Goodfellows52: Can't thank them enough

Goodfellows52: Can't thank them enough: Mom and son getting ready for Halloween. " To grow old is to lose everything," - the opening line to a poem called "Affirmation,"...

Can't thank them enough

Mom and son getting ready for Halloween.

"To grow old is to lose everything," 

- the opening line to a poem called "Affirmation," which was written 

by poet Donald Hall

AUBURN, Mass. — Money is tight, the world is a damn mess, our leaders don't know what day it is, and there is a pile of snow on my front lawn that is really pissing me off, and yet, I do have a lot to be thankful for as I pass the peas and gnaw on a turkey leg this Thanksgiving.

And while Mother Nature's hit-and-run tactics are befuddling and the cold is closing in, I am lucky there will be a hot meal on the table and my healthy son and wife will be seated next me as we enjoy my sister's fine cooking and the company of her wonderful children.

I am older and I have lost a handful people along the way, and the holidays have a way of triggering those strong and sad memories of family members and friends who will not be present at our feast this Thanksgiving.

And it really hurts, especially since Terri and I buried our mothers last year. That pain never goes away, but when I see my wife and son laughing and enjoying good food, it makes me realize why I am still here, and I don't plan on going anywhere.

For years, my dad and I would spend Thanksgiving mornings watching Revere and Winthrop knock heads on the gridiron while my mom was multi-tasking over a hot stove long before anyone knew what the hell multi-tasking was. She was cooking turkey, potatoes, carrots and stuffing while father and son were freezing their butts off at Paul Revere Stadium.

I am older now and now I am doing the cooking. My dad and I no longer attend Thanksgiving Day football games because he is older. My mother is gone.

I miss those moments and those people who meant so much to me.

But I know I am helpless when the Grim Reaper snatches another friend or relative from this life.

For years, there were nearly 15 relatives living next to my house. It was like one giant block party on McClure Street during the holidays. Each Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve, I would move from house to house, enjoying my grandmother's or aunts' culinary delights and making sure I shared a glass of wine at each stop.

Like me, the street has changed and all I have are fond memories. Those homes are no longer occupied by my grandmother, Aunt Minnie, B.J. and Eddie Murano, and the Grossos. 

Before Anthony came along, my wife and I excitedly packed up the car and headed from Maine to Massachusetts to see my relatives during the holidays. The aunts would hand Terri small gifts while I sampled the wine and food and listened to my uncle, who was a top-notch pilot during World War II and Korea, talk about his combat experiences.

But I am older now and they are a part of my past. I understand change is inevitable, but there is pain that comes with change.

But one thing that will never change is my love and appreciation for my wife and son, and immediate family.

And they are the reasons why I give thanks on this day.

Last full measure of devotion

Several flags flap in the breeze at Veterans Memorial Park in Lewiston.

Goodfellows52: Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT

Goodfellows52: Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT: Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT : "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the...

Goodfellows52: Sign of things to come

Goodfellows52: Sign of things to come: AUBURN, Maine - Mother Nature has some nerve! It's the day before Halloween and Mother Earth has conjured up a ra...

Sign of things to come

"Among famous traitors of history one might mention the weather."

                                                                         Ilka Chase 


AUBURN, Maine - Mother Nature has some nerve!

It's the day before Halloween and Mother Earth has conjured up a rare autumn Nor'easter and aimed it directly at Merry Ole New England.

Thanks a bunch, ma'am!

I just cut the lawn on Wednesday and now I am shoveling on Sunday. Give me a break!

I know it is not personal, but couldn't this freak of nature have waited until at least December? Why panic New Englanders who were frantically clearing out their sheds to get at their entombed snowblowers.

Like Maine doesn't get enough snow!

Being on the receiving end of a Nor'easter is no fun and it is as annoying as seeing signs of Christmas in stores across the mall in early October.

So now it's lights out for the entire northeast as tree limbs and wires come tumbling down due to heavy wet snow. It is the kind of white stuff that triggers heart attacks, not to mention depression and anxiety. Thousands have lost power and their patience.

I am mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore even though my anger is obviously misdirected, especially when Mother Nature always has the final say in these matters.

I know ski areas will be delighted out in the hinterlands with the early arrival of a blizzard that usually doesn't appear on Maine's radar until January, but for those of us who have a low tolerance for the flaky white stuff in Maine's huge metropolitan cities, this is just a damn nuisance.

For the past few days, weathermen have been predicting 5 to 10 inches of snow. I thought they were out of their minds and their computer models were sabotaged by terrorists. I didn't pay attention to them, putting all my money on Mother Nature to pull a fast one and foul up another weather report. It is October, not January, and suddenly these guys are talking about a Nor'easter and heavy snow.

Get real!

Unfortunately, meteorologists were right on the nose with this prediction in some areas of the nation. Today, Maine and the rest of the Northeast is draped in a blanket of snow stretching all the way to Maryland and Virginia. It's not funny.

Perhaps the apocalypse is upon us - although I doubt it.

I tore open the shudders and threw open the sash Sunday morning, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but heavy gooey snow and no tiny reindeer. I heard the sound of snowblowers off in the distance and shovels scraping the pavement as bewildered Mainers dug their way out of this mess.

I shook my head and reached for the coffee, because you can't talk to me without my first cup of coffee. I am hearing impaired until I down my first cup. The world could be ending, but that would have to wait until I have my first cup of black gold, with cream and sugar, of course.

But Auburn was spared, well sort of, after this fast-moving storm raced toward Canada. We received about three inches and it is melting as I write. In two days, central Maine will become one giant puddle as temperatures soar into the high 50s.

I am not sorry to see it disappear, knowing all too well Old Man Winter isn't done with us, yet.

Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT

Goodfellows52: FRIGHT NIGHT: "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." -...

FRIGHT NIGHT

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." - H. P. Lovecraft

AUBURN — Since we all have crosses to bear, I decided to build two of mine out of wood to celebrate Halloween, and maybe, just maybe, have a devil of a good time spooking trick-or-treaters on my front lawn.

I am not a big fan of a holiday that observes things that go bump in the night and turns sane adults into candy pushers who are complicit in triggering a nationwide sugar high among this nation's youth for several days. My wife and son, on the other hand, enjoy being rattled by a good ghost story as well as putting up Halloween decorations and butchering, aaah, I mean carving a pumpkin.

I couldn't care less about zombies, vampires, ghosts, the undead, and no, I am not referring to members of congress. What frightens me about this night is the spike in cavities across this great nation — and the fear of rational adults handing out healthy treats.

When I was a kid a couple of centuries ago, I thought it was a nightmare to receive a nutritious snack instead of a chocolate bar. It was like staying after school for talking too much in class. How could grownups traumatize a child who longed for a bag full of M&Ms and Malo Cups? Finding a fruit bar at the bottom of my bag was like getting pajamas for Christmas.

No toys! What was up with Santa, anyway!

But this Halloween, my son wanted to go all out and shake up the neighborhood kids with more spooky stuff. I suggested we use leftover two-by-fours and build a pair of crosses to send chills up our neighbor's spines. But I wasn't sure what names to use on our grave markers. Anthony didn't flinch when he suggested the last names of Terry Francona and Theo Epstein, the Boston Red Sox's manager and general manager who are no longer employed with a baseball team that burned up in orbit at the end of the season.

I smiled, got out my wood-burning tool and went to work on the crosses. I love the smell of burning pine as I carved deep letters into the soft wood. I put my skill-saw and tape measure to good use to make our macabre endeavor come to fruition. We stained our crosses to make our grave markers weather resistant and then surveyed the front lawn to choose a location that would induce nightmares for weeks to come. I understand that location is everything when it comes to scaring unsuspecting trick-or-treaters out of their socks.

But please understand that I had no desire to see Francona or Epstein banished from the Sox organization. These guys brought starving Red Sox fans two World Series titles after decades of disappointment. I was not happy to see these fine men leave Beantown. I didn't show up at Fenway Park with a mob, and sickles and torches in hand, demanding to see heads role. So, when you see our crosses bearing the names of these two fine human beings on my front lawn during this evening of fright, this is not a demonstration of anger toward two men who ended Boston's drought. This father-and-son duo is merely having a little fun at the expense of the Boston Red Sox.

Besides I will never understand how fans go berserk when their team comes undone or how they "hate" an opposing team. Look, I grew up 10 miles from Friendly Fenway, but there has never been a day when I uttered the phrase, "I hate those damn Yankees." I don't hate the damn Yankees, Montreal Canadiens, New York Jets or the Los Angeles Lakers. I do enjoy watching the Yanks take it on the chin when they play Boston, but I also think Derek Jeter is a class act. I do not carry a grudge against Bill Buckner. And I was hoping Francona would stay on for another year.

So the Red Sox had a meltdown and missed the playoffs. Life goes on, and there will be other seasons for Boston to make amends

So lighten up, and remember, this is not a trick, but a treat. So take this candy bar as an expression of our goodwill. But we also hope you leave our front lawn frightened and looking over your shoulder when things do go bump in the night. 

Goodfellows52: The summer wind

Goodfellows52: The summer wind: Pleasure craft sail around the harbor at the Eastern Prom in Portland. Anthony strolls the beach in Portland. The father-and-s...

The summer wind

Pleasure craft sail around the harbor at the Eastern Prom in Portland.

Anthony strolls the beach in Portland.

The father-and-son enjoy a rare warm October day.

A duck boat motors around the harbor

The Jewel dwarfs boats in the harbor.

A breach-loading cannon from the U.S.S. Maine that was sunk in Havana harbor and triggered the war between the United States and Spain.

The U.S. flag still waves from the mast of the U.S.S. Portland.

PORTLAND - I am not sure if global warming has had a hand in this smoldering weather or Mother Nature is just being charitable before winter closes in and locks us in an icy vise for the next five months.

Whatever the explanation, summer's searing heat returned to New England on an October weekend which is usually cold and windy, and reserved for raking leaves, watching high school football games, and stocking firewood.

Two nights ago, temperatures plummeted into the low 30s, opening the door for Jack Frost to take out what was left of my garden.

For two days, chilly weather settled over New England. The smell of smoking hot wood stoves drifted over my neighborhood as Mainers reluctantly turned on their furnaces for the first time since May. It was cold enough to snow and I saw people in fall jackets.

I was about to bow to Old Man Winter and brace myself for the cold and snow that will soon wreak havoc on the six-state region.

But this weekend, summer snuck back into New England and broiled the state of Maine. The cold nights disappeared and the humidity returned. I turned on a pair fans, which is unheard of in October.

The humid weather gave us an excuse to pack sandwiches, head to the Eastern Prom in Portland, walk the pristine beach and simply enjoy the warm sun.

We weren't the only Mainers who shunned their TVs, laptops and shutoff their cell phones for a walk along a crowded beach. Thousands of Pine Tree natives were strolling the Eastern Prom or weaving in out of the crowds at the Old Port. A cruise ship, "The Jewel" was parked along the wharf. It is a floating city that dwarfed all other boats and ships in the harbor.

Temperatures rose to the mid 80s. Beach-goers threw themselves in the water as landlubbers basked in the burning sun. Shorts and bathing suits were the attire for the day. Runners and cyclists were out in full force. Sailing craft of all sizes headed for open seas.

As I can remember, the second weekend in October was usually cold, damp cloudy and just plain windy.

But summer found its way in New England and chased away Autumn's chill, treating Mainers to a brief respite before Winter has the final say.   

Goodfellows52: Wings of Eagles

Goodfellows52: Wings of Eagles: The B-17 bomber sits on the runway at Lewiston-Auburn airport. This Constellation is being used as spare parts to rebuil...

Wings of Eagles

The B-17 bomber sits on the runway at Lewiston-Auburn airport. 

This Constellation is being used as spare parts to rebuild another one in a hangar.

AUBURN, Maine — This is not the first time these flying relics have touched down at Lewiston-Auburn airport.

Whenever these birds of prey from World War II pay a visit to the Twin Cities, we grab a camera and stroll the tarmac to marvel at these leftovers from a past that fills the pages of every standard U.S. history textbook.

Last week, a B-17 and a P-51 Mustang rumbled into central Maine. I have seen and toured the cockpits of these World War II planes on several occasions. The detailed nose art on these World War II stalwarts is striking. I am still amazed at the awesome firepower of this four-engine bomber's .50-caliber machine guns that line the plane from top to bottom. How they persuaded a man to cram himself into the ball turret located under the belly of the plane is baffling to me. The only thing separating the gunner from a 10,000-foot drop to the ground is the ball-turret's glass.

I am a 6-foot-3, 300-pound man who cannot squeeze myself into the pilot's seat. The only section of the plane that I feel comfortable standing up is the waist-gunner's station. These planes were not built for big men with girth, but the pilots who flew these American bombers are larger than life. Imagine spending hours strapped into a cockpit while withering enemy fire from the ground and in the air whizzes past your aircraft as you concentrate on dropping a payload of 500-pound bombs on an obscure target.

Two exceptional films were made about B-17s. Spending a few hours watching the "Memphis Bell" or  my favorite, "Twelve O'clock High," is one way to get to know America's powerhouse bomber and the strategic roll it played during World War II.

"Twelve O'Clock High" is an excellent drama that focuses on American pilots during the daylight bombing campaign over Nazi Germany. Gregory Peck and Dean Jagger deliver Academy-Award winning performances and bring to life the dangers that these courageous pilots were exposed to during their daily missions.

Whenever I tour these planes, I often think of my uncle, Retired major B.J. Murano, who flew B-24s in World War II and jets in the Korean conflict. I don't know how this brave man came back in one piece after serving in two major wars.

Restoring the past

Restoration of a Lockheed Constellation continues at Lewiston-Auburn airport. After we paid homage to the B-17, we got a sneak peek at the restoration project of a L-1649 Starliner at one of the large hangars. The other Constellation, which is still sitting on the runway, is being cannibalized and used for parts. Watching these skilled men take apart an aircraft and modernized this behemoth from the 1960s is a real eye-opener and a lesson in ingenuity.

Taking the chill out of Autumn

The Great Falls Balloon Festival - a sight to behold

The Sea Dogs at Hadlock Field in Portland

AUBURN, Maine — Winter's emissary, Autumn, announced itself when it blew into town with its frosty air and brisk temperatures on a bright Friday morning. Trees swayed in 40-mile-per-hour cold winds, which swept away three days of stifling humidity.

I closed all the windows to seal in the heat and ignored the thermostat. Flipping on the furnace is a no-no in September because the sun heats our house to 75 degrees on cool days. And thanks to price-gouging oil companies, I won't consider burning oil until October. Call me cheap or a concerned environmentalist who has been forced to conserve fuel thanks to overpaid CEOs and greedy speculators. I have my trusty wood stove on standby and all my wood is stacked, cut and ready to burn when Old Man Winter engulfs New England in an icy embrace for the next five months.

But I do have a treasure trove of warm memories of a summer to take chill out this family's bones. Pictures of the Great Falls Balloon Festival and our trip to watch the Portland Sea Dogs play baseball at Hadlock Field in Portland will make winter bearable.

Away all balloons

For the past 19 years, the Twin Cities have hosted a balloon festival in late August. The weekend event draws thousands of spectators from all over and is a sight to behold when, if the steamy weather cooperates, dozens of giant balloons crowd the skies during the six launches. The early-morning flights are the best. The weather is cool and the threat of thunderstorms is minimal, guaranteeing an eye-opening launch on a bright summer morning.

My son took our camera and raced around the streets of Lewiston and Auburn on a Saturday morning, snapping nearly 80 photos, which were included in a slide show. Some people go for the entertainment, the shopping booths and fast food, but for me, the unique balloons lifting off with apprehensive passengers is worth jumping out bed at 5:30 in the morning.

Sometimes, if we are not up for a morning launch, balloons will drift by our home and a blast fire from their loud propane burners will wake us. I will run to the door and watch the low-flying airships hover over us. From what I have been told, if they are forced to land in your yard, they will present the homeowner with a bottle of champagne for an unscheduled landing.

But what really makes these large balloons so unique is their sizes and shapes. The behemoths can make the sun disappear as they drift over head.

Evening launches draw larger crowds at Railroad Park, but when there is a threat of thunder, balloon pilots will stand down and not risk putting their passengers in harm's way.

Going to the Dogs

Can't afford a $300 day at Fenway Park? Apprehensive about taking your life into your own hands when driving around Boston? Scared of getting mugged when taking the "T" to Fenway? Paying for watered-down beer at $10 a pop astound you? Worried that 

the guy next you will light up a three-foot stogie and smother you in cloud of a second-hand smoke?

Save money, time and avoid Boston's insanity and visit Hadlock Field in Portland to checkout the Sea Dogs. This is great entertainment at an affordable price without playing bumper cars with Massachusetts drivers. Parking is a jaw-dropping $5 to watch the Double-A players man a diamond. 

Look, competing with Friendly Fenway on any level is a lesson in futility. And Boston's glamour is a tough act to follow even though I think Portland is a great little city with so much to do without going broke.

I confess I am a Mass Hole who grew up 10 miles from Fenway's finest. When you attend a game at Fenway, it  feels like you have entered another country. This is one of the few old parks left in Major League Baseball where you don't feel like you are watching a team from the cliffs of the Grand Canyon. There's an intimacy about the park, but I also get that feeling from Hadlock Field. I enjoy the Dogs' sideshows in between innings and their numerous raffles. It really feels like the old days when the pros did the same thing for fans.

But making it a day at Fenway Park means taking out a small loan at the bank. Parking is $25 and ticket prices can make a grown baseball fan cry, and then there is the cost of food and drink. Throw in gas money for the long commute and you really got yourself a ball game for the price of about $300 for a father and son who love America's pastime.

Attending a Sea Dogs game won't blast a hole in your bank account. Ticket prices are reasonable and so isn't the food and drink. Sure, it's Double-A ball and Hadlock isn't Fenway and Portland can't compete with Boston, but who really cares when it comes to watching baseball. And there is a replica of the Green Monster at Hadlock, which isn't so astounding because the Dogs are a minor league affiliate of the Boston Red Sox.

But if you have $60 in your wallet and your son or daughter wants to watch a baseball game at a cozy park, then you have just enough cash to hit one out of the park at Hadlock Field.

So take them all out to the ball game without going broke.

Fenway Park can wait.

Goodfellows52: The day the earth stood still

Goodfellows52: 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 th...

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.