'Tis the season of hope and remembrance

"Remember, hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."

-  the Scarecrow on the "The Wizard of Oz"


AUBURN, Maine — A pair of Geminids meteors streaked  across a dark, cold Maine sky, and in instant, I had this absurd thought that my deceased parents were chasing each other around the cosmos.

Grief does strange things to people during the holidays, but I am old hand at managing melancholy.

If you live long enough, you get really good at dealing with heart-wrenching loss. Now that my parents, Al and Louise, are gone forever, I work feverishly to fend off sadness — especially during the Yuletide.

Say what you will about the holiday, but the last thing I want to be remembered as is an Ebenezer Scrooge wannabe who spreads endless grief in his wake.

Christmas is no humbug. Old Jacob Marley found that out the hard way. Dickens’ wretched character was condemned to roam the night wrapped in heavy chains to atone for his indifference to his fellow man. Scrooge was taken out for a walk by the three spirits on Christmas Eve and given a comeuppance he never forgot for ignoring forlorn souls drowning in endless poverty.

Nobody wants to be the guy who spoils everybody’s good cheer with his poison personality. For me, holidays are for gathering up what’s left of our family to celebrate another year of good food and cheer.

There is a huge emptiness we all face everyday, and that void gets deeper during the holidays.

Perhaps, Christmas is like a role call of who is still here and serves as reminder that every day you reach for your morning cup of coffee is a good day — and you only have so many on this earth.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are two holidays that trigger our worn-out memories of the past. Sentimentality rises to the top when decorating the tree, wandering around crowded store aisles or preparing a traditional holiday dish. A special ornament your late mom gave you makes your eyes water as you place it on a tree. Christmas songs chime about the specialness of the holiday, but many face this day with a heavy heart.

I still browse the aisles marveling at those innovative toys. Another new line of Legos — my son’s favorite gift under the tree— is introduced to shoppers. Then I remember he is now behind of the wheel of a car and those plastic building blocks of his childhood no longer amuse him.

Alas, my son is 18 and his adult toys consist of skis, watches, a cell phone and history books. His childhood slowly disappeared with each inch he grew.  The little boy who meant so much to us has grown into a fine young man, and while I am proud of him, I miss the inquisitive child who built these intricate toy ships with Legos that littered our parlor floor.

This will be our first Christmas without my parents, and while I have done an impressive job of spreading good cheer, there is that ever-present emptiness.

Look, I have seen the face of depression and watched loved ones disappear into that long tunnel of desperation. I won’t allow grief to swallow me whole. The long walk back from slipping into that dreadful darkness is too steep for me to climb.

So I will buy the presents, make the shrimp linguine, enjoy a holiday meal with my sisters and grieve for my father — all at the same time. The two-hour trip to Boston will be a welcomed diversion from the daily  chore of missing a man I admired all my life.

We will make merry on Christmas Eve, but we will also notice the empty chairs on that special night.

And there’s not a damn thing we can do about our heavy losses except embrace the memories of them, and of course, raise a toast to all who are present at the dinner table for another holiday.

Goodfellows52: A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe

Goodfellows52: A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe: The guy in the middle is Albert John Blasi, who was on a troop ship heading to occupied Germany http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/obitu...

A few kind words about my dad in the Boston Globe

The guy in the middle is Albert John Blasi, who was on a troop ship heading to occupied Germany

http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/obituaries/2014/11/26/blasi-longtime-revere-high-baseball-coach-formerly-led-state-coaches-association/xa7uUxaeyfa1jtsHodQ3DK/story.html

AUBURN, Maine — I will be spending Thanksgiving with my family in Massachusetts. But when I look to my right after we sit down to eat, my dad won't be in the parlor with a plate of food in one hand and a remote in the other watching a football game at my sister's home.

His absence will be conspicuous. He was the life of the holidays and was usually surrounded by his family.

Losing a mom or dad just before the holidays is like getting sucker punched in a street fight. It hurts like hell and the pain never disappears. And after you get walloped, you want to take your anger out on the guy who just delivered the knuckle sandwich.

But when you look at your immediate family and realize you have to soldier on without your parents, you have no choice but to carry on. Nature works like that, but that doesn't mean we have to agree with the laws of this strange universe.

Today, my father received another deserved tribute. Boston Globe reporter Marvin Pave, a talented writer with a kind heart, wrote a great piece about a man who gave so much to his country, community and family. He was adored by rival coaches and his players who would have walked through fire to play for him.

That kind of dedication and respect is earned by human beings who have genuine empathy and integrity. My dad demonstrated both qualities and wasn't a narcissist who believed the world revolved around him.

So if you've got a minute, check the above link to Boston.com and read a well-written piece about guy who gave a damn about the right things in our short lives.

Goodfellows52: Letting go of dad

Goodfellows52: Letting go of dad: " My father was my teacher. But most importantly he was a great dad. " Beau Bridges REVERE/PEABODY, Mass. — He will n...

Letting go of dad

"My father was my teacher. But most importantly he was a great dad."

Beau Bridges

REVERE/PEABODY, Mass. — He will no longer be seated at end of the couch with a newspaper in his lap and hot coffee in one hand.

He was the first family member you saw when you walked in the front door. Albert Blasi would look up from his sports section and smile when someone entered the parlor. There was usually a game or an old war movie on the TV.

“Hey, they are here. Good to see you all. Missed ya,” my dad said. “How was the ride down? Mom’s in the kitchen. Go see her.”

When I left Sunday morning to return to Maine, his reserved seat on the couch was vacant and will remain that way forever. I was still waiting for a hug and a chance to say goodbye. I walked up to the empty couch said aloud, “I will always miss you.”

My father, a dedicated educator and high school baseball coach for 44 years, died on a Saturday, Nov. 8 and was buried on the 14th at Puritan Lawn Cemetery in Peabody, Mass. He was 81. Taps was played by the honor guard. That’s when the tears began to roll down my cheeks. I watched through water-filled eyes as two fine young servicemen folded the American flag with care and precision. A sharp looking soldier walked straight toward me and presented me with the flag.

“I accept this with honor,” I said. The soldier stepped back after handing me the flag and slowly saluted it as we stared eye to eye.

My father, an Army veteran who served during the occupation of Germany, was honored for his service to his country.

He was an honorable man who believed all people should be treated with compassion and respect. That’s why hundreds turned out to pay their final respects to a man who not only served his country but made a difference in his community, classroom and on a baseball diamond.

How many people get to say that before their lives come to an end.

I spent nearly two hours at a funeral home as mourners shared their Al Blasi stories with family members who were grateful to see hundreds turn out to say goodbye to our father.

A mass honoring Albert John Blasi was held at St. Anthony’s Church. They say the church was brought over brick by brick from Italy. It is a magnificent structure with bells that can be heard all over the city and the inside of the building is lined with stained-glass windows and numerous works of art.

The funeral procession to the church and cemetery was led by a police escort as the Revere Police Department sealed off streets all over the city as a long trail of cars passed. The procession drove past my father’s home before we arrived in Peabody.

My siblings and I are now orphans with the passing of this wonderful man. My mom died four years ago, which was the first blow to her four children. Their absences have left us with a sense of endles longing for their return.

But it’s doesn’t matter how my father died. It is how he lived, and he lived life large and fulfilling. He was an educator who taught others to go forth in life and make a contribution to the greater good.

It has been said that we are not truly forgotten until the last person who knows us dies.

Considering what he has done for a multitude of people, I believe the memories of Albert John Blasi will live on for decades to come.

Goodfellows52: Albert John Blasi - A lifetime of love and devotio...

Goodfellows52: Albert John Blasi - A lifetime of love and devotio...: REVERE, Mass. — My mother suggested I become the Revere High School baseball team’s ...

Albert John Blasi - A lifetime of love and devotion (Aug. 13, 1933 to November 8, 2014)

REVERE, Mass. — My mother suggested I become the Revere High School baseball team’s bat boy to spend quality time with my dad. I was a gangly, awkward 11-year-old, and his ballplayers never let me forget it. 

I was razzed by all of them, but I never met such a fine group of young men who remained devoted to coach. They were my heroes and loved by coach.

You see, my father’s second language was sports. He was also fluent in many of the language’s dialects such as football and basketball.

His knowledge of sports made him a diplomat in his community and around the world, and one helluva father who loved his children and wife. If you knew the difference between a football and a baseball and ignored hockey, you had no problem conversing with Albert John Blasi.

My father’s summer home was a baseball diamond, and he knew every inch of it — whether it was Curtis Park or Tony Conigliaro field. Sure, he easily held his own when discussing world issues, but Sports was his passion and cutting the lawn was left to me.

I spent the next two years retrieving bats and shagging foul balls that usually knocked out house windows at Curtis Park, making me the target of angry residents. But traveling to different ballparks with my dad was a privilege, and he did this for 43 years.

There was also another bonus beside the sound of shattered glass and cracked car windshields. I hung out with his players whose endless antics and humorous imitations of my dad made us all laugh. You could hear “Oh, boy” all around the locker room.

Of course, everybody has an Al Blasi story to tell, and those tales have been embellished over the years simply because of his positive influence on his family, students and ballplayers. 

When my father and the rest of the team sat in silence during a long bus ride home after Revere lost the championship game to Braintree, I wanted to give him a hug and all of us fought back the tears.

Early Sunday morning practices featured a Donuts with Dad day. My father bought coffee and donuts for the team despite the searing sun at Curtis Park. While my father swung a Fungo bat, it was open season on cinnamon donuts for the team.

When Big Al argued a call, suddenly turned and walked away, he drew the ire from an umpire.

“Where do you think you are going,” the flustered ump said.

My father’s response was quick: “I am going for a cup of coffee and donuts.”

He even made the front sports page of the Boston Globe with a poster-sized photo of my father pointing to the spot where the umpire allegedly missed the call.

If we scrounged up every Al Blasi story, we would be here for days. There is a reason why you are all here today. My dad this gift of reaching people, and I believe he is respected for his empathy and kindness toward his fellow man.

When he retired, Al and Louise went out for coffee to get away from it all each night. Look for any coffee shop in Revere and you might see the pair nursing a cup of java. He also enjoyed his new role as a caring grandfather who had no problem getting down on floor and playing with our children. He tried to spoil all of them. I have got pictures to prove it.

But if you think my dad, a man who served his country as an U.S. Army sharpshooter in an outfit called the Big Red One and later took advantage of the GI Bill to become a history teacher and eventually one of the finest high school baseball coaches on the diamond, was a one-dimensional man, then you never really knew him.

Albert John Blasi was born August 13, 1933 during the height of the Great Depression to Italian immigrant parents. He was a child during World War II and just missed the Korean war by one year when he was called to serve with the Big Red One — a unit that served with distinction during World War II. He was eventually shipped overseas during the occupation of Germany in 1954.

His service to his nation is why he is being buried with full military honors today in Peabody.

But he was not enamored the Army. Just when you thought Big Al was condemned to KP duty and endless drilling, he was rescued by colonel who witnessed my father pulverize a baseball with his mighty bat. Big Al was picked up on waivers to play for army company teams. Instead of lugging a .50 caliber machine gun or a bazooka, he carried a bat until he got home — just like Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio did during their service to their country in World War II.

My father was a maverick in the army and taking orders just wasn’t his style. When a Lieutenant drove up in jeep and ordered Big Al to go to another part of ridge to fight a forest fire somewhere in the Midwest, he replied, “Hey, Lieutenant, why don’t you go over there, sir. You have the jeep.”

While serving in Germany, he looked up his brother Lieutenant Rocco Blasi who was taking a refresher course at an officers club in Austria. My dad, an enlisted man, walked into the officers-only club to reunite with the Rock, but a few unlucky souls put up a fuss. Rock stepped in and made sure nobody had a problem with his younger brother. The issue was closed thanks to Rock’s menacing powers of persuasion and intimidating stature.

My father left the Army as a Specialist Third-Class, and despite serving with distinction, he never looked back and eventually obtained a masters in history. 

His army uniform, adorned with various service ribbons, still hangs in my closet.

Back in the states, Big Al attended Suffolk University, married Louise Davis and had four children who sometimes drove him up a wall, but I know he loved all the melodrama.

He was dedicated to his community and quietly went the distance for his students and his family. He was a man who helped others without any fanfare.

I will always be grateful to my three sisters who urged me to accompany my father at the Shurtleff School’s reunion in June, 2012. He kept an eye out for his ball players who were supposed to attend the event. Thank god for Richard DeCristoforo, who showed up and made my father’s night.

My father’s loyalty, integrity and sense of justice are beyond reproach, and we loved him for what he stood for in a world with the prevailing attitude, “What’s in it for me.”

But you know what I will miss about him?

Whenever we visited my mom and dad, my father always walked us to the car and gave me a hug before we returned to Maine.

“Make sure you call us when you get home,” he said.

But he said that to all his children because he always put his family first.

His infinite love for his family, community and his work in the classroom will be Albert John Blasi’s legacy.

Goodfellows52: A day at the beach and balloons over Broadway

Goodfellows52: A day at the beach and balloons over Broadway: "After a visit to the beach, it’s hard to believe that we live in a material world."  — Pam Shaw ...

A day at the beach and balloons over Broadway

"After a visit to the beach, it’s hard to believe that we live in a material world." 

— Pam Shaw

PHIPPSBURG, Maine — The sky was overcast, the water temperature was a balmy 64 degrees and a cool sea breeze made me consider wearing a sweatshirt, but any day at the beach with my family is always a pleasure.

Any time I have an opportunity to immerse my myself in the healing waters of the Atlantic, I do my best to persuade my family to make the 50-mile trek to the coast. Hanging out on the warm sand at a beach without my family makes me feel like a marooned sailor on an uncharted island.

I would feel like Gilligan without the Skipper and the rest of the five castaways.

I also understand my days are numbered when my son will gladly join me for some fun and sun with his dad in the surf. He is 18, has his eye on a number of colleges and is serious about his future.

So are we!

Popham Beach, our usual destination for us when we want to escape summer's heat, is what I call an explorer's beach. Besides tumultuous surf and a dangerous riptide and undertow, it offers miles of pure white sand and panoramic views of islands that make a beachgoer reach for a camera. 

It's a walker's paradise, too.

Two ancient, stone forts and a Civil-War era, Dahlgren cannon pointed toward the sea reminds history buffs of New England's past. Fort Popham and Baldwin have commanding views of the Maine coast and were used during several wars. At times, the forts served as observation posts where soldiers kept an eye out for German U-boats or spies trying to slip ashore under the cover of darkness.

But on this day we decided to scale Big Rock Island, which offers beachgoers spectacular vistas of the coast. You can access the island at low tide and you must leave when high tide comes rolling back in or you will find yourself stranded for several hours.

Anthony and I made our way slowly up the rocky slope. My balance isn't what it used to be so I stepped carefully. Anthony was light on his feet and had no problem finding the simplest route to the top.

This was our last hurrah for this season. School is next week, which always gets me down after enjoying a wonderful summer with my family. 

We took a handful of snapshots of the coast after reaching the top. We spent about 45 minutes on the wind-blown summit before I ambled down the mountain like a dawdling turtle. Anthony showed me the way and demonstrated great patience with his father.

We broke a sweat as we headed back to our stake of land on the sandy shoreline. We covered nearly four miles of coastline and headed toward the water for a dip that made me yelp when I submerged myself in the icy ocean.

But some of the best moments of the trip to Popham was the long ride. We never stopped talking as we listened to the Golden Oldies.

Archie "Moonlight" Graham was right when he said, "I thought there would be other days, but this was the only day."

And it was a great day for a father and son who are forever drawn to the sea.

Balloons over Broadway

LEWISTON, Maine — We rarely miss the Great Falls Balloon Festival, which has shrunk in size thanks to a shrinking economy caused by our narrow-minded leaders and corrupt financial institutions.

But we still get a rise out of the majestic balloons that coast across the sky during the three-day event.

The festival also signals the end of the summer and ominous signs of another school year, which will be Anthony's last. This is hard from me to take, but I also want him to go forth in life and do well for himself.

What I discovered about my son is that he is a talented photographer and sees images through the lens that I often overlook or ignore.

I find his shots stunning, and my praise for his ability behind a lens is not just from a proud father shooting his mouth off about his family.

See for yourself:

Goodfellows52: Bringing up the rear

Goodfellows52: Bringing up the rear: " Take care of your body. It's the only place you have to live. " — Jim Rohn I can smile after under going a medical p...

Bringing up the rear

"Take care of your body. It's the only place you have to live."

—Jim Rohn

I can smile after under going a medical procedure that makes everybody squirm.

LEWISTON, Maine —When you turn 50, your concerned, family doctor taps you on the shoulder and says: "It is time to get this done."

You might react like Robert De Niro in "Taxi Driver" and shout: "Are you talkin' to me!" You could go off the deep end, pull an Anthony Soprano and scream: "Forget you!"

But deep down, you know your doctor's wisdom and expertise in the medical field are unquestionable. You pause for a moment and tell the good doc you will schedule an appointment in the near future.

The hell you will! 

You will procrastinate and find any excuse to avoid having a colonoscopy. 

Here is what you are really thinking behind a masked smile as this moment of cooperation with your physician disappears.

Hey doc, I refuse to wear a johnny and spend the next 24 hours reading "War and Peace" in the bathroom after drinking a gallon of bilge water that will keep me running to the head and cursing my existence.

I waited four years before I reluctantly gave the green light to undergo a colonoscopy — a pain-in-the-ass procedure that saves lives. 

Of course, people, who have undergone the procedure, giggle when they learn it's your turn on the table. They remind you that your colon will be on parade in front of a handful of medical personnel in a cold operating room.

Then comes a cavalcade of jokes about your exposed derriere and the crap you must drink that strips away your insides like the Rotor Rooter man does to your home's pipes with an iron snake.

I made the appointment two weeks ago.

Preparation begins five days before your insides go on display. You stop eating certain kinds of foods before you get to that day — a day that lives in infamy.

When you begin gulping the stuff, there are moments when you wish you weren't born. The liquid is flavored, but I think a mixture of gin and Vodka might have made this medicine palatable. 

Beginning at midnight on the day before ground zero, you can't eat. You are allowed to suck on Popsicles, sip chicken broth (yum) or drink Gatorade. By the time you force yourself to drink the medicine, you want to eat your table. The hunger pangs are so intense that I wanted kill the ground hog eating my garden and have it for dinner.

Before ingesting an entire gallon of medicine, you must imbibe a 10-ounce bottle of magnesium citrate. You might be fooled that 10 ounces of this effervescent mix sounds refreshing — that's what the label says, anyway. After a few gulps, you start thinking of the word "vomit." It takes an hour to get this down. 

Trust me on this one.

Around 7 p.m., you are required to consume a half gallon of medicine. In no time at all, the stuff kicks in and you become intimate with your bathroom. Fortunately, we have two toilets in the house. You should be finished with it at around 9 p.m. At 3 a.m., Round 2 begins. You arise out of your stupor with an empty stomach and go to work polishing off the rest of medicine. 

The obscenities grow louder with each gulp.

You visit the bathroom in your home at least several times before you think it is safe to head to the hospital without attaching a Porta Potty to your car.

Check-in time is 7 a.m. You wait until you are summoned to the pre-op room where several nurses hand you a Johnny and stick things in your arm while trying to make you comfortable, which will never happen.

The cheerful anesthesia guy visits and explains these wonderful drugs will lull you into a deep sleep while your colon in on a lift undergoing an inspection.

You don't want to be conscious for this procedure. Take the drugs while the good doctor goes about his business examining your colon on the Silver Screen.

While laying on the table dreaming of a roast-beef sandwich and a tall, sudsy beverage, the medical staff inflates your stomach like a rubber tube inside a bicycle tire. Your ballooning abdomen allows the doctor to observe your colon without the rest of your organs getting in the way of his line of vision. When you awake, your guts are pressurized. I will spare readers the grisly details what happens as you recover in a bloated, wonderful haze.

The entire procedure takes about two hours. Those wonderful drugs wear off quick and you spend the  afternoon sleeping it off like some drunk in Central Park.

Was it worth feeling like the Goodyear blimp for an hour and drinking medicine that could wear down an elephant?

Absolutely!

My doctor, who was quite thorough, was impressed at how serious I took the preparation and gave my colon a clean bill of heath. I told him the medicine tasted like crap. He shook his head and agreed with me.

There was a 50-50 chance the doctor might have discovered a cancerous polyp, which could be removed on the spot.

The decision to undergo a colonoscopy is a no-brainer unless you enjoy playing Russian roulette with your health.

In a way, I feel like a new man, lighter on my feet and can boast that I have the cleanest colon this side of the Mississippi.

Goodfellows52: Let's do the Twist-er

Goodfellows52: Let's do the Twist-er: " If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm. "                                                          ...

Let's do the Twist-er

"If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm."

                                                                                                                                               Frank Lane

REVERE, Mass. —  There were a dozen phone trucks with flashing lights going up and down Broadway repairing fallen lines after a twister left this section of the city looking like the aftermath of an air strike from a B1 bomber.

The loud whining of industrial woodchippers could be heard throughout neighborhoods that bore the brunt of an EF2 twister with a maximum wind speed of 120 miles per hour. People were in their yards gathering up piles of debris that landed from blocks away.

An employee, working feverishly from atop a cherry picker, apologized to my sister for taking so long to fix the phone line to my boyhood home in Revere on Thursday.

My son ran into the hallway in Maine on Monday morning and told me a two-mile long twister rolled through Broadway and tore up the center of my hometown. Facebook went berserk and relatives and friends began calling us in Maine. We watched the coverage on the computer. Revere was a mess with fallen trees, blown-out windows and debris littering the landscape.

A frigging twister? In Revere? Are you kidding?

This seaside community has never experienced a twister in my lifetime. I have always believed New England has been surrounded by an invisible force field that protected us from these devastating whirlwinds. I thought twisters only wreaked havoc in the Midwest, and as far as I am concerned, these deadly concoctions of nature can stay in the Midwest.

Revere has been ravaged by blizzards and menacing hurricanes, but this community of 53,000 residents has never stared down a twister without any warning. The twister was only on the ground for five minutes, and in those brief moments, the tornado flipped cars like a short-order cook tosses burgers. Some homes were rendered uninhabitable and a few businesses were nearly leveled.

My nephew took a peek out from the picture window of my father's home and saw trees snapping when a frightening funnel cloud became visible. He shouted to his mother to get downstairs and the pair huddled in the dark basement, hoping the house would not shake loose from its foundation. They have been caring for our dad, who was resting at a rehabilitation facility in nearby Melrose, Mass. I was proud of my courageous nephew who thought of his mother first and took shelter in the basement. For a brief moment, they felt like Dorothy and Tonto.

If you can read a map, Revere is next to Boston. But most of the city was unscathed due to the narrow path of the storm. It began in Chelsea and whipped down Revere's main street and veered toward my old neighborhood where McClure, School, Belgrade and True streets were hit hard. My dad's roof and siding took a beating and my uncle's shed was ripped to pieces.

I believe you can chalk up this rare instance to global warming caused by the most destructive force on the planet — man. There are too many of us and our appetite for overdeveloping the earth and wasting finite resources has taken a harsh toll on a planet soiled my careless human beings.

My other sister was not home, but her husband was pushed back when he tried to open the door to their home. Both sisters and their children were not injured and can now tell their grandchildren a tale of how they survived a tornado. 

Nobody was killed or severely injured in the tornado that ambushed a city on a quiet Monday morning. Homes can be restored or replaced, but people are lost forever in these dangerous storms.

Kudos to Revere residents for making a quick recovery.