Our condolence to people of France

“They were singing in French, but the melody was freedom and any American could understand that.”

Audie Murphy, American World War II hero

“Global terrorism is extreme both in its lack of realistic goals and in its cynical exploitation of the vulnerability of complex systems.”

Jurgen Habermas

“The enemy for the fanatic is pleasure, which makes it extremely important to continue to indulge in pleasure. Dance madly. That is how you get rid of terrorism.”

Salman Rushdie

“Terrorism is the tactic of demanding the impossible, and demanding it at gunpoint.”

Christopher Hitchens

To the proud and good people of France,

You gave us the Statue of Liberty, helped our ancestors win their freedom in 1783 and you remain the devout caretakers of our American war dead in pristine cemeteries across your great nation.

I can’t speak for all of my countrymen, but my family stands by the French and we offer our condolences to the families who lost loved ones in another inane act of terrorism in your country.

What fanatics did was solidify the bonds between free nations and brought worldwide condemnation from all of us. Each terrorist act brings us all together and it accomplishes nothing except to continue a war without end.

There will be blood, but it will ebb from the veins of terrorists whose misguided beliefs and nefarious ways continue to unite those who believe in the greater good.

War is like a street fight — somebody’s not getting up, and our survival depends our decisive actions.

The fanatic doesn’t understand an open and free society, which fosters ideas, ideals and the advancement of its people. France and its open-minded people have always enjoyed the fine arts and their culinary delights have been the talk of Europe.

Flip through the pages of history and there are centuries of proof that terrorizing a civilian population will bring only doom upon the perpetrators of violence.

The French fought against Hitler, whose V-2 rockets terrorized London. But all those missiles did was strengthen the resolve of the British as they huddled in underground subway tunnels. The French Underground was responsible for numerous historic acts of bravery during the D-Day invasion of France in 1944.

In World War I, the Germans used giant artillery pieces such the Paris Gun to instill fear in the French population. It is obviously those massive guns failed after the Allies won the war in 1918.

When the World Trade Towers fell on Sept. 11, 2001 in the United States, France supported us and the Canadians allowed American passenger planes to land after the United States ordered all civilian aircraft to stand down. The Holocaust united the Jewish people and Israel was born in 1948. America was the first to recognize this new nation.

Grand ideas like our U.S. constitution, which includes the phrase: “All men are created equal,” inspired a new nation. Nobody ever wrote a sentence like that in the history of mankind. That one bold stroke of a pen set the bar for all humanity, started our Civil War that put an end to slavery and sparked the civil rights movement in this country 100 years later. Gays can no longer be discriminated and are allowed to marry without retribution or harrassment thanks to our just laws.

The terrorist, with their warped views and unjust laws, will never comprehend a free state, but they know we will never back down or retreat.

So no matter what these bastards do, liberty and the greater good will prevail. But if we allow paranoia and hatred to seize us, these miscreants will have the upper hand.

At this moment, our skyscrapers are displaying the colors of the French flag and an unscheduled rendition of your country’s national anthem was performed at the New York Metropolitan Opera.

We feel your pain, but you are not alone.

A photo warms the heart during a brutal winter

Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien
 Umpire Mike Caira listens politely as Revere coach Al Blasi dramatizes his claim that Arlington’s Ron Valeri was out trying to steal third base during yesterday’s game. Blasi lost the argument and Revere lost the game, 2-1. This copy of the photo appeared on the front page of the sports section of the Boston Evening Globe dated Thursday, April 27, 1978.

“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” 

                               
                                                                        ― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

AUBURN, Maine — Whenever I open the shades and peer through the window, blinding snow and howling winds obscure my vision of a disappearing landscape that lies beneath 100 inches of god damn snow.

I can’t speak for all New Englanders, but this has certainly been the winter of my discontent and February has been a complete whiteout. Weekly snowstorms drift in and I feel like I have been carpet bombed by Mother Nature.

Obscenities litter my white front lawn. A line of six-foot high hedges, which act as a barrier to outside world, are buried under seven feet of snow. Their branches protrude through the white powder, crying out for help. Trenches surround my home, making my yard look like the Battle of the Marne during World War I. I am expecting a sniper to take a shot at me as I burrow through snow to get to the oil pipe or the porch.

I feel like a freakin’ groundhog.

I have given up on shoveling my other driveway. The remains of a broken shovel rests against a wall on my deck in the freezing cold. It was good shovel that has become another casualty in the war against snow. I will miss it.

Old Man Winter has been merciless to this region of America. There has been talk that people on the West Coast are frustrated because the Northeast is hogging all the snow.

Really!

I have a few choice words for my fellow Americans in Washington and Oregon. So what’s stopping them from showing up in my neighborhood with huge dump trucks to haul away this white crap.

I don’t wear snowshoes and don’t enjoy trudging through six feet of snow. I remain huddled inside and have gone on a cleaning spree — again.

I have been going through my parents’ personal items since my father’s death last November. I feel like a ghoul as we divide up their belongings. I would do anything to avoid this grisly task.

My father would have despised this winter. He was the Revere High School baseball coach for 42 years. Spring and summer were his favorite seasons. Baseball was his thing and you can’t play America’s pastime in the snow. I can still hear him cuss with each shovel of snow. He hated the stuff.

My mother, who passed four years ago, kept all the clippings of his coaching career. This basket of hard copies from my past is a treasure trove to a son who was the team’s bat boy and had the opportunity to hang out with his dad on the diamond as a child.

As I sifted through the clips as another storm set down a new coat of — you guessed it — fresh snow, I discovered a copy of the photo and clipping that "Boston Globe" reporter Marvin Pave and I were hoping to find to run with a well-written feature story about my dad’s life that appeared last November in Boston’s largest daily. It was a remarkable tribute to a good man who gave a damn about the right things in life.

I pulled the front page of the "Boston Globe Evening’s" sports section dated Thursday, April 27, 1978 from the pile of clippings. My loving mother had saved the faded newspaper all these years.

Globe photographer Frank O’Brien took the photo of my father having words with an umpire during a Revere baseball game against the Arlington Spyponders. It was a banner photo of my dad coming to bat for his team.

The next day at Revere High School a couple of teachers called me into the history department’s room and pointed out the photo of my father. We all had a laugh. My father was amused and quite popular for a few days.

I have a print of the black-and-white photo. It was given to me by my sisters and apparently purchased by my mother nearly 36 years ago. These possessions have  become precious artifacts of my past.

Finding that photo of my father and the old sports front of the Boston Evening Globe made a winter’s gloomy day bearable to a son who still wishes he could spend one more hour on a baseball diamond with his father.

Serving his country and playing baseball in occupied Germany

“Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go”

Bernard Malamud

“Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go”

 Bernard Malamud

My father's uniform sports three citations for his service to his country

Big Al Blasi pays a visit to his daughter's house

Anthony stands in front of a P-51 Mustang at the Brunswick Air Show. 

Anthony and Terri stand in front of an M-60 tank in Augusta.

Anthony and I on the deck of the U.S.S. Massachusetts - an old World War II battleship that now rests at Battleship Cover in Fall River, Mass.

A pair of bombing can't keep a proud and good city like Boston down.

AUBURN, Maine – There's a classic black-and white picture of my dad speaking with the opposing coach and his good friend Joe Bevere after Revere played Chelsea in a high school baseball game.

Big Al is wearing his traditional team cap, baggy pants and rumpled blue coat at wind-blown Curtis Park – a shabby baseball field battered by endless, cold sea breezes and summer humidity. An MBTA train used to rattle past the outfield as it raced toward Boston to drop off passengers.

The field is gone, but not my memories of my father's unforgettable moments on the diamond and that wonderful, old dusty field that was removed from my past to make way for a new school.

I sometimes stare at the picture that rests on my desk at the Sun Journal. I fondly remember moments when I served as the team's batboy and all the young men who played ball for my father.

My dad knows baseball like a sailor who is able to maneuver his vessel in a harbor with his eyes shut.

Big Al's knowledge America's pastime has served him well as a baseball skipper who coached the Revere Patriots for nearly 43 years without being run out of town.

What I often forget is that he was drafted and served his country during the Korean War. But Pfc. Al Blasi, and his brother, U.S. Army 2nd Lt. Rocco Blasi, missed serving in Korea by this much. Both of them ended up being stationed in Europe as the world rebuilt war-torn nations from the ground up.

They were both lucky, and they knew it. Europe was like a vacation on the Maine coast compared to slugging it out with the North Koreans and Chinese.

His outfit was the fabled Big Red One, a division that served with distinction in World War I. In the second war, the Big Red One was the first to fight the enemy in North Africa and Sicily. The division was also the first on the beaches of Normandy and captured the major German City – Aachen. The Big Red One remained in Germany until 1955 and was later redeployed to Fort Riley in Kanas. A movie starring Lee Marvin was made about the division's heroics during the second war.

There were no tales of combat for my father, but there were plenty of stories about him playing baseball in Germany. He was sort of like Joe Dimaggio who played ball in Hawaii to raise the country's morale during World War II.

Big Al owned the plate whenever he was at bat. He could hit, and when a high-ranking officer witnessed my dad's hitting prowess, he chose my father to play for the company's baseball team.

Life got a lot easier in the Army for my dad. Picking up a bat and glove was easier than carrying a BAR (Browning automatic rifle) or bazooka. He proudly served his country, but he brushed off the idea of making the military a career. 

But he did answer the call to duty and eventually became a sharpshooter. While he did not face the perils of combat, he witnessed an infantry unit bivouacking after a night of patrolling. The men were sleeping when American tanks on maneuvers came rolling through the German woods. Men ran for their lives and climbed thick trees to escape the blind, roving monstrosities that tore up the landscape.

Big Al was once given a lift from his uncle, Air Force Maj. B.J. Murano, who was a pilot who saw action from the seat of a B-24 in Italy during World War II. He also flew 100 missions in a fighter called the P-51. Murano flew my father home in that storied fighter that eventually became an icon of air superiority in that era.

My father rarely spoke about his experiences in the Army. He moved on and was busy working two jobs and raising four children. There was no time for the dedicated teacher and high school baseball coach to spend days spinning yarns about his tour at the local VFW Post.

After my mother died, he began speaking about his tour of duty, but Alzheimers has made it impossible for my dad to recall all those interesting moments in the service. The words don't come easy and he is frustrated, and I am saddened that his memories are quickly disappearing as this horrible disease progresses.

A few years ago, my dad wanted to sell his uniform for a few bucks. I pleaded with him to give it to me. My other siblings were not interested in it, but for me, it was a piece of his past and this country's history, and I didn't want to see the uniform in a stranger's hands.

I had worn his uniform at a Halloween party when I was in high school. 

There are three ribbons of citations sewn on the 60-year-old jacket. I had no idea what they stood for, so Anthony and I turned to the Internet and spent the next 30 minutes researching and identifying each ribbon. Those ribbons include the President's Unit Citation, Army of Occupation Citation and the National Defense Citation.

When I visited him a year ago, he gave the uniform to me and said, "What the hell are you going to do with it?"

I just smiled and didn't answer him. I think we both understood why I wanted his uniform in my possession

I am preserving his uniform to honor him, because that's what sons do for their fathers who give a damn about the right things in life.

Stepping into Maine's past

The way to the top

The long road to the top

The observatory tower. It is a massive structure.

A view of a section of the fort. Note the command post at the top.

Fort Baldwin shows its wear and tear.

A window to the past

This where one of the big guns stood.

A fireplace to take the chill out of a cold sea breeze.

PHIPPSBURG, Maine — There are two huge granite and cement relics that can't be ignored when you visit Popham Beach.

One behemoth, Fort Popham, sits menacingly on the coast. The other garrison, stealthy Fort Baldwin, is just across the street from Fort Popham and is hidden on a hilltop overlooking the beach. 

For people who have a passion for history, these massive remnants were built to protect Maine's coast and won't cost you a dime as you spend a good hour touring these coastal fortifications. There is no charge for taking a peak inside the austere rooms or stand where an artillery battery was located.

Unfortunately, these structures have shown a lot of wear and tear and will probably need restoration to prevent these fortifications from crumbling into the ground.

After getting tossed about in Popham's wild surf, Anthony, my wife, Terri, and I break camp and drive down the end of the beach to visit both forts. It has become a habit for us. For three students of history, making the 500-foot climb to visit Fort Baldwin or trudging up the second tier of Fort Popham is a treat and a good workout, too.

Fort Popham's massive 30-foot walls peppered with gun ports can be seen from the beach, but when you enter the fort, you are caught in a time warp dating back to Civil War. You will marvel at the huge blocks of granite used to construct the fort that has been around since 1862. My son and I would pack up our toy pistols and pretend we were repelling the Confederate army or worse — bloodthirsty pirates who were bent on sacking the town of Phippsburg. We aimed our toy weapons through the gun ports and ordered our imaginary artillery on the first floor of the structure to shell rebel ships sitting in the water just outside the fort.

According to www.travel.maine.info, Fort Popham housed 36 cannon, each weighing 25 tons and firing projectiles weighing up to 480 pounds.There are 20 musket ports on the second tier of the fort. This fort was garrisoned during the Spanish American War and World War I, too. But the construction of Fort Baldwin to house long-range artillery made Fort Popham obsolete.

From 1905 to 1912, workers poured tons of concrete to build Fort Baldwin on 38 acres of land high above the beach. The fort took its name from Colonial army engineer Jeduthan Baldwin. The fort consisted of three batteries, including Cogan with two three-inch guns, Hawley with two six-inch pedestal guns and Hardman with one six inch pedestal gun, according to www.visitmaine.com. Both forts were garrisoned by 200 soldiers from the 13th and 29th Coastal Artillery during World War I, and all three batteries were removed in 1924.

But Fort Baldwin was garrisoned again in World War II and was used as an observatory. The 8th Coast Artillery occupied the fort from 1941 to 1943 to watch for German boats.

Baldwin also has unique landmark — a 30- to 40-foot observatory tower that leaves you winded when you finally get to the top, but what a view of Fort Popham and the beach's surrounding landscape.

When you have seen enough of the forts, there is an old cannon on the beach next to Percy's General Store. I am not sure what make it is, but I am betting it is either a Rodman or a Dahlgren. Whatever the make or its age, this is still one menacing cannon, which sits facing the open waters of the Atlantic.

There are 25 forts in Maine and each fortification is unique in its design. These garrisons allow Anthony and I an opportunity to step back in time and learn about their roles in American history.