This part-time teacher will carry a tune but not a pistol to school

“When you have a high-volume magazine or an assault weapon, you're not hunting deer or protecting your home; you're out to hunt people.” 

                                                                            — U.S. Rep. Mike Quigley

“We have to fulfill what the real meaning of the Second Amendment is: reasonable access to guns for self-protection and for hunting. And there's no room in America for these semiautomatic, automatic and other kinds of weapons that are simply designed to cause mass havoc. 

                                                                       — Alan Dershowitz, attorney

AUBURN — As a part-time teacher, I refuse to step into a classroom with a concealed weapon strapped to my ankle or hidden under my sports coat.

I am not a Clint Eastwood wannabe playing a rogue cop in the 1976 movie, “The Enforcer.” Schools don’t need teachers playing Dirty Harry with a Glock capable wiping out the population of Rhode Island.

It shouldn’t be a choice, either. It is not a viable option for a number of reasons.

It’s law enforcement’s job to confront and corral criminals. Police know how to handle a handgun and undergo extensive training to deal with dangerous suspects.

This rabid violence against this nation’s young is also societal problem and it is up to this nation’s citizens and leaders to arrive at a sensible solution.

A pistol is no match against an assault rifle.

It is like bringing a knife to a gun fight. 

And I don’t buy the argument that an assault rifle is just another gun. 

Baloney! 

This gun was designed for military combat. It has no business being in anybody’s gun locker.

I understand there are thousands of Americans who own and respect guns. Many of them are hunters and look at a rifle as necessary tool to put food on the table.

But I feel students might be intimidated with teachers carrying a piece. My responsibilities include teaching history or English, being a role model and steering students in the right direction. I would find it awkward and uncomfortable to inspire a classroom while I am carrying cumbersome handgun with a 10-shot clip.

Teachers are not armed prison guards strutting around the yard and staring down inmates. Breaking up a school fight could become complicated for a teacher carrying a weapon. A scuffle might turn dangerous and end in tragedy when a teacher’s pistol suddenly becomes the epicenter of a hallway confrontation between students.

What if a teacher, who draws his gun during a shooting incident, is mistakenly killed by police. Who wants that kind of collateral damage!

Arming teachers is an absurd notion for any politician who suggests weapons in schools will deter or put an end to school shootings.

The shooting in Florida where 17 wonderful, promising lives were lost when an unhinged student entered a school with an AR-15 semi-automatic assault rifle and opened fire.

I am proud of those Florida students who stepped up and challenged our nation’s waffling leaders to move on gun control. Those survivors were courageous during the shooting and their tenacity to push the gun control debate to the forefront is commendable.

In a perfect world, our leaders would layoff using Twitter and actually govern and listen to the outcry of their constituency and the teen-agers who are under assault.

There are many vacuous decisions emanating from a chaotic and pugnacious White House — and arming teachers tops the Oval Office’s list of absurd priorities.

Weapons training for teachers is not an antidote to school shootings. No teacher can also fulfill the role of an armed school resources officer. I don’t want to moonlight as Wyatt Earp with a six-shooter.

There are a handful of valid reasons why such violence erupts in schools — which should be safe, secure, nurturing and fun.

Besides banning assault weapons and conducting stringent background checks, there is a failing mental health system, poor parenting, and missed red flags. Until these issues are addressed and resolved, the death toll in our schools will rise. 

One of the most memorable lines in “The Godfather” is when a Mafia hood says, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.”

I have no problem taking a cannoli to school, but I will leave a firearm at home.

I am not making light of this epidemic of school shootings. I’ve been in a lockdown and it was a terrifying experience for students for 20 long minutes. My concern would always be the students first, not reaching for a gun.

Leave the war on crime to the men in blue and out of dedicated teachers’ job descriptions — or put two capable, heavily-armed SROs in every school. Israel’s schools are fortresses thanks to heavy security.

We are educators not gun-totting bodyguards.

Call it a wonderful night

"Sometimes I think life is just a rodeo. The trick is to ride and make it to the bell."

                       — John Fogerty - "Rock and Roll Girls"

LEWISTON, Maine — I was too proud to feel sad when my son was received a hand shake from the superintendent of schools on graduation night.

He quickly strode to the podium. His name boomed from the Androscoggin Bank Colisee’s loudspeakers for a split second in time.

It happened so fast. Nineteen fantastic wonderful years passed by without any fanfare. I didn’t have a moment to reflect as I continually pressed the button on my digital camera as he left the stage. I wanted to capture and preserve every moment — frame by frame — for this family’s history.

The Edward Little High School graduate returned to his seat with a smile on his face. We cheered from the stands, but I don’t think he could see us in that sea of proud, smiling faces.

He made it! And he passed with flying colors!

His grades were good enough to earn scholarship money, but his report card doesn’t reflect his good nature, humility and the way he handles all people with kid gloves and sincere respect.

When they look at Anthony’s grades, they won’t know how responsible or how devoted he is to his community and family. Those attributes come from being raised right in a loving environment and from teachers who went the distance for him.

I am still numb after witnessing this watershed moment in my son’s life. He is now an adult who has to think on his feet without his mom and dad hovering over him. If I had it my way, I would pay for a U.S. Marshal’s detail to watch out for him the rest of his life. 

Let’s call it protection.

I will always miss the little boy who cluttered the living-room floor with hundreds of Legos that caused us great pain when we stepped on the plastic pieces with our bare feet.

But tonight was his night to shine and bask in the glow of a remarkable achievement — getting a high school diploma and being accepted by a reputable university.

I am grateful I had the privilege of being a stay-at-home father during his formative years. I also understand there is no going back. I would be wasting my time spending hours rummaging  around past. 

Like my son, I am forced to go forward in life. I will carry those sacred memories of his childhood along the way as this family starts out on our next journey.

After taking numerous pictures and shaking hands with other students who graduated that night, I drove Anthony back to Edward Little for project graduation. All students were required to make an hour bus trip north to the University of Maine at Farmington.

I dropped him off on a perfect summer night, but I realized I would no longer be taking him to school. I was just another a parent in the crowd wondering where did those 13 spectacular years go.

I felt a bit of depression as I drove past Edward Little, but I put the kibosh on melancholy after witnessing his significant accomplishment.

This night belonged to him — and there was no room in the sweet summer air for depression or looking back because his next stop is college and we will be there — with a camera, of course.

Let's do the Twist-er

"If you want to see the sunshine, you have to weather the storm."

                                                                                                                                               Frank Lane

REVERE, Mass. —  There were a dozen phone trucks with flashing lights going up and down Broadway repairing fallen lines after a twister left this section of the city looking like the aftermath of an air strike from a B1 bomber.

The loud whining of industrial woodchippers could be heard throughout neighborhoods that bore the brunt of an EF2 twister with a maximum wind speed of 120 miles per hour. People were in their yards gathering up piles of debris that landed from blocks away.

An employee, working feverishly from atop a cherry picker, apologized to my sister for taking so long to fix the phone line to my boyhood home in Revere on Thursday.

My son ran into the hallway in Maine on Monday morning and told me a two-mile long twister rolled through Broadway and tore up the center of my hometown. Facebook went berserk and relatives and friends began calling us in Maine. We watched the coverage on the computer. Revere was a mess with fallen trees, blown-out windows and debris littering the landscape.

A frigging twister? In Revere? Are you kidding?

This seaside community has never experienced a twister in my lifetime. I have always believed New England has been surrounded by an invisible force field that protected us from these devastating whirlwinds. I thought twisters only wreaked havoc in the Midwest, and as far as I am concerned, these deadly concoctions of nature can stay in the Midwest.

Revere has been ravaged by blizzards and menacing hurricanes, but this community of 53,000 residents has never stared down a twister without any warning. The twister was only on the ground for five minutes, and in those brief moments, the tornado flipped cars like a short-order cook tosses burgers. Some homes were rendered uninhabitable and a few businesses were nearly leveled.

My nephew took a peek out from the picture window of my father's home and saw trees snapping when a frightening funnel cloud became visible. He shouted to his mother to get downstairs and the pair huddled in the dark basement, hoping the house would not shake loose from its foundation. They have been caring for our dad, who was resting at a rehabilitation facility in nearby Melrose, Mass. I was proud of my courageous nephew who thought of his mother first and took shelter in the basement. For a brief moment, they felt like Dorothy and Tonto.

If you can read a map, Revere is next to Boston. But most of the city was unscathed due to the narrow path of the storm. It began in Chelsea and whipped down Revere's main street and veered toward my old neighborhood where McClure, School, Belgrade and True streets were hit hard. My dad's roof and siding took a beating and my uncle's shed was ripped to pieces.

I believe you can chalk up this rare instance to global warming caused by the most destructive force on the planet — man. There are too many of us and our appetite for overdeveloping the earth and wasting finite resources has taken a harsh toll on a planet soiled my careless human beings.

My other sister was not home, but her husband was pushed back when he tried to open the door to their home. Both sisters and their children were not injured and can now tell their grandchildren a tale of how they survived a tornado. 

Nobody was killed or severely injured in the tornado that ambushed a city on a quiet Monday morning. Homes can be restored or replaced, but people are lost forever in these dangerous storms.

Kudos to Revere residents for making a quick recovery.

The sea calls to my son

Anthony stands on the deck of Maine Maritime's ship, the Ned, and braves the sea mist and cool temperatures on Penobscot Bay.

Maine Maritime's pride and joy —the State of Maine.

The bow of the State of Maine in Castine, Maine.

1. 

A true mariner.

The Turret house in Bar Harbor, Maine.

“For whatever we lose (a you or a me). It's always ourselves we find in the sea.” 

― E.E. Cummings

CASTINE, Maine — Our young sailor is back on land after his short trip around Penobscot Bay.

Anthony was one of 16 lucky Edward Little High School students who took a whirlwind, two-day tour of colleges around northern Maine.

He thought it was a worthwhile endeavor to take a peek at Unity College and the College of Atlantic, but Maine Maritime Academy was at the top of his list, and the school certainly got his attention. The students were given deluxe accommodations at Maine Maritime and really good chow.

He was impressed with the school and felt right at home on the bow of a fast-moving ship that took EL students on a sight-seeing adventure around the bay on a murky day. With the help of other students and the crew of the Ned — a 70-foot, twin-screw vessel — Anthony took the helm and docked the boat.

Students were also given a tour of Maine Maritime's pride and joy — the State of Maine — a 499-foot training ship that was built by the United States Navy. Its former name was the USNS Tanner and was launched in 1990.

 I would be remiss in not thanking the Edward Little guidance department for making this trip possible for students. Say what you will about public education, but there are many dedicated teachers and administrators who go the distance for their students, and they work right here in Auburn.

You see, my son has been captivated by the sea ever since he waded in the cool waters of the Atlantic as a 2 year old. Our ancestry is filled with seafaring men who found their calling traveling the planet's vast oceans. Throughout our history, our family tree is littered with mariners and beachgoers. I grew up in the coastal town of Revere. The beach was our playground during the summer. We are all beach bums in this family.

During his brief visit, Anthony saw a stunning rainbow over Acadia National Park, a fjord, the awesome power of Thunder Hole, Fort George, the Turrets — a large home in Bar Harbor — and used a ship simulator to navigate computer-generated boats at Maine Maritime.

During his brief excursion on the Ned, he stood on the bow, braved the windy, salty air and called his dad from a cell phone. It was one of the best conversations we had.

His fascination with ships began with large plastic boats that he placed in the path of large waves at Popham Beach. He watched the destructive force of waves toss and turn his small vessels, sending many of them to the bottom.

His passion never waned for ocean-going vessels. He can name many of history's famous ships dating back to the 1400s.

He has built numerous models of warships and has walked the decks of fighting vessels at Battleship Cove. I even tried my hand at building a seaworthy, wooden ship so that he could sail it on the calm waters at Range Pond in Poland. It still floats.

We sailed his model ships at a crowded Wells Beach on a hot summer morning. As we waded through a sea of  beachgoers,  comments like, "Dude, cool ships," emanating from a crowd of sun worshipers as we rushed toward the water.

Look, sailing the seven seas can be a dangerous profession, but so isn't driving over the Tobin Bridge and into Boston or trying to stay alive on Route 128 at the height of rush hour in Massachusetts. But this is a good paying, honest job, and it won't go away no matter how many super computers they build. Somebody has got to run those ships and deliver all those goods around the globe.

Perhaps my son will be at the helm at one of those behemoths, but that will be his decision to make in a couple of years.

It is a wonderful feeling watching your kid find his passion in life, but it is also hard on the heart letting him go. But I wouldn't have it any other way. 

He was impressed with Maine Maritime and all it had to offer a student whose heart lies somewhere out there on that vast ocean.

The sea has been calling to Anthony since he was a child, and I think he is about to give the ocean his answer.

Snow kidding - school's out

AUBURN, Maine — Kids who live in a cold-weather states, where a Nor'easter can shut down dozens of communities and send working parents into a frenzy, know all about the benefits of a treasured Snow Day.

Snow Days are unofficial holidays that interrupt the hectic pace of trudging to school and passing in homework that students didn't complete the night before because their dog ate their textbook, the cat feasted on their gerbil and made them so distraught that they couldn't concentrate on algebra, or they got lost in an in-depth conversation about Justin Bieber's hair on Facebook. Snow Days are free get-out-of-school cards that come and go during Maine's harsh winters. Snow Days are cherished by all red-blooded kids who often call up on Mother Nature to deliver them from the clutches of a demanding teacher.

Snow Days give kids a reason to put those pathetic video games away — for a moment — and actually go outside and breath real air. Sure, it's cold out there, but hours of watching television and YouTube turns brains into slush. Racing down a snow-covered hill on skis, a snowboard or a sled at 90 miles per hour is more exhilarating than texting friends to complain about taking out the garbage, shoveling or listening to their parents warning them to clean up their rooms that resemble the inside of a Porta Potties — or they won't be allowed to watch a mind-numbing reality show featuring stupid people doing stupid things to themselves.

Up here in the hinterlands of nowhere, children put themselves on full alert whenever the weatherman mentions snow. Maine kids don't want to hear about snow measured in inches; they want feet of the white stuff, and they want it during the week. Weekend snowstorms take all the fun out of a blizzard and are looked upon as an annoyance by stressed students who are looking for a way out of class — unless you are a skier who eats and sleeps snow and enjoys being up on the mountain in white-out conditions.

For kids from the Boston area, a Snow Day meant open season on MBTA buses or snowball fights that left welts on their skin from a kid who had the arm of a Major League Baseball pitcher and delivered these icy-projectiles at the speed of sound. Rugged kids would manufacture and stockpile snowballs at a blizzard's pace. They would hide behind bushes waiting to ambush an unsuspecting bus transporting worn-out workers. The kids took cover and waited for the perfect moment to strike. A dozen thuds were heard when they peppered the bus with a massive strike of snowballs as stunned and angry passengers shook their fists behind frosty windows — or offered a middle finger to demonstrate their displeasure after we bushwhacked the bus. The kids laughed and congratulated themselves on their marksmanship. The bus driver gave us all dirty looks as he waved his finger and mouthed an obscenity during his inaudible admonition behind the bus's folding doors. When police cruisers started circling the block to round up the usual suspects, we reluctantly moved on to more exciting pursuits like building intricate snow forts or shoveling out the next neighbor for a few bucks  and head to the nearest five-and-dime store to spend our riches — on junk.

For my son and me, white powder means skiing, sledding and throwing snowballs at targets of opportunity. A wave of snowballs slamming into our picture window often draws the ire of my surprised wife. We have the privilege of spending an entire day with a son who enjoys frolicking in the Great Outdoors and still takes great pleasure in pelting his dad with snowballs. A Snow Day means Noah, our next-door neighbor, will knock on the door with his saucer in tow, hoping to use the small hill in our backyard to do some serious coasting and snowboarding before he gets bored and helps me shovel the driveway.

Snow Days are respites for teachers, who also look to Mother Nature to cut them some slack and give them a break from their students. That's why all Snow Days are heralded by adults and children who believe in the rejuvenating powers of these miracle snowstorms — and a day off from the classroom.

Back in the day

If you get lucky, Snow Days can turn into Snow Weeks. It happened nearly 32 years ago when Boston took it on a chin during the Blizzard of '78 on Feb. 6 — a day that will live in infamy for snow-struck Bostonians. This monster storm parked itself off the coast of Massachusetts for 36 hours and delivered about three feet of snow in just over a day, shutting down the Hub and surrounding communities.

That morning forecasters were predicting six to 12 inches as the storm closed in on helpless New England. But something strange was happening when forecasters started upping their snow totals throughout that quiet and cloudy day. I sat in my cellar as whiteout conditions appeared and listened to alarmed weathermen predicting 12 to 18 inches, then 24 to 30 inches. Neighbors stared at each other from their widows and watched as several homes disappeared in snow drifts on my street.

For students at Revere High, it was another Christmas vacation delivered by Old Man Winter. It was the gift that kept on giving for RHS seniors that snowy February. Driving was forbidden and neighbors were forced to help each other as panicked residents made food run after food run, fearing the end of the world was at hand.

The high school was used a Red Cross shelter for beach residents who were forced to evacuate when the abnormally high tides flooded beaches up and down the Massachusetts coastline. The city was patrolled my Massachusetts National guardsmen who carried M-16s to thwart lowlifes who were pillaging abandoned homes near the inundated beach. A tank rolled through streets buried in 15-foot snowdrifts as military helicopters delivering supplies were landing in the middle of Revere.

It was mayhem on a grand scale, but all of us enjoyed every minute of our impromptu and snow-filled vacation. It was white gold and all of us struck it rich when school was called off for days and days.

It was the ultimate Snow Day for students who witnessed a once-in-a-lifetime snow event in New England.