A family tree grows in Auburn

AMERICA'S PASTIME: My father, Al Blasi, at around nine years old. He was already smitten with baseball, and it explains why he became a baseball coach for over 40 years at Revere High School.

ALL IN THE FAMILY: My father Al, lower right, with his family: His dad, Anthony Sr., his mom, Anne, his sister, Rita, and big brother, Rocco.

THOSE WERE THE DAYS: My mother, Louise with her family: Mom Josephine, brother Wesley, sisters Carol and Nellie.

"We all grow up with the weight of history on us.  Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies."  

~Shirley Abbott

AUBURN, Maine — Anthony would have been held incommunicado in my mother's kitchen if Louise witnessed how swift my son traced our family's ancestry using a reliable laptop, two impressive libraries and a great deal of patience and tenacity.

Anthony raced through centuries of history with the push of a button. He was like curious time traveler Rod Taylor in the 1960 movie version of H.G. Wells' "Time Machine" While Taylor watched eons pass before him outside his laboratory windows with a nudge of a lever, Anthony observed dozens of our decedents' names appear on a computer screen.

His arduous journey began when he started reading about the Davis family and our connection to the American Revolution on my mother's side. My mom's clan was a seafaring bunch who came over from Scotland and then eventually took on King George in America. The other side is Italian, and my heritage on my dad's side explains why I am excellent cook. I will take anyone on the kitchen and win each battle with my culinary delights.

For most of his school vacation, my son plowed through Ancestry.com to research our lineage. Centuries flew by on the computer as our family tree grew like the 40-foot pine in our front yard.

He spent days meticulously connecting the forgotten dots of time. He began with my wife's family and then moved on to his dad's ancestors without showing any signs of exasperation. Obstacles or detours didn't stop him from conducting his research. When the road narrowed and leads dried up, Anthony switched direction and found a new path into our ancient past.

If my late mother saw how easy it is to trace your roots using the Net, Anthony would have become his grandmother's hero. She was a proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Her ancestry and love of this nation's history made her a living reference for all of us. 

My son is now obsessed to see how far his quest will take him inside recorded history. He persuaded me to pay for another month of Ancestry.com's time-traveling, technological wizardry. The site is like a wormhole, a shortcut if you will, through the ages.

After facing several road blocks tracing the origins of the Blasi family, he moved on to the Davis family tree with significant results.

First and foremost, I am from nobility. You could say I am related to England's modern-day royalty, so bow the next time you see me. Of course, a handshake will do, too. I've inherited my love of gardening from the Royals, and I bet Prince Charles and I could go round and round about raising a bumper crop.

Anthony's startling discoveries include: 

* I am a first cousin, 13 times removed to Sir Francis Drake — An English vice admiral, privateer and navigator during the Elizabethan era.

* I am a second cousin, 12 times removed to Richard Grenville of the of the H.M.S. Revenge, 

* My 13th great grandfather was Roger Granville, who was captain of the H.M.S. Mary Rose

* I am first cousin, 18 times removed to Richard the Third — a king of England. His remains were recently discovered underneath a parking lot in Leicester, England.

* My 22nd great grandfather was Edward the First, also known as Edward Longshanks, a medieval monarch and slayer of William Wallace. 

Obviously King Richard and Edward were despots, but they are still part of my heritage, and it is cool to have a few skeletons in the closet.

Anthony also focused on Terri's mother's maiden name — Richardson. He brought to light several startling revelations about my wife's ancestry.

* Terri is the seventh cousin, four times removed to Franklin Delano Roosevelt — the 32nd president of the United States.

* She is the fifth cousin, six times removed to Ulysses S. Grant — the 18th president of the United States.

* She is the sixth cousin, five times removed to Laura Ingalls Wilder — author of the Little House series.

* Her 19th great-grandfather was Louis the Fourth — holy Roman emperor.

In the course of his research, he discovered an obituary of my late uncle — World War II hero Biagio Murano.

Every Christmas, I would visit and share a drink with him. He rarely spoke about his exploits during the war. I guess he had seen enough killing and destruction for both of us. 

According to his obituary, he was a highly decorated war hero who flew missions in the seat of the sluggish B-24 — a bomber that was so difficult to maneuver that pilots would develop huge biceps in their right arms. He participated in the Berlin Airlift and flew 100 missions in a P-51 fighter during the Korean War where he earned the Distinguished Flying Cross. He is also the 254th person in the United States to break the sound barrier in an F-104.

In between his demanding studies and being a member of the ski patrol team, Anthony has unearthed these forgotten tidbits of our family's history. He refuses to stop there and wants to know more about his family's origins.

So do I, and he has taken me there.

But what human being doesn't want to know how their family grew over centuries.

Thanks to technology and libraries, many people are making this quest.

And Anthony is just another pilgrim on a journey to discover his roots.

Meeting on the mountain

Climb every mountain!

Imagine having this for view while enjoying your morning coffee

Some where out there lies Ichabod Ricker. 

It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something.  ~ Charles Dickens

BROWNFIELD - Terry Blake's homestead sits on the side of a ben that puts Waltons' Mountain to shame.

John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan from Virginia would feel right at home at a landscape that would make any tired soul bow to nature. An outdoors photographer might be tempted to pay good money to turn his camera loose on this place.

We took a long drive through winding roads that are sprinkled with amazing views of lush green mountains and pristine lakes to visit the quiet New England town of Brownfield - population of about 1,300.

The Blake Reunion was being held at Terry's home, which is located in Maine's version of the Swiss Alps, and with free food and drink on the menu, well, it was worth the hour-long ride through Casco, Mechanic Falls, Poland, Naples, Bridgton and Denmark on a bright and warm August day.

Long rides through the backroads of Maine are simply delightful. I not only find the drive restful, but the sharp turns and bone-jarring bumps make me feel like I am competing in the Baja 500. And with the entire family on board, there was good conversation and music during our trip through central Maine.

There are no TVs or portable DVD players to kill time in our family vehicle. The cell phone is off and technology takes a backseat to our journey through the Pine Tree State.

I will never understand why some parents install a TV screen in a van. Is it just another way to ignore their children? I would rather hear what is on my son's mind. And I am afraid I am going to miss something on our short journeys.

We drove up the long rode to Terry's ranch when we were stopped by a pair of dogs that wouldn't budge. It was interesting standoff for a few moments.

Those Blakes are good people. They are from Terri's mother's side of the family. And it was certainly kind of Terri to open his home to all of us.

As we roamed around Terry Blake's vast property, which includes about 400 acres of open meadows nestled in between large, rolling hills, we caught a glimpse of his three majestic horses. These are well-fed and kept animals. Watching them prance around makes anyone appreciate their beauty.

Anthony and I went out on the back porch to enjoy the view when Anthony noticed a lone tombstone sitting in the middle of a manicured meadow about 150 yards away. 

Imagine having an entire meadow all to yourself for all of eternity. 

My son spotted the lone grave. Anthony's discovery sparked insatiable curiosity. We were compelled to inquire about the gravesite' occupant. Terry was happy to reveal that Ichabod Ricker has been resting in peace since his death in the 1880s.

Well, we had our fill of good food and rich conversation before we said our goodbyes.

I enjoy sitting around and chewing the fat with relatives. No texting, chatting online or emails - just face-to-face conversation with real, live people.

Look, reunions are a great way to stay in touch and trade old memories with relatives, but they also remind us of  loved ones who can no longer attend these get-togethers for the living.

I am sure old Ichabod Ricker would agree, although he is not saying much these days.

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.