Cleaning house!

"If you can't use it, lose it."

— Tony Blasi

AUBURN — I have always led a Spartan life and have lived by my own motto: "If you can't use it, lose it."

And I tend to lose it every spring when I go on a tear and clean out closets full of crap that ends up in a recycling bin or handed off to Goodwill, hoping my trash becomes somebody's treasure. 

If there is any way I can avoid sending my spring-cleaning relics to the dump, I will give it away or leave it on Goodwill's doorstep. Right now, we are down to one bag of trash a week, and the rest our waste ends up in a recycling bins or in my vegetable garden. I used to hold a yard sale, but it was too labor intensive and a damn hassle.

Becoming a pack rat and cluttering my home with stuff that eventually becomes an obstacle course has never entered my mind. Getting rid of useless things that usually occupy valuable living space in my modest, three-bedroom home gives me a sense of accomplishment and offers me some breathing room.

If I suddenly found myself joining the richest four percent even though I have no such aspirations, I would live the same frugal life. I would travel more, but owning a large home or an expensive vehicle seems absurd to me. Who would I want to impress and why would I give a damn about impressing anyone with my sudden wealth.

If a fat wallet impresses people, then the cost is too high to maintain a relationship with human beings who practice Gordon Gekko's creed: "Greed is good."

I can do without people who eventually become another kind of clutter in my life.

Sometimes, spring cleaning is a journey of self-discovery. Going through a closest packed with junk will sometimes yield a treasure trove of fond memories.

Last week, we emptied out a closest full of stuffed animals. Being sentimental, we kept a handful of toy creatures that meant so much to us, but the rest we shipped off to Goodwill. It was impossible to part with the stuffed animals that I won at carnivals for my son.

Going through the closest also gave me a chance to rediscover some of my mother's prized possessions — old Life magazines and a Revere Journal supplement celebrating Revere Beach's 100-year anniversary. It was published in 1996.  The beach was her second home and I can see why she saved a copy of Revere Beach's anniversary.

I read the entire supplement and couldn't help think about my mother (she died four years ago) who valued the written word and always found newspapers enlightening and worth the 50 cents to read them.

I started reading old Christmas and birthday cards that have piled up in a cloth bag. I refused to put them in a recycling bin. They are from people who passed on, but my memories of them remain strong, and I'll am not eager to cut my ties with the past, so the cards will stay in the closet.

I will throw anything away that no longer serves a purpose in my brief life, but letters, articles and books from my past will forever occupy space in my home.

That's the law at 53 Valley Street.

The letters are like a recorded history of my childhood, the marriage to my wife, Terri, the miraculous birth of my son, Anthony and the death of countless people who I loved. The old magazines are also like another timeline of my life.

So the letters, articles and cards stay, and everything else goes. After all, in the end when I become old and frail, all I will have are wonderful memories, and that new TV won't mean a damn thing to me as my life comes to a close.

A union of devotion

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.

Mignon McLaughlin 

AUBURN, Maine — What is so perfect about our marriage is perfection does not exist.

After 23 years of being together, we want no part of being labeled the perfect couple. It is a reputation nearly impossible to live up to in any lifetime.

Today is March 24th — our anniversary and a another milestone for us.

Talk about a relationship that has seen its peaks and valleys. Our partnership has been a roller coaster of raw emotion tempered by a great deal of love and respect for each other.

We are fast approaching the quarter century mark of a union that somehow continues to endure. We don't take our commitment for granted because we both understand our marriage demands a lot of blood, sweat and tears to prevent it from dissolving like remnants of a March snowstorm slowly disappearing in the spring sun.

We've been through adversity in our lifetimes, but we are damn lucky to weather these sad moments together and not have to survive those cold nights without any sort of companionship

Throw in a wonderful son, and well, we are living the life even though we walk on the edge of a tight budget. But that could said of most married couples who are raising children as mom and dad struggle with their finances.

That's what good parents do when it comes to raising  a child — the most important job on this planet.

This has been a warm relationship sprinkled with moments of loud disagreements. I would be lying if I said every confrontation ends with a peck on the cheek. And there are days when I am Darth Vader and she is Obi-Won Kenobi, and out come the light sabers at the dinner table.

But as a couple, we find common ground and amicably settle our disagreements with no hard feelings. Both parties are left standing and leave the battlefield with their honor intact.

Marriage isn't easy. Someone once said marriage is where two people come together to unload their baggage. I think that is true and necessary to keep a union from unraveling from outside forces that often test a strong partnership.

Look, whenever I walk through the door and holler, "Honey, I am home," don't look for Terri to run to door and greet me with a loving embrace. She is no Scarlet O'Hara and I am no Rhett Butler.

And frankly I don't give a damn if we don't act like the two main characters in "Gone with the Wind."

At the end my day, I often hear: "Hey, you got some dishes to do. We need to do wash. Anthony has a doctor's appointment Someone has got to wash the floor. I need money to pay this bill."

The cat sometimes get more attention than me, and Tabby doesn't even cook or do dishes.

But I am relieved that Terri hasn't decided to trade me in for a younger model with washboard abs and dark, brown hair.

I don't know what the universe has in store for us the next 23 years. But I still see stars when I see my wife at the end of the day.

The day the earth stood still

AUBURN — Anthony was occupied with his Hot Wheels cars and "Barney" was driving me batty when I flipped the channel to NBC to check on the world on a warm Tuesday morning.

The image that appeared on my TV startled me. There was a gapping hole in one of the Twin Towers in New York City. I began hearing about a plane smashing into the tower at 8:46 a.m. The tower was billowing with smoke and obscuring the top of the building. I also learned people were trapped on the top floors. I knew a small plane could have not inflicted a wide blast in this super structure. There was no doubt an airliner had plowed into the building at great velocity.

I sat up on the couch and was thankful Anthony paid no attention to the television as he drove his cars along the coffee table littered with toys. My wife, Terri, was teaching at school. 

I could see flames leaping out of the punctured tower. I wondered how long the building would stand up to the blazing heat before it collapsed. People were leaping from the building to escape the flames and smoke. I realized rescuing these poor souls was impossible due to the damage and thick smoke that covered the top of the tower.

Newscaster Katie Couric was trying ascertain what was going on when I saw Flight 175 out Logan Airport in Boston appear in the background as Couric was speaking and slam into the South Tower at 9:02 a.m. 

A week later I discoveed that Peter Morgan Goodrich, a Bates College graduate and All-American track star was on Flight 175.

And it was only then that I realized I had witnessed his murder.

I wrote three stories about this fine young man and spoke with his extraordinary parents over the course of a decade. Goodrich's mother, Sally, passed away in December of 2010. She was a remarkable woman who established a foundation in his name.

Both towers were burning when I reached for the phone to call my mother in Massachusetts. My dad was still teaching school. We spoke for a few moments when I decided to phone my sister, Roxanne, who was rushing her husband to a hospital because of his bad back.

I called my mom again, but dialed the wrong number. For the next five minutes, I was talking to a stranger about the attacks in New York City. We didn't know each other or exchange names, but for those five minutes, two strangers comforted each other while the Big Apple burned and became the epicenter of terrorist attacks.

For the next hour, I kept Anthony busy while I kept one an eye on the television. I couldn't leave the room. New York City was a smoldering mess and reports were surfacing that the Pentagon was also rammed by an airliner at 9:37 a.m., and another plane was heading toward the White House. But thanks to the heroic efforts of Flight 93 passengers, who rushed the cockpit, the plane nosedived in Shanksville, Penn. at 10:03 and never reached its intended target.

I knew it wouldn't be long before both towers crumbled to the ground. I thought about those helpless souls stranded on the top floors, knowing that rescues would never come. I went over and hugged my son tight. I was feeling numb from the turmoil that was spreading across the nation.

At 9:59, the South Tower shattered and roared as it fell to the ground. I watched fleeing bystanders running down narrow streets as huge clouds of dust engulfed people. Nearly a half hour later, the other tower collapsed, sending another whirlwind of dirt that turned day into night. Office papers littered the streets as bystanders encased in gray dust coughed and cried.

I looked at my five-year-old who figured out that something awful happened on September 11, 2001. He drew a picture at preschool the next day depicting one of the towers crashing to earth. I still have the drawing.

I scooped him up and decided to grab a slice a pizza somewhere and stay away from the television set. We walked into a pizza joint and quietly sat down. People ate in silence. It was the quietest meal I have ever eaten in my life.

My wife finally got home and I called the newspaper to see if they wanted me in the newsroom early. Reporters and editors had already put out an extra edition on the streets around 2 p.m.

The sports department had a light night. We put our section together early and left. The editorial staff in news would have a long night. 

I went home and turned on the television. All three major networks were televising the rescue efforts and would continue broadcasting reports for the next five days, interrupting regular programming. The reports were grim. I couldn't sleep because of the attacks. I wondered what the future held for our nation and its children like my son.

 It has been 10 years since the Twin Towers plummeted to the ground. Along the way, the United States has fought three separate conflicts in the Middle East and is still wallowing in a Depression, but the memories off 9/11 never fade.

The next day at preschool I talked with frightened parents as we crowded into the hallway. I hugged Anthony one more time in the classroom before getting into my car. The calamity of Tuesday's attacks flooded every radio station on the dial. I thought about the nearly 3,000 victims scattered across New York City, Washington D.C., and Shanksville, Penn.

The Associated Press has been moving the list of victims over the wire in small takes. New stories have surfaced on this 10-year anniversary of 9/11. The Internet is saturated with video footage of the attacks.

The controversy and finger-pointing goes on, construction at Ground Zero continues, and conflicts in the Middle East rage without resolution. And now, New York City and Washington D.C. is on full alert and bracing for a terrorist attack.

But it doesn't take an anniversary to remind me of what we all lost on that warm Tuesday morning.