Going to bat for my father

 "The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires."

- William Arthur Ward

SAUGUS, Mass. — They lined up to shake his hand, hug him, and gently kiss him on the cheek. He struggled to remember the names of his former students as they paraded past him like all those rewarding years he spent in the classroom and on the baseball diamond.

His precious memories of his students had disappeared over the last few years. He felt frustrated and alone in a sea of faces that no longer looked familiar to him.

He apologized for a memory that was slowly being stripped away by Alzheimer's, but his students would hear none of his explanations. 

Their outpouring of kindness and understanding was overwhelming: "Don't worry about it. We're glad you are here. I love your father. He is the greatest. How's he doing? I will check in on him. I am so glad he came. Your father is a great guy. You look a lot like him."

All they wanted to do was pay homage to a fine teacher. 

They gathered around to honor Albert John Blasi, a retired 79-year-old history teacher and head baseball coach at Revere High School for over four decades. He was asked to attend the Class of 1972's reunion at the cozy Continental on Route 1. He was the only invited teacher to go to the get-together.

His blank stare and any trepidation he was feeling was replaced with an appreciative smile as he reluctantly greeted former students who surrounded him.

David Colella, a fellow teacher and a wonderful person, made my father feel comfortable as we looked for a table to be seated. A handful women also helped make my father feel at ease. I wish I could remember their names. Colella gave me his address and promised to check on him. 

His former students regaled him with countless stories of how a young teacher with a baritone voice and crew cut inspired them. They spoke about his charisma, dedication, integrity and sincerity, all necessary prerequisites for a teacher to motivate and prepare students for the world beyond the classroom.

And everybody had a story to tell about my father.

Big Al was an icon at Revere High School, and his name continues to be bandied about by grateful students and baseball players who share their passion for America's pastime with Coach.

It is obvious why the Class of 1972 sticks together and clings to their fond memories of RHS and my dad. They are survivors of a turbulent era that included Vietnam, Watergate, civil unrest and an endless cold war.

"Mom would have enjoyed coming with you, " I said to my father, who continued to stare across the table.

"You know, I was thinking the same thing, " he said.

My mother had passed away two years ago. We don't talk about it because I think my mom's passing is too painful for both of us.

At the behest of my three sisters, I agreed to become dad's chaperone. I was nervous about serving as his guide. But any apprehension I was feeling ceased when his former students also welcomed me to the reunion.

I understood this might be our last hurrah together, and my sisters intuitively knew this, too. I am grateful to them for persuading me to accompany dad.

My father scanned the growing crowd of RHS alumni. He was looking forward to seeing his former ballplayers who brought him great joy. 

"I am kind of disappointed. The ballplayers are not showing up," said my dad. "I thought they would come."

"Dad, it doesn't matter. You have made many of your former students' day," I answered. "There is still time for them to show."

Just before I was about to throw in the towel, Richard Decristoforo appeared in the lobby. I spotted the gentle giant from across the room. God don't make 'em any better than this guy, and that could be said about the entire Decristoforo family. They are top-of-the-line human beings who cherish my father.

Richard was one of dad's favorite athletes, and Coach was adored by the Decristoforo family. This mutual admiration and respect has continued for decades.

Richard saw me. I pointed to my father, and after a few moments, he rushed over to see dad. My father's eyes widened and a fond smile reappeared. Richard hugged him, and a 45-minute conversation ensued about baseball and family. It was reunion within a reunion, and neither one of them wanted to part company when dinner was served.

Their conversation opened a time portal, and suddenly I could see Coach and the team's captain standing behind the iron backstop at windy Curtis Park in Revere 40 years ago. They reminisced about Sunday morning practices when my dad brought donuts and coffee to his players. I never missed a Sunday practice as the team's bat boy. But I do miss those hot, summer practices when my father swung a fungo bat like a baton.

My dad had brought along a couple of huge frames containing the Revere Journal's pictorial of the 1972 and 1973 RHS baseball teams. The over-sized frames had been hanging up in my dad's cellar for years.

My father presented the 1972 portrait to Richard, whose jaw dropped as his eyes never left the portrait.

Richard hugged my father. "Wow! This means so much to me, coach," said Richard.

I just smiled. Richard turned to me and said he too would stop in to visit with him. I couldn't thank him enough for speaking with my dad.

We never ate dinner together. My dad became antsy and wanted to head home. I knew better not wear him out and agreed to leave early, but we didn't make it to the exit for another hour.

My father's entourage cornered us at the door. Another long and sweet conversation began in between photo shoots. They wouldn't let him go.

The polite women packed us dinner before we quietly slipped away into the humid night.

I pulled out of the parking lot and headed down Route 1 toward Revere.

"I can't understand why everybody wanted to see me. I was just doing my job," said my father.

I paused for moment before I responded.

"Dad, you are a part of their past and they got a chance to reconnect with it because of you," I answered.  "You didn't just do your job. You went above and beyond the call of duty in those classrooms, and that is why you still command their respect."

"I guess you are right," he said.

I knew I was right when I saw the admiration and gratitude on his students' faces after he entered the room on a warm Friday evening.

Groundhog's lucky day

AUBURN, Maine —  My neighbor and I were forced to take this groundhog out for a long walk.

It would be a one-way ride. The furry critter wasn't coming back. We didn't want the darn thing around the neighborhood. It was bringing down property values. Enraged gardeners were arming themselves with pitchforks, razor-sharp sickles, guns and Sherman tanks.

Don Michael Corleone reacted the same way in "The Godfather," when the family discovered Sal Tessio had become a traitor and was part of a conspiracy to eliminate poor Michael.

Like Tessio, the groundhog was about to disappear from Bennett Street for good. Its fate was sealed after it ravaged my broccoli plants. The animal was responsible for several missing tomato plants in my neighbor's yard. We knew the little scoundrel couldn't resist the fresh broccoli stored in the trap.

I wanted revenge and my pound of flesh.

Well, our neighbor bagged the fat fella.

I looked at the groundhog trapped in my neighbor's cage. It tried to buy itself time,  almost saying,"For old time's sake, Tony."

"Can't do it, groundhog," I coldly said. "Not this time."

Tessio's pleas for mercy were also ignored after the order was given by the Don to eliminate the bushwhacking Sal.

I looked at the nervous hairball in the cage. This animal was responsible for killing off three broccoli plants. It was murder, I tell ya. Those vegetables never had a chance against this animal's sharp teeth. I was damned if I would continue to contribute to this groundhog's vegetarian lifestyle.

It had to pay for the damaged seedlings, and we had to make an example of the hairy pest. If not, all groundhogs might think they could waltz into any backyard for a free meal.

After watching my garden survive six days of torrential rain, I wasn't about to let this scavenger make a meal out of my small farm.

But knocking off this cute, obese SOB was out of the question.

Groundhogs are nervous wrecks. They are always looking over their shoulders for the law. A little bit of noise sends them heading for the hills. These compact fat guys can really move when they are under duress.

Don decided to pack up his trap with the groundhog and relocate it about 10 miles from our neighborhood. It was sort of witness protection program for groundhogs that run amok.

But the location will remain undisclosed because there are some gardeners still seeking revenge.
And I want no part of a vigilante group.

After all, I am a friend to dogs, animals, bugs and groundhogs.

But nobody messes with Dad's Garden! 

Nobody!

Just ask Tessio.

Father tries to know best

No man can possibly
know what life means, what the
world means, until he has a child and loves it. And
then the whole universe changes
and nothing will ever again seem
exactly as it seemed before.

- Lafcadio Hearn

POLAND, Maine - No tie, shirt or money. I was not presented with a power tool, a lifetime subscription to "Sports Illustrated" or served breakfast in bed.

I didn't even get to sleep late. I left a wake-up call for 8:30 a.m.

I was given a thoughtful card and a shout-out from my wife, wishing me happy Father's Day as I stumbled toward the coffee pot Sunday morning.

All I requested was a homemade strawberry pie (Terri can put Martha Stewart to shame in the kitchen), a long hike in the woods with my son, and a swim at one of the local lakes of my choosing.

To top off the evening, we treated ourselves to an ice cream. After all, as a loving, hard-working father and husband, I think I have earned it.

I also did the cooking because I am the best chef in the house. And Terri certainly doesn't mind me commandeering our kitchen to cook dinner.

Being a father is the toughest and the most satisfying profession in the world. Fathers, like moms, only get one take to get it right when raising children. There are no do-overs, and what parents say and do will affect their children the rest of their lives.

That's a colossal obligation, and unfortunately, there are parents who do not live up to those great expectations, and all of society, especially the child, pays that awful price.

I love the responsibility of being the patriarch of my family. I feel like godfather Don Corleone without the violence. I welcomed the enormous responsibilities of raising a child, and I believe I have it done it well, and I think my son's kindness reflects our love for him.

I was present in the delivery room when Anthony made his entrance. I wore surgical clothes when he was delivered by C-section. No, I didn't faint because the doctors knew what they were doing, and a little blood doesn't bother me.

I cried as I cut the umbilical cord. My dad thought I was nuts when I decided to watch the whole procedure unfold. Well, I am nuts, but that's a subject for another blog. 

And I thought my dad really knew me.

Anthony was placed in my arms. I noticed he had a full head of hair. I told him to get a job. He just looked at me and smiled. I trembled as I held him, but I was not frightened at being the caretaker of a human life.

I knew nine months ago that I wanted the job.

Terri, who had to do all the hard work of carrying a child to term, was in pain. She was given pain killers. I wanted a valium to ease my nerves. Watching a delivery and the huge sacrifices women make to deliver a healthy child over nine months makes all moms heroic figures.

But I believe it still takes two to raise a child. Parents make a huge contribution to the world when we raise a responsible human being. 

It is our sworn duty, and that contract between child and parents should last a lifetime.

For the next two days, I resided at Maine Medical Center in Portland, learning how to care for my newborn son. My feet still hadn't touched the ground after his arrival. I was on a natural high, and I couldn't wait to hold him throughout the day.

My father asked: "Who is going to take care of your son during the day." I said, "I am, dad. Who else."

He was astonished, but I was not surprised by his look. Stay-at-home dads (I worked nights) in my father's generation were rare.

For the next six years, I was Anthony''s guide during the day shift. Terri took over when she got home in the afternoon. Day care was out of the question for our son.

Anthony and I went to libraries, visited other children, and toured museums. TV was limited and video games were a no-no. There are no video games in this house to this day. Cable television also got the heave-ho.

Some would call me cruel, but I really hate TV.

This Sunday, Anthony took a long hike with his old man at Range Pond. We talked about everything during our two-mile journey around the pristine lake. I am amazed that he still enjoys my company.

Hey, every day I wake up and see my family standing before me makes me realize why I really enjoy my job.

After all, every day is Father's Day. Just take a good look at your family.

A word to the wise

Dear Mr. President,

Your remark concerning the private sector fell into the category of "What were you thinking of, sir."

Mr. President, your comment was a slap in the face to the nearly 15 million Americans who can't find a job in an economy that rivals the Great Depression. And please don't tell me that only nine million Americans are unemployed. The number is far greater than what is being reported in the media.

Despite all the nonsense on YouTube, Twitter and Facebook, Americans are tuned in and are simply disgusted with their nation's so-called leaders.

During one of my classes, seniors and I were discussing the poor economy. One bright student said, "That's all we have ever known." Its remark that I have never forgotten and it is comment that should not sit well with you, sir.

By the way, Mr. President, I am a Democrat who is also an Independent wannabe and dreams of a presidential candidate who can demonstrate common sense and has a clear understanding of the phrase, "We the people."

I am not a Republican and I am not writing this letter to lambaste you. The GOP is doing a grand job of using your miscue as fodder to dominate the news cycles.  This will become one of the GOP's favorite campaign ads using your own words.

President Obama, Maine Street has been disappearing and empty neighborhoods have become a sea of repossessed homes. We are a nation that is now home to the under-employed who live day to day, never mind week to week. We have NOT come out of the recession. I know many fellow Americans who share my sentiment.

We fight wars in the Middle East with the foolish notion of spreading freedom with tanks and bombs. I do commend you on your drone program to destroy Al Qaeda and making that difficult decision of placing our soldiers in harm's way to remove bin Laden, but our involvement in the Middle East to protect oil companies is sucking our economy dry.

Mr. President, the private sector is a shambles. Thanks to greedy CEOs and Wall Street, and the fact that we exploit Asians and Hispanics to produce our goods, Americans are lucky to find jobs as store greeters. Of course, thanks to the enormous expense of attending a reputable university, our sons and daughters can look forward to vying for jobs as underpaid clerks at fledging department stores and gas stations.

Sure, there is plenty of blame to go around. We could begin with the last president and then move right on to corrupt banks and indifferent politicians who forgot that they represent us. I know you were handed the keys to a nation treading water, and it really is the most difficult job in the world. Still, your comment was out of step with what you truly believe.

Sir, I voted for you and I will vote for you again because Mitt Romney is about appealing to me as an abscess tooth. 

President Obama, there are many reasons why I find you appealing as a second-term president, but I am not writing a letter of praise.

But please take a good look around the country and you will see many Americans slipping into poverty.  It doesn't say much about the private sector, does it, sir!

Despite my reservations, and that fact that the GOP's candidate is just another drumbeater for big business, I will vote for you. 

You have my word, but be more careful how you choose yours, sir. Your re-election to a second term depends on it.

A festival that never gets old

“Life is a festival only to the wise.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes (American Poet, Lecturer and Essayist, 1803-1882)

Port of call

PORTLAND,  Maine - When I told friends I was heading out to the Old Port Festival with my family on Sunday, a few complained that it was too crowded and there are no places to park.

All of that is true, but there are many excuses to justify staying at home and decaying in front of a television set or a computer, broadcasting useless Twitter messages or Facebook posts.

But I don't understand that kind of negative sentiment and sometimes I feel the human race is slipping when I hear such comments.

The Old Port Festival is celebration of summer, a chance to mingle with humanity, sample good food, listen to soothing music and take the opportunity to spoil yourself with the purchase of a trinket or two from the numerous vendors lining the streets of this great little city.

If I was a single male or female in the state of Maine, I would have the date of the Old Port Festival stamped on my forehead and sticky notes placed all over my house. I would pay to have a wake-up call for that Sunday morning in June. Good looking people abound at this celebration. It just might be the place to bump into a significant other and a shot a long-term relationship.

Who knows!

But you really don't need a festival to celebrate the Old Port's beauty and uniqueness. The architecture and spectacular views of the ocean make the Old Port a delight for pedestrians to wonder the narrow streets and visit the specialty stores. And it doesn't matter if you pay the Old Port a visit during the summer or winter because this is a city of all seasons.

The Old Port put on its Sunday Best as thousands of people strolled up and down the crowded streets checking out vendors and pausing to listen to live performers.

After six days of rain, Mainers embraced the warm sun and refreshing sea breezes to meander along the packed avenues.

We stopped to look at some of the crafts, but what kept me moving through the crowd was the music. There were new age artists and an Irish band playing to a grateful crowd.

Terri and Anthony decided to grab a pizza before moving on to the wharf to see how the other half lives. There are expensive yachts and million-dollar-a-month condominiums that sit just across the street from the Old Port. A handful of seafood restaurants offer exquisite dining, but we are on a budget and settled on a pizza.

After nearly three hours, it was time to move on to the Eastern Prom - another gem in Portland - to get up close and personal with the Atlantic Ocean. For the next two hours, Anthony and I stared out at the harbor and talked about anything while Terri stayed back and absorbed the sun on the sand.

Returning to Auburn was not an option for next two hours. Spending those wonderful moments with my son and wife on the warm, white sand was all that mattered.

John F. Kennedy said we are all drawn to the sea, and that probably explains why I am a frequent visitor to the Old Port.

Getting soaked on this deal

AUBURN, Maine - For the moment, my vegetable garden no longer looks like the wetlands of the Louisiana Bayou. The wind-swept monsoons that washed out roads and flooded neighborhoods along of the state's overflowing rivers have abated.

The deluge began Saturday evening and didn't stop for nearly 24 hours.  But on-and-off heavy showers continue to make life dismal and damp for most of Maine. So far, nearly seven inches of rain have soaked the Pine Tree State. According to meteorologists, the rain won't fade away until Wednesday.

The Androscoggin River continues to swell, causing Great Falls to erupt with tons of water. The shallow banks along the river are disappearing as visitors brave the rain to snap shots or film the fast-moving water.

But who knows how long my garden will last in a nasty storm with no ending. And I will probably be mowing my lawn every 48 hours for the rest of the summer to keep it from growing like the Mekong jungle.

Weathermen saw this one coming last week when they began talking about a blocking high pressure system and a stationary low. I knew what that meant. That's when I went into a deep depression and began cursing Mother Nature's unkindness toward gardeners and farmers. It seems the old lady is always out to get us.

Every summer, this disheartening and plant-killing weather combination appears and makes me want throw in my hoe and shovel and plant grass instead of vegetables.

But I might have done something really smart to prevent a bunch of casualties in my underwater vegetable garden.

After cutting the lawn a couple of days before this soaker ravaged the state, I placed thick piles of grass clippings around my plants, and this may have absorbed the water and helped with the drainage in my garden.

Of course, a week of bright sunshine would be a welcomed sight for all green thumbs who have had their fingers crossed during these relentless downpours.

After all, we are the folks who bring good food to life.