Missing in action — forever

Albert John Blasi through the years

"He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."

                                   ~Clarence Budington Kelland

CAPE ELIZABETH — Lingering grief is like being buried alive in a shallow grave.

Melancholy is grief’s best friend, and if you immerse yourself in endless desolation, you will be consumed by your own sorrow — like a rotting corpse resting in the deep earth.

I won’t allow that kind of emptiness to rule my life. My father wouldn’t tolerate it, either. And I don’t have a choice — I have a family that still needs me despite my sadness.

My father, Albert John Blasi, died this weekend on Nov. 8, 2014 — another casualty of a cruel disease known as Alzheimer’s. He was buried with full military honors after serving a tour of duty during the occupation of Germany in 1954. Actually, he played baseball for the U.S. Army’s post teams. It was a good gig, and instead of lugging around an M-1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and donned a glove on a baseball diamond somewhere in Europe.

I have this great picture of him playing catch at Zepplin Field where Hitler’s Nazis rallied during World War II. Behind my father is a destroyed, concrete swastika — remnants of the Third Reich.

There were hundreds of mourners at his wake and a police escort accompanied the hearse to the cemetery where he was buried in Peabody, Mass.

I still have the flag which was draped over his coffin on that cold day. It sits in a case that rests on top of a curio cabinet that I bought for my parents long ago. Call it a shrine, if you like, but it doesn’t alleviate the pain that goes along with my father’s loss.

That takes time, sometimes counseling, and a begrudging acceptance, and there is no closure — just a deep wound that never heals.

He was a teacher, coach and father whose integrity, loyalty and compassion made him a respected member in a city just outside Boston, and his reputation as the Revere High baseball skipper for 42 years extended well beyond the borders of the Greater Boston area. Boston Globe writer Martin Pave did a wonderful job with his half-page article about my dad.

It is an anniversary that no one in our family cares to celebrate. The memories are painful and his permanent absence has left us all with a sense of longing and sadness.

The new normal is impossible to get used to, and there is not a day I don’t think about him or my mother. The house at 17 McClure Street has been sold, and that’s a different kind of sadness.

I knew hanging around my home recalling his last moments on earth would trigger paralyzing grief and a strong bout of depression.

That wasn’t going to happen. I did that for four years as I watched his beautiful mind and precious memories slip away as the Alzheimer’s slowly progressed.

So I spent this weekend visiting the ocean and walking trails along the coast with my son who came home from college for the weekend. He made these past few days bearable.

I grew up in a seaside community and I have always found the turbulent waters of the Atlantic a calming force in my life. We are all connected to the sea. 

The late President John F Kennedy said, “We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.”

Maybe that is why we headed south to visit one of our old stomping grounds — Fort Williams in Cape Elizabeth. It offers stunning views of the coastline and made me feel a helluva lot better to see the cold salt water lap against the shoreline and breath in the sea air on a chilly, windy November day.

For the next hour, I thought about my father, but in a positive way, avoiding the misery that accompanies grief.

Somedays are harder than others, but I have come to terms with his death, and although I miss him every day, I feel I was lucky to have parents who gave a damn about their four kids and put them first in their lives.

That feeling of loss never goes away as my grief subsides and acceptance takes a firm hold.

I see my father in my son and in my sisters’ children, too.

He lives on in all of us, but I still miss the man who stood for something good.

That will never change.

Walking for a cure and my father

“It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” 

― Rose Kennedy

LEWISTON — We took a long walk for a good cause on a chilly Sunday morning.

A couple of hundred people tagged along to raise money for “The Long Goodbye,” also know as Alzheimer’s — the devastating disease of the brain.

It is the scourge of the elderly and the bastard killed my father. For me, this murderer is the enemy of the state and needs to be put down with a powerful drug. The medical community has declared war on this SOB, but so far, there is no cure or a way to slow its progression despite all the research.

For four years, I was helpless as Albert John Blasi’s mind faded away. He raised four good kids, and was a compassionate teacher and coach. He succumbed to Alzheimer's on on Nov. 8, 2014. Those last hours of his life were enough to trigger depression in all of us.

So my wife and I walked through New Auburn and along the the Androscoggin River as a chilly autumn wind gave us a head’s-up that winter would be making a return engagement in the Pine Tree State. We walked with people who either lost a loved one to the disease or were in the midst of taking care of a stricken family member.

There’s not much you can do when Alzheimer’s targets a loved one. You experience the horrible pain as a loved one slowly disappears into the night. There is no cure for this malevolent killer, which robs victims of their cherished memories.

Alzheimer’s, like every killer disease, is simply cruel. I watched my father struggle to remember or speak and eventually he forgot how to eat — and there is not damn thing I could do except watch him die.

So we walked, talked and traded memories of my father during our three-mile trek. Terri and I had insightful conversations about Big Al. I thought him with each step I took and found the grief still lingers and impossible to shake.

We donated money, listen to people speak about loved ones battling the disease and then followed the course mapped out by dedicated volunteers. Donors were given flower pinwheels and were planted in the park.

But instead of being consumed by depression, we decided to take active steps to do something — anything — about this mind robber.

Sometimes, you think all the fundraising and goodwill are just futile attempts to stamp out the disease and make us feel good. But once you get involved, you feel like you are taking evasive action and no longer a bystander watching the suffering.

Participating in fundraising events might help families avoid this long ordeal, but time is of the essence for all those slipping away.

So open your wallets, take a long walk with caring people and go the distance for a cure for Alzheimer’s. Being involved is one way to battle grief, helplessness and an opportunity to eliminate this disease.

My year in review

"Maybe when you go back, Martin, you'll find that there are merry-go-rounds and band concerts where you are. Maybe you haven't been looking in the right place. You've been looking behind you, Martin. Try looking ahead."

                       — Dialogue from the Twilight Zone episode  "Walking Distance"

AUBURN, Maine — I discovered a worn Christmas card at the bottom of a box used for storing our treasure trove of holiday ornaments.

The thoughtful card was from my dad who is engaged in a cruel battle with Alzheimer's — a disease of the brain that dissolves memories and renders all human beings stricken with it helpless.

I opened the card and read the inscription: "Have a great holiday. We love all of you."

I know it wasn't his handwriting because he can no longer hold a pen, but it was something he would say to all of us each Christmas. He has always been a man of few words, but his loyalty and integrity is beyond reproach.

Of course, reading the card stirred all those memories of my mom and dad. My parents are no longer together. My mom passed three years ago, leaving us all with an emptiness that never goes away. Big Al still has home-run moments of lucidity, but there are other instances when it is impossible for him to speak in complete sentences.

I admire people who take down the Christmas tree and pack all those ornaments away the day after the holiday and move on to the next year without batting an eye. I look forward to the future, but I often find myself looking over my shoulder for the past.

The week between Christmas and New Year's Day is like purgatory for me. I am relieved the holiday has passed, but bundling up all that holiday cheer in plastic tubs and placing them on the cold cellar floor leaves me melancholic. I know another year has past that was filled with great moments in our lives. These memories have been recorded in photographs or on video clips.

I have been lucky to experience these moments that come so fast and furious and disappear so quickly before I can savor them.

That's why a camera comes in handy.

I am not a prisoner of my past, but I am a sentimental fool when it comes to my family.

This was my week to review a year that gave me hope but was also tinged with despair. 

Isn't that always the way in life?

Philadelphia Freedom

We threw caution to the wind and hopped in a souped-up, red Chevy Impala and cut across seven states for a 1,300-mile joy ride that took us all the way to Philadelphia and Gettysburg. My 17-year-old son served as our on-board navigator and acted as a chaperon for his two loving parents who acted like two crazy kids.

During our voyage to the City of Brotherly Love, we visited:

@ The Independence Sea Port Museum

@ The Liberty Bell (Did you know there is a crack in it? Really, there is!)

@ Independence Hall (It gave me a new appreciated for my founding fathers and strengthened my disdain toward a pathetic Congress.)

@ The Borse (Philadelphia's version of Faneuil Hall in Boston)

@ The Olympia (Admiral Dewey's ship that participated in the Spanish American War. I satisfied my son's dream by touring this behemoth battle wagon from the past)

@ Crossing the Susquehanna River. (We took the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Gettysburg, which is surrounded by the Allegheny Mountains)

@The Becuna (It is a World War II submarine that is docked next the Olympia.)

@ Ben Franklin's grave (We threw a few pennies on the big fellas' tombstone.)

@ Staying at the Wyndham hotel (Great people, good food and a four-stars stay as far as I am concerned.)

@Gettysburg (It was worth the 268-mile round trip from our hotel in Philly. It worth spending an entire day in 97-degree heat to check out Little Roundtop and the rest of the battle sites.)

@ Driving through Amish country (I appreciate people who live a simple life and refuse to complicate their lives with technology and greed.)

@Crossing the George Washington Bridge, seeing the World Trade Center One stand out above the New York City skyline, and then crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge as we headed into Philadelphia.

Revere Beach

We wanted to visit with Big Al and see fireworks on July Fourth. We found a way to watch three major pyrotechnic displays that lit up Revere Beach.

We sat on the wall as waves people shuffled up and down the boardwalk on typical hot night in the city. Fireworks could be scene from Marblehead, Swampscott and Boston, and the price of admission was free.

Beach baby

We hung out at beaches across New England and hiked trails at several state parks in the Pine Tree State.

World politics

Don't get me started. This Congress played a huge roll in making every American feeling like they were suffering from an endless stomach virus. There are reports that the economy is getting better. Tell that to the homeless, whose numbers continue to grow, and to the people who can't find a well-paying, full-time job. To top it off, the NSA is recording phone calls of all Americans. Is it subversive when my wife calls me at work to remind me to bring home milk?

The Future

I have no New Year's resolutions, but I have a pretty good idea what I want to do next. Right now, I am having a helluva time watching my son grow and become a fine young man. I am damn lucky I am married to a woman who has the patience and love to keep the two men in her life on the right track, and my dad still knows my name.

A family affair and a city that remains strong

"The family is a haven in a heartless world." 

Attributed to Christopher Lasch

REVERE, Mass. — I was raised on this beach. Time and weather has changed its appearance, but its sandy shores will always be remembered as my playground during the summers of my youth.

For years, my mother whispered obscenities under her breath as my father navigated our big-ass Buick down a clogged Revere Street on steamy summer days.

If my family didn't leave early, we endured a 20-minute ride through stop-and-go traffic. We didn't have air conditioning in the car. The heat was stifling in our oven-baked automobile. It was a short journey through hell.

Growing up in a coastal community and bathing in the chilly waters of the Atlantic was worth running the gauntlet to spend a day at Revere Beach.

Last weekend, we walked on the warm sand and ignored a chilly sea breeze at America's first public beach. Everybody who is anybody was out and about, and there seemed to be a sense of relief on the streets. People were cordial and the bright sun contributed to my good mood. A couple of weeks have passed since the Boston Marathon bombings. The confusion and fear has subsided despite the ongoing investigation into the attacks.

My father's struggle

There were three important reasons why I visited Revere. We threw a small celebration for one of the U.S. Navy's finest — my niece, who married a Navy guy from the great state of Missouri. It was a fine, sunny cool day on the deck of my sister's home. The Boston skyline is clearly visible from her home. It was an opportunity to meet the in-laws, who also happen to be nice people, too. There was a buffet of Chinese food for well-wishers.

I also spent quality time with my dad who is trying to stay a step ahead of Alzheimer's, but this affliction is malicious and relentless. This is man who earned a master's degree in history. He was a successful high school teacher and baseball coach for 42 years, and here he was struggling to utter simple pronouns,

But my father and I had a memorable Sunday morning after my neice's celebration. Any good day with my dad is a blessing, because there are times when his thoughts are clear and his words come easy, and those moments of clarity mean so much to me.

Big Al speaks quietly as he searches for the right words, which evaporate before he can say them. It hurts him and all of us. We are helpless and often feel hopeless because there is no cure for dementia.

Back on the beach

I tried to coax my father to come along with us to the beach. He politely refused, so we bought him a hot dog and fries from Kelly's Roast Beef — a fast-food joint that claims to be the creator of the first roast beef sandwich. 

Anybody from the Greater Boston area is familiar with Kelly's scrumptious reputation for seafood. Their fish, clam and scallop plates are unbelievable, but you will need to take a small loan to pay for them. Kelly's clam chowder is worth the price, especially on a cold New England day.

When fear and evil strike out

Every time a terrorist strikes, our openness shrinks, freedoms dwindle, and our feelings of suspicion and revenge rise to the top of our emotions.

Four days after we visited the Bay State, my son returned to Boston for a class field trip. Anthony's fearless history teacher had the class visit the Freedom Trail, Paul Revere House, Bunker Hill monument and U.S.S. Constitution. Before he boarded the U.S. Navy's oldest commissioned ship, his classmates were told to remove their belt buckles, searched and advised that any visitor who leaves a bag unattended will be asked to leave the ship.

These guys were not fooling around!

The Navy has always kept a watchful eye on the Constitution, and rightfully so. But due to the Boston Marathon bombings that killed four people and wounded hundreds, law enforcement agencies are on edge, and that means we are all under constant scrutiny when these bastards act.

But their cruel acts didn't prevent a class of wonderful students from Edward Little High School from visiting Beantown last Thursday.  Sure, I worried about my son and the rest of those kids, but when we cower in our homes, terrorists win.

Terror works for a little while, but resilient Americans won't be dictated by fear, and that's how you beat evil.

Just ask the Nazis!

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.