A reminder from winter

Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.

Andy Goldsworthy

AUBURN, Maine — We have felt like the prisoners of Zenda for the past 14 hours as a blizzard sputtered in the Gulf of Maine and pummeled the Pine Tree State with more than two feet of snow in some areas.

We got tired of looking at each other. We eventually found something to do as the winds howled outside and the snow piled up.

We were inmates in our home and wondered if the warden ordered a lockdown because Mother Nature dished out a can of whoop ass to the good folks of Maine. The streets are deserted and remain impassable — unless you are driving bulldozer. Only a fool would take a chance at getting behind of the wheel of a car during this stubborn storm.

It is now 7 p.m. Eastern Standard Time and the snow is still whipping around thanks to 35-mile per hour winds that built tall drifts that resemble mountain range on my street.

The snow plows have made several passes and a few of the behemoths came to sudden stop when they hit a wall of snow.

Lucky New York City! The Big Apple was spared and weathermen are issuing mea culpas as I write, but the rest of New England took one in the kisser.

My stalwart son and I decided to brave the icy wind and grab a shovel to clear the walkway to the front door of our snow-white home.

Before we stepped outside, we pried open the door, which was barricaded by two feet of frigging snow. Stepping outside and into the wind felt like a fusillade of glass shards, giving us second thoughts, but the walkway couldn’t wait, especially if we wanted our a mail and the paper.

For nearly 30 minutes, we were like a pair of jackhammers whacking away at two feet of the white stuff. The cold reminded us that we belonged inside our toasty home.

The snow on the walkway was as tall as the Great Wall of China. I thought about a stick of dynamite to blast an opening to the street, but explosives would make everybody nervous.

But we were so close to a breakthrough that we kept shoveling until we made it to the street.

Today was a “potato, corn and shrimp chowder” day, which took the chill out of bones and triggered several boyhood memories.

Tall tales

For the past 14, hours, Anthony endured stories of the Blizzard of 1978 — a storm that knocked Boston and surrounding communities on its asses for two weeks.

Of course, this was the perfect time to bore my son with tall tales of a snowstorm that nearly snuffed out the Blasi family.

Despite his annoying looks, I reeled off snippets of the greatest storm in my lifetime. Thanks to the snow, there was no place for him to hide.

It was Feb. 6, and there was that quiet that is familiar to any coming New England storm. You know you are in harm’s way when everything goes silent and the skies slowly darken.

The blizzard plowed into the Massachusetts’ coastline late in the morning. I sat in my parents’ cozy cellar listening to a Boston AM station — WRKO. I soon switched to WBZ when the flakes started falling. At first, the weatherman called for 6 to 12 inches. Two hours later, the snow totals began to rise: 12 to 16; 18-24; 25-30 inches.

They weren’t wrong. The storm stalled off the coast and delivered snow that shut down the Greater Boston area. Cars and trucks were stopped in their tracks on Routes 128 and 1. People lived in their cars for hours before help came.

Thirty six hours later and there was over two feet of snow on the ground. My Uncle Tony could not leave his house and my grandmother’s home next door became impregnable thanks that to huge drifts that reached the rooftop of her home.

Our first priority was getting to my uncle’s home. It took four men and over an hour to get  to Uncle Tony’s front door. Mr. Martinetti — a big man with powerful arms — was like Big Bad John slinging iron in a coal mine.

I was an 18-year-old who shoveled for the eight hours that day, helping 17 relatives clear the snow from their driveways on McClure Street. For two weeks, Revere High School was shutdown because it became an emergency shelter. Loud U.S. Army Huey helicopters landed all over the city and a handful of tanks roamed the streets. Revere was now under martial law after Revere Beach became flooded during the height of the storm. It was intimidating to see an armed National Guard patrolling the main streets of Revere.

For an entire week, people were forced to walk every where. No vehicles were not allowed on the road. Bread and milk were scarce for a few days because of panicked people making food runs.

But everybody helped out despite the snow and cold.

Months later, when I began a small landscaping service to pay for college, I mowed lawns along Revere’s coastline that sweet summer. I soon discovered hardened star fish and other marine life being broken apart by my lawnmower. These were the yards that were flooded by the rising tide during the Blizzard of 1978.

Sometimes it takes a storm — and home-made chowder — to bring calm and allow us to look back those special moments of our past.

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!

September Mourning

 

"But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness.  The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head ... The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on."
-  Robert Finch 

"'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone."
-   Thomas Moore, The Last Rose of Summer, 1830

LEWISTON — We have only so many summers to spend with our son before he sets out on his own, leaving us with hundreds of pictures and dozens of home-made movies of our moments with him.

Time does this to all parents, and it explains why September gets a bad rap from me.

I can smell September at the end of every August. 

It is like a damn prowler lurking in the shrubs, and I am the one who gets mugged every fall.

September's distinct odor emanates from grass covered in a dewy glaze and drifts through the cool nights as the days grow shorter.

If you can't detect September's cruel presence during August's last gasp, then you are suffering from allergies or are oblivious to the world.

September acts as a sign post for autumn — a season that quietly shoves summer aside and subtly prepares us for Old Man Winter's arrival.

September is deceptive and messes with our minds with Indian summers and cool nights. It tries to persuade us to let go of summer and move on to winter.

I am never sold!

I have always dreaded September's entrance. My abhorrence for the ninth month of our calendar began as a child, who spent most of his youth at Revere Beach during long, hot summers.

September's appearance meant summer was about to get the heave-ho, and its arrival added up to fewer trips to the beach thanks to the opening of another school year. 

Every time September tapped me on the shoulder to remind me summer was finished, my siblings grew older, and we would eventually be dispersed throughout the world. No longer would all four of us be together on those sandy shores, eating pizza in the boiling sun. 

It was September's fault and its appearance always made me depressed. Oh sure, I got over summer's abrupt end by November, but it doesn't make it any easier each August.

But if it means I have to suffer through another September to spend another glorious summer with my son and wife, then I will withstand the pain of a heavy heart and be grateful there is a May, June, July and August.

My dislike for the month grew during long high school football practices in August's stifling heat. September's repugnant odor was at its strongest on the practice field, and after running wind sprints for 20 minutes, all I could think about was a dip in the cold ocean — and of course, girls.

And now I lament as another summer passes and my son is a year older and an inch taller. But I am fortunate he still makes time for his mom and dad and enjoys trips to the ocean with both us. He is a low-maintenance young man with high aspirations, and there is not a day I am not proud of him.

Then September comes along and spoils our fun in the sun.

My wife and son are back at school and the house suddenly becomes empty. Not good for a guy suffering from mood swings at the hands of September.

For the last 19 years, the L-A Balloon festival has become another one of September's  reminders that summer is on the way out. We have watched the launches nearly every year at Railroad park in Lewiston. The three-day event is worth getting up at 5 a.m., especially when about two dozen balloons of all sizes and colors are launched into the sky.

It is a sight to behold as these unique balloons disappear into the heavens — along with another wonderful summer and all its splendid moments.

I can't sea clearly now

"To myself I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me."

                                                                                                         Isaac Newton

PHIPPSBURG — Some where hidden in all this fog lay the Atlantic Ocean. 

I could hear the loud rumble of waves, but no beachgoer could see the huge body of water from the shoreline. 

No sun, no ocean, just thick fog that you remember in old horror flicks. The fog would have made an excellent backdrop for the 1940s movie, "The Uninvited." 

If fishermen were at sea, I don't see how any skipper could navigate in that thick soup that hung around at Popham Beach. 

We were all in a fog on Sunday.

An obscuring haze covered the beach, lowering visibility to about 35 yards. 

The misty and pasty stuff snuffed out the sun, but the oppressive humidity hung around to make everybody feel uncomfortable. You didn't have to go swimming to cool off. Beachgoers got drenched just sitting in the warm sand as the low-flying cloud of vapor left us all feeling damp. There was a sheen of moisture covering the hair on my head and arms.  

I would wipe away the water, but minutes later, I was covered with murky film.  

Anthony and I watched as dozens of swimmers disappeared into the mist as they headed toward the choppy ocean. 

We joined them, hoping to latch on to a few giant waves. After a quarter mile walk, the soothing water stood at our feet. The water was warm, but when I looked back toward the beach, it vanished into the white haze. 

There were no signs of life beyond 50 yards. 

Walking back to the sandy beach would put our navigation skills to the test.

The water was unusually warm and I started thinking about sharks — really big dangerous sharks. Several days ago, a swimmer was bit by a great white off Cape Cod's Ballston Beach in Truro, Mass. 

There is nothing great about a great white sharks. They might look awesome on a nature show, but getting up close and personal doesn't appeal to me. 

Popham's cold waters do warm up in August, but the tepid water felt like I was taking a swim in a neighbor's pool.

My fear didn't stop me from diving into the surf, but I would quickly surface, see if Anthony was topside and quickly scan the water for a dorsal fin cutting through warm sea.  

I didn't like it, and I didn't like these bastards hanging around the New England coast.

Let them eat other fish and lay off the human flesh, I say. 

Thanks to changing temperatures in the world's oceans, great whites are paying more visits to our shorelines and sharp attention to unknowing tourists flopping around in the surf. 

Motion in the water is like signaling a shark that dinner is ready. 

I grew up a couple of miles from the ocean. Revere Beach was my second home as child, and I was like Jacques Cousteau enjoying its vastness. I couldn't get enough of the salt water or air, Kelly's Roast Beef, Bianchi's Pizza and foot-long hot dogs. That was our diet during summer months.

My mother ordered all four of us to the beach on those sweltering days. 

It was years ago, but shark warnings went up along the Massachusetts coast. I was 10 or 11 and didn't concern myself with sharks. 

I ventured 80 yards as the tide was going out when I heard yelling from the beach. 

At first, I thought everybody was waving at me. I waved back. I blamed the hot sun on their peculiar behavior.  

Then I heard the word, "Shark," from the shore and I got a little nervous. They were telling me to come in due to shark warnings, and I was floating target

I looked side to side as I trudged through the surf, fearing I was about to be cut in two by a shark with a voracious appetite.  

Terror can act like springboard when you are swimming for your life. I trembled as I safely rushed to shore. 

That was years ago. 

All I had to contend with was annoying fog and a warm ocean on a quiet Sunday afternoon at Popham Beach.  

And that was just fine with me.

Another friend departs

"Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye?" — Author Unknown

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?　 I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave.　 Someone always leaves.Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos." — Charles M. Schulz

AUBURN, Maine — The corner deli was a hangout for lifelong gamblers, sports fanatics, coffee lovers and loyal customers who purchased  top-shelf salami or ham.

Conversation was just as important as making money at one of the best delis in the Greater Boston area.

The older gentlemen met at the corner of Broadway and Revere Street to sip a strong cup of Joe on Sunday mornings — and buy a pound of mortadella. 

The usual customers lingered long after they bought their meat to sound off about the Red Sox or Celtics. They were all arm-chair prognosticators and self-proclaimed experts on the future of Boston sports teams. 

But gambling was always the hottest topic of the morning. Everybody had a tip on a horse or dog in the ninth race. They talked about laying down their  bets at Wonderland or Suffolk Downs. I often referred to Suffolk as Suffering Downs, where hard-luck gamblers emptied their wallets looking for that one big score. The cliental at the Wonderland dog track was no different.

My father was the big draw at DiPietro's Deli. He was the high school baseball coach who  also served as  a spokesman for this unofficial brotherhood of sports nuts and gamblers. He would carry on in-depth conversations about the Patriots or that horse in the eighth race in between slicing meat and ringing up purchases

Of course, the owner, Carl DiPietro, would, on some occasions, make an appearance on Sunday mornings. Carl was a big man who could handle himself, but he was also a kind and trusted human being with integrity. He had the instincts of a  boxer and the brains of a college professor.  He was no stranger to colorful language , but the use of his ear-splitting adjectives made him one of the boys. 

Carl fit right in with the rest of the Sunday bunch. Like all of them, he loved to gamble and was regular at Wonderland. Revere is that kind of town where the action can be seductive.

I respected him for the respect he gave my father and me. He was a generous employer who took care of his help during the Christmas onslaught when hundreds of customers stopped in to buy expensive prosciutto for their pizza gainers. Old ladies would vie for the prosciutto bones to make their Italian soups.

When I worked with him, Carl would regale me with his exploits on the strip at Revere Beach. He was a regular at some pubs and enjoyed the Boston nightlife. He was not one to hold back or keep his opinions to himself. He was an avid listener of Elvis Presley and remained loyal to the King long after Presley was laid to rest in Memphis. Carl was also a fan of Roy Orbison and the Beatles because the guy really had good taste in music.

He also had a big smile and loved good jokes, and he was not shy about telling a few naughty ones when he was in the company of his trusted friends. I was  lucky  to be  included in his inner circle.

When I needed of $700 to pay off a student loan, and I didn't want to bother my dad, I turned to Carl for a loan. I was apprehensive, but Carl turned to me and said, "Just keep track of your hours and work it off." That was it. The deal was done. But I was always grateful to this man for that generous act of kindness and understanding.

Carl once told me this: "Don't ever steal from me. Eat anything you want, and take a sandwich to school if you would like. But just don't steal from me."

I never did.  Betraying this man's trust was simply out of the question.

But Carl was stolen from all our hearts when he died this week at 64 years old  — way too young for man who still had a lot of living to do.

English poet and priest John Donne once wrote, "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind."

Carl took an interest in me and played an important role in my youth, and in doing so, he became a friend for life

  He will eventually become a treasured memory of my past, but that's just not good enough for me.