Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.

A floor to remember

Before

      After

       AUBURN, Maine — The pounding of hammers and loud whining of heavy-duty saws have ceased. The dust has settled and there is only silence in our empty kitchen, but a freshly installed floor has brought our galley back to life.  My kitchen no longer looks like it was hit by an errant RPG.

Two contractors single-handedly ripped apart our 60-year-old dingy kitchen floor, which was coming apart at the seams.

The floor project was put on hold to pay for my son's $5,000.00 smile.

A lot elbow grease went into removing the stubborn and ancient floor, which fought contractors Bruce Pinette and Bob... every damn step of the way before they laid down the off-white linoleum.


This is a dirty job, but these guys are equipped and possess the know-how that would give the cast of contractors on "This Old House" a run for their money in the home-remodeling business.


For three days, Bruce and Bob labored as they pulled, ripped, sawed and stapled their way across our filthy floor. Bob resorted to a roofing shovel to blast apart the cemented composite layer of flooring, which could probably survive a nuclear missile strike. Chips flew across the room as Bob broke a sweat. I was ready for a beer after watching them hammer away at my floor.


This was no job for amateurs.  And when they finished prying apart the floor — and our lives — they began nailing down expensive plywood in just over a day. Our kitchen has more angles than a pentagon and the house is a bit crooked thanks to time and nature. 


Everything has shifted, but thanks to Bob's precision cutting and Bruce's guidance, they made each piece of underlay fit snuggly.  


When you survive a project like this, you feel grateful to have your kitchen back without maneuvering around nail guns, saws, brooms and plywood. I missed my stove the most and am tired of having the refrigerator in my living room, although a cold beer is just feet away from me.  


This inconvenience was a small price to pay for a brand-new kitchen floor.  Before I decided to hire these two adept contractors, I entertained the notion of tackling this project myself.


Foolish me!


When I thought about going it alone, and being the journalist that I am, I began researching the project at Web sites like "This Old House." They all made it look simple and explained it could be done in hours.  That maybe true if you are Bob Villa surrounded by crew of expert handymen who know the difference between a hammer and a screwdriver. 


What I learned was that no project is simple and it would take weeks for newbie like me to complete such an undertaking — or just go berserk and throw up my hands.  I was no match for this task and that is why I turned to the experts.  


Mr. Pelletier and Bob, for the reasonable price tag of $2,200 busted their butts to do a great job and gave a tired-old kitchen a new lease on life.  


You could say we are floored by their master craftsmanship.

A walk in the woods and thoughts about an old friend

 

    POLAND, Maine - The weather is absurdly warm, but as long as our oil furnace is silent and I am not contributing to the wealth of greedy speculators and Middle East corporations, I welcome the strong sun and melting snow in March.

    To celebrate this salubrious March day, we ventured into the cool Maine woods at Range Pond State Park - which has 1,000 feet of pristine shoreline and clear, cool water surrounded by miles of hiking trails. Take your bike or stroll the walking paths at Range. It doesn't matter; it is all good for your health.

    This oasis, which lies just 10 miles outside the Twin Cities, is a great way to beat the summer heat. The lake is fine area to try your hand at fishing and check out gawky loons that saunter past you. The hiking trails are shaded by tall pines.

     The ice is just starting to melt, but the sheet of white slushy stuff is quite a contrast against the searing sun. Winter always lingers in this state, and its calling card is stubborn ice and snow that lies in the shady areas of the woods until April.

     The two-mile hike brought us to the sandy shore where we found a vacant bench drenched in shade. We enjoyed the cool breezes off the icy water as we washed away our thirst with a cooler full of water.

     Anthony tossed rocks and dipped his legs in the frigid water to cool off as the mercury reached the 75-degree mark.

    Spring arrives on Tuesday, but New England just might skip that season and move right on to summer with temperatures hovering around 80 degrees during the middle of the week.

     There was a sparse group of Mainers who also thought it would be a pleasant way to spend a hot March afternoon near a lake encased in ice. 

     Just think, in another month and a half, all of us will immerse ourselves in Range's cooling waters to take cover from summer's impending heat.

Blast from the past

     It is amazing how many walk people in and out of our brief lives. 

     Ken Freeland flew right into my airspace at Norwich University nearly 34 years ago. We have been friends ever since and frequently reach out to each other as the decades have rolled past us.

     We became roommates at the Vermont military school for the five months. For some reason, we became friends in the first five minutes. Throw in John Connor and we became the Three Musketeers who had one helluva a time trading barbs and sampling fine booze in our cramped quarters. We were three comedians who gave the Norwich establishment a run for its money.

     Ken is a character, but that could also be said of me. Somehow, we mesh even though we are different. I guess that's why they call it friendship, which has endured for over three decades.

    Marriages don't last that long, and yet, our friendship was forged in less than a year.

     Last week, Ken left Connecticut to travel to Maine to purchase an expensive dog — and grace the Blasi household with a visit.

     I was honored.

    That last time we saw each other was seven years ago, which was far too long gap in our friendship. We have always stayed in touch by email or telephone.

     His visit was important to me. At this stage in my life, when many friends and family have died the past two years, I try to keep my channels open with people who actually give a damn about me and are still above ground.

    Well, his visit did me a world of good, and it was great to share a beer and reminisce about our glorious past.

    I think we will be seeing more of each other because we both understand we are all short-timers in this grand universe.

Goodfellows52: Music to our ears

Goodfellows52: Music to our ears: My son, Anthony, checks out Portland's history. Merrill Auditorium's lavish hallways. Downtown Portland, Maine on a Sunday afte...

Music to our ears

My son, Anthony, checks out Portland's history.

Merrill Auditorium's lavish hallways. 

Downtown Portland, Maine on a Sunday afternoon.

PORTLAND, Maine - For two glorious hours, I forgot about my bills, winter’s cold touch and mankind’s stupidity as a chorus of angelic voices drifted over me.

I had found serenity inside the lavish halls of palatial Merrill Auditorium. My heart rate slowed, my breathing was calm and any trace of apprehension had disappeared as the Vancouver Chamber Choir’s soothing music lulled a couple of hundred patrons into a dream-like state.

There is no question about it — these guys and gals have got some game.

If classical music is the big leagues, then this choir would be one of Major League baseball’s dominant teams. All their powerful voices are home runs.

I won a pair of tickets, which are steep but well worth the price of admission for $44.00 apiece, at work. My son accompanied me to the concert. Terri was nursing an ear infection and elected to remain behind even though I would have gladly purchased a third ticket.

My son and I sat in total silence as the show went on. We didn’t dare speak to each other for fear missing one note of Vancouver’s mesmerizing chorals. Nobody spoke. Not one cell phone interrupted the silence of Merrill Auditorium, which was quieter than a library.

I didn’t give a damn about mankind’s ugliness or politicians’ empty promises. All I could do was just float in and out this brief state of tranquility.

Conductor and Artistic Director Jon Washburn’s gentle demeanor and reassuring voice was a crowd pleaser. He had this adept way of introducing and explaining each musical piece to his audience. I appreciated his knowledge of music, which I am sure is vast.

In the dead of winter, I found myself totally relaxed as Vancouver opened its “A Choral Panorama” with heavy-hitting composer Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Komm, Jesu, Komm."

I had found nirvana as the choir’s interpretation of Bach’s timeless piece emptied my mind of trepidation and melancholy.

The Choir moved on to perform Sir John Tavener’s “The Lamb” and Canadian composer R. Murray Schaler’s “A Medieval Bestiary.”

These are great works performed by a world-class choir, which is also capable of bringing to life English folk songs. My favorite, "Early One Morning," was done masterfully. I have heard this piece in movies and on PBS.

I had the privilege of listening to a select group of mankind's finest voices brighten the lives of an appreciative audience on a Sunday afternoon.

The only problem I had with this outstanding performance is it lasted for only two hours, and all this serenity disappeared after the last round of applause gave way to silence.

Games fathers and sons play

AUBURN, Maine - My eyes never leave the board when he makes his next move.

He is a cunning and dangerous tactician who knows how to maneuver his fleet of old battle wagons and carriers and place my ships in harm's way.

I try to stay a step ahead of my son, Anthony, but where ever I direct my battleships and submarines, he is there to meet me  with his intrepid and deadly fleet. 

He doesn't miss a thing.

This is not chess; this is war!

Well, not exactly.

It's a game without the video. No need for technology and the joy stick. You have to use your brain, especially when you send your planes on a mission to knock out a carrier or the other big bastards — cruisers and destroyers.

There are plenty of curve balls along the way as two navies slug it out on the open waters of the Atlantic.

Welcome to "Axis and Allies" — a game where naval tactics and the ability to keep your eye on your opponent and playing cards at the same time means life or death when you begin blasting away at each other.

Take your eye off the helm and just watch him deep-six a key battleship.

A friend of mine once told me fishing isn't really about catching fish. He said angling is about time you spend with someone you love. Sure, reeling in "The Big One" after a 10-minute tussle with a stubborn bottom-dweller is rewarding, but watching my smiling son proudly pulling in his own fish is priceless.

It's true. It is not about the fishing, and hiking isn't about just walking in the woods on a warm summer day. During these moments of leisure, random conversations appear out of nowhere as we cast our lines or make our way along a trail. We reveal ourselves and swap dreams and ambitions on a sandy pond. Our talks cement our relationships as we travel in our tiny universe.

Our big board game that consumes us in a cellar on rainy days keeps my son and I connected and reinforces our mutual interests about history. The hours we spend trying to strafe, bomb, sink or torpedo our fleets is as equally important as our conversations that emerge during a surface battle.

Look, there is nothing I like better than sending one of his battleships to the bottom. I know he takes great joy in deep-sixing one of my carriers.

And we both take pleasure watching our destroyers and cruisers pelt each other with their 10- and 5-inch guns with the roll of a dice.

We are both trying to rule the high seas as we roam this vast ocean, but in between setting our flotillas on a course of destruction, we strike up discussions during these fire fights. No topic is taboo. We share our stories of the past and opinions about the present.

There are a lot of things I could be doing around the house.  

But I know I will never spend these precious moments with Anthony again. I sop up these minutes with my son, knowing all along that the games we play will not continue forever , although I wish they could.