local fishmonger approaches the ship, let's call it The Sand Trap, he screams, "What is Scully's Catch of the Day?" to the gruff and gray Captain Scully.  Laughing outwardly, but introspectively agitated, the good Captain tells the fish buyer that he missed a big tuna, which would have been a big pay day, but insists that he will concentrate more the next time and not let that missed opportunity happen again.
This entire vision happened in a flash, and as quickly as it came, it was gone.
I went to the back of the green, and after I had chipped out of the sand trap, I noticed that in the man-made pond behind me was a small toy boat floating near the shore where my ball should have gone in.  Had the good Captain saved a missed opportunity for me? 
I do not remember anything in particular about the rest of that round of golf, other than the fish and chips and the pint of Guinness that I had an overwhelming need for at the end of the round.  I have however never forgotten about my moment with Captain Scully, and try to always keep my eye on the ball.

Merry Christmas Charlie Brown

   Ever since I was a little kid, I have always been interested in how things work.  I thought nothing of taking a radio or television that my parents or neighbors were getting rid of, tinkering with it, figuring out what was wrong with it, and with any luck, giving it a second life.  I salvaged everything from lawn mowers and bicycles, to an antique rolling ironing press and an old table saw.  With nothing more than my memory of how I took things apart, I would dismantle these items, find out what was wrong with them, rebuild the broken pieces, and put the item back together.  Admittedly, I was not always successful in my restoration process, but I took great pleasure and pride if I could resurrect an old broken down piece of equipment and restore it back to working form.
   For me, it wasn't so much about just getting the item working again.  As I took things apart, I learned to admire and appreciate the craftsmanship that went into the design and manufacture of the items.  I learned first-hand and tangibly what quality design and engineering was, and also what was not.  I could see that good design and materials resulted in items that stood the test of time.  Many times I would find that good quality items failed due to one or two inferior parts, or by one poor design flaw.
   The hardest thing for me to do was to admit defeat when I just could not fix something and to actually throw the item away.  Once I did finally throw in the towel however, I would always salvage a few parts just to save for the next project.
  I guess I really have never got past this obsession to fix antiquated items, and I now find myself at yet another crossroad.  I love old cars, and by last count, I have owned more than my share of them over the years.  I am not talking about mint condition cars that you see on the Barrett Jackson Auction.  No, I have always been more of a Charlie Brown character that sees the beauty in the broken down little Christmas tree of a vehicle, and believes that with a little paint and elbow grease, I can turn the junk into a jewel.
  A few years back, I discovered a little "tree" up in the Green Mountains of Vermont via the Christmas tree farm known as Ebay.  Much like the Charlie Brown tree, this little 1976 MGB needed a good home.  So, I took the girls in the pickup truck, rented a trailer and headed off for a "three-hour tour...a three hour tour" through the woods of Vermont.
  We brought her home, I built a shed to restore her in, and began taking her apart.  My thought was that since the girls would soon be going off to college, and my soccer coaching days were about over, that I would have plenty of time to work on this.  And I did do a lot of work on it.
  Well, life has a funny way of giving you other things to do, and my little MG got ignored.  We sold the house in Worcester, and with the help of a few friends, we moved the old girl to the new house.  Now, she was in a proper garage, only a few feet from me at all times.  Surely I would fix her now.
  Fast forward to a month ago when I found another MGB on Craigs List.  Unlike the sad little thing I bought in Vermont , this was the big shiny aluminum tree that Charlie Brown was supposed to get.  It still needs a little tinkering with (which is right up my alley), but it can be driven and enjoyed...so I bought it.
  Now, my crossroad dilemma.  I know that I have to get rid of the old, ripped apart MG, but I just hate to see her go.  It was such an adventure going to get her.  I have enjoyed restoring many of the parts, and looked forward to the day that I got to drive it.  But it is time to man-up and do the right thing.
   So, just like I did with the old radio's and t.v.'s, I am keeping a few parts from the old gem, and installing them on the new car.  I guess that the little kid in me is still doing the same things.  It is great keeping that piece of my youth.  "...And that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Sorry about that

What side of the bed did I wake up on yesterday?  This morning I read the blog post that I made yesterday and promptly deleted it.
What had started out as an idea to focus on the nuances of life here in central Massachusetts instead turned out to be a cathartic purge of real and imagined annoyances that I sometimes get in dealing with the general public.  Sort of like going into the confessional, yesterday's blog was a release of some underlying anger that I was feeling yesterday.  Sorry about that.  I really do like your dog, and will buy him an ice cream the next time I see him, and in the interest of full disclosure, I have not been in a confessional since my hair was brown and cut above the collar, the ears, and the eyes just like Father Reynolds liked it. 
I thought about the idea to write about unique sayings and activities that we in central Mass share.  As I left my office to take a ride to a job site in Chelmsford, I decided to stop at the local Dunks to get a coffee for the ride.  I was probably about the hundredth car in line and began to think how foolish it was of me not to have driven up to the convenience store just up the street, instead of pulling into the long line of cars.  For some reason, me and the five mini-vans in front of me are brainwashed into thinking that Dunkin Donuts is the only place that sells coffee.  Ok, don't get me started but when the lady in front of me ordered a dozen donuts, one at a time...verrrrry slowwwly, then proceeded to name coffee drinks that Juan Valdez has never heard of, let's just say that I summoned a few saints and other heavenly beings (I should go to confession more often).
So, I really do want to write a piece about central Mass with  stuff in it like how to order a hot dog at Coney Island, or what is a Chunka boot, and why did Spag's work.  But I need ideas.  Not ideas like I wrote about yesterday, and certainly not about wearing your pajamas in public...have you seen this phenomenon?
Email me some ideas: joes@glplumbing.com if you would.  I would appreciate any help.  I have to end now because I just have to get to Dunkys for a coffee now.
Thanks, and sorry again for the lousy read yesterday.