A floor to remember

Before

      After

       AUBURN, Maine — The pounding of hammers and loud whining of heavy-duty saws have ceased. The dust has settled and there is only silence in our empty kitchen, but a freshly installed floor has brought our galley back to life.  My kitchen no longer looks like it was hit by an errant RPG.

Two contractors single-handedly ripped apart our 60-year-old dingy kitchen floor, which was coming apart at the seams.

The floor project was put on hold to pay for my son's $5,000.00 smile.

A lot elbow grease went into removing the stubborn and ancient floor, which fought contractors Bruce Pinette and Bob... every damn step of the way before they laid down the off-white linoleum.


This is a dirty job, but these guys are equipped and possess the know-how that would give the cast of contractors on "This Old House" a run for their money in the home-remodeling business.


For three days, Bruce and Bob labored as they pulled, ripped, sawed and stapled their way across our filthy floor. Bob resorted to a roofing shovel to blast apart the cemented composite layer of flooring, which could probably survive a nuclear missile strike. Chips flew across the room as Bob broke a sweat. I was ready for a beer after watching them hammer away at my floor.


This was no job for amateurs.  And when they finished prying apart the floor — and our lives — they began nailing down expensive plywood in just over a day. Our kitchen has more angles than a pentagon and the house is a bit crooked thanks to time and nature. 


Everything has shifted, but thanks to Bob's precision cutting and Bruce's guidance, they made each piece of underlay fit snuggly.  


When you survive a project like this, you feel grateful to have your kitchen back without maneuvering around nail guns, saws, brooms and plywood. I missed my stove the most and am tired of having the refrigerator in my living room, although a cold beer is just feet away from me.  


This inconvenience was a small price to pay for a brand-new kitchen floor.  Before I decided to hire these two adept contractors, I entertained the notion of tackling this project myself.


Foolish me!


When I thought about going it alone, and being the journalist that I am, I began researching the project at Web sites like "This Old House." They all made it look simple and explained it could be done in hours.  That maybe true if you are Bob Villa surrounded by crew of expert handymen who know the difference between a hammer and a screwdriver. 


What I learned was that no project is simple and it would take weeks for newbie like me to complete such an undertaking — or just go berserk and throw up my hands.  I was no match for this task and that is why I turned to the experts.  


Mr. Pelletier and Bob, for the reasonable price tag of $2,200 busted their butts to do a great job and gave a tired-old kitchen a new lease on life.  


You could say we are floored by their master craftsmanship.

A walk in the woods and thoughts about an old friend

 

    POLAND, Maine - The weather is absurdly warm, but as long as our oil furnace is silent and I am not contributing to the wealth of greedy speculators and Middle East corporations, I welcome the strong sun and melting snow in March.

    To celebrate this salubrious March day, we ventured into the cool Maine woods at Range Pond State Park - which has 1,000 feet of pristine shoreline and clear, cool water surrounded by miles of hiking trails. Take your bike or stroll the walking paths at Range. It doesn't matter; it is all good for your health.

    This oasis, which lies just 10 miles outside the Twin Cities, is a great way to beat the summer heat. The lake is fine area to try your hand at fishing and check out gawky loons that saunter past you. The hiking trails are shaded by tall pines.

     The ice is just starting to melt, but the sheet of white slushy stuff is quite a contrast against the searing sun. Winter always lingers in this state, and its calling card is stubborn ice and snow that lies in the shady areas of the woods until April.

     The two-mile hike brought us to the sandy shore where we found a vacant bench drenched in shade. We enjoyed the cool breezes off the icy water as we washed away our thirst with a cooler full of water.

     Anthony tossed rocks and dipped his legs in the frigid water to cool off as the mercury reached the 75-degree mark.

    Spring arrives on Tuesday, but New England just might skip that season and move right on to summer with temperatures hovering around 80 degrees during the middle of the week.

     There was a sparse group of Mainers who also thought it would be a pleasant way to spend a hot March afternoon near a lake encased in ice. 

     Just think, in another month and a half, all of us will immerse ourselves in Range's cooling waters to take cover from summer's impending heat.

Blast from the past

     It is amazing how many walk people in and out of our brief lives. 

     Ken Freeland flew right into my airspace at Norwich University nearly 34 years ago. We have been friends ever since and frequently reach out to each other as the decades have rolled past us.

     We became roommates at the Vermont military school for the five months. For some reason, we became friends in the first five minutes. Throw in John Connor and we became the Three Musketeers who had one helluva a time trading barbs and sampling fine booze in our cramped quarters. We were three comedians who gave the Norwich establishment a run for its money.

     Ken is a character, but that could also be said of me. Somehow, we mesh even though we are different. I guess that's why they call it friendship, which has endured for over three decades.

    Marriages don't last that long, and yet, our friendship was forged in less than a year.

     Last week, Ken left Connecticut to travel to Maine to purchase an expensive dog — and grace the Blasi household with a visit.

     I was honored.

    That last time we saw each other was seven years ago, which was far too long gap in our friendship. We have always stayed in touch by email or telephone.

     His visit was important to me. At this stage in my life, when many friends and family have died the past two years, I try to keep my channels open with people who actually give a damn about me and are still above ground.

    Well, his visit did me a world of good, and it was great to share a beer and reminisce about our glorious past.

    I think we will be seeing more of each other because we both understand we are all short-timers in this grand universe.

Goodfellows52: Music to our ears

Goodfellows52: Music to our ears: My son, Anthony, checks out Portland's history. Merrill Auditorium's lavish hallways. Downtown Portland, Maine on a Sunday afte...

Music to our ears

My son, Anthony, checks out Portland's history.

Merrill Auditorium's lavish hallways. 

Downtown Portland, Maine on a Sunday afternoon.

PORTLAND, Maine - For two glorious hours, I forgot about my bills, winter’s cold touch and mankind’s stupidity as a chorus of angelic voices drifted over me.

I had found serenity inside the lavish halls of palatial Merrill Auditorium. My heart rate slowed, my breathing was calm and any trace of apprehension had disappeared as the Vancouver Chamber Choir’s soothing music lulled a couple of hundred patrons into a dream-like state.

There is no question about it — these guys and gals have got some game.

If classical music is the big leagues, then this choir would be one of Major League baseball’s dominant teams. All their powerful voices are home runs.

I won a pair of tickets, which are steep but well worth the price of admission for $44.00 apiece, at work. My son accompanied me to the concert. Terri was nursing an ear infection and elected to remain behind even though I would have gladly purchased a third ticket.

My son and I sat in total silence as the show went on. We didn’t dare speak to each other for fear missing one note of Vancouver’s mesmerizing chorals. Nobody spoke. Not one cell phone interrupted the silence of Merrill Auditorium, which was quieter than a library.

I didn’t give a damn about mankind’s ugliness or politicians’ empty promises. All I could do was just float in and out this brief state of tranquility.

Conductor and Artistic Director Jon Washburn’s gentle demeanor and reassuring voice was a crowd pleaser. He had this adept way of introducing and explaining each musical piece to his audience. I appreciated his knowledge of music, which I am sure is vast.

In the dead of winter, I found myself totally relaxed as Vancouver opened its “A Choral Panorama” with heavy-hitting composer Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Komm, Jesu, Komm."

I had found nirvana as the choir’s interpretation of Bach’s timeless piece emptied my mind of trepidation and melancholy.

The Choir moved on to perform Sir John Tavener’s “The Lamb” and Canadian composer R. Murray Schaler’s “A Medieval Bestiary.”

These are great works performed by a world-class choir, which is also capable of bringing to life English folk songs. My favorite, "Early One Morning," was done masterfully. I have heard this piece in movies and on PBS.

I had the privilege of listening to a select group of mankind's finest voices brighten the lives of an appreciative audience on a Sunday afternoon.

The only problem I had with this outstanding performance is it lasted for only two hours, and all this serenity disappeared after the last round of applause gave way to silence.

Games fathers and sons play

AUBURN, Maine - My eyes never leave the board when he makes his next move.

He is a cunning and dangerous tactician who knows how to maneuver his fleet of old battle wagons and carriers and place my ships in harm's way.

I try to stay a step ahead of my son, Anthony, but where ever I direct my battleships and submarines, he is there to meet me  with his intrepid and deadly fleet. 

He doesn't miss a thing.

This is not chess; this is war!

Well, not exactly.

It's a game without the video. No need for technology and the joy stick. You have to use your brain, especially when you send your planes on a mission to knock out a carrier or the other big bastards — cruisers and destroyers.

There are plenty of curve balls along the way as two navies slug it out on the open waters of the Atlantic.

Welcome to "Axis and Allies" — a game where naval tactics and the ability to keep your eye on your opponent and playing cards at the same time means life or death when you begin blasting away at each other.

Take your eye off the helm and just watch him deep-six a key battleship.

A friend of mine once told me fishing isn't really about catching fish. He said angling is about time you spend with someone you love. Sure, reeling in "The Big One" after a 10-minute tussle with a stubborn bottom-dweller is rewarding, but watching my smiling son proudly pulling in his own fish is priceless.

It's true. It is not about the fishing, and hiking isn't about just walking in the woods on a warm summer day. During these moments of leisure, random conversations appear out of nowhere as we cast our lines or make our way along a trail. We reveal ourselves and swap dreams and ambitions on a sandy pond. Our talks cement our relationships as we travel in our tiny universe.

Our big board game that consumes us in a cellar on rainy days keeps my son and I connected and reinforces our mutual interests about history. The hours we spend trying to strafe, bomb, sink or torpedo our fleets is as equally important as our conversations that emerge during a surface battle.

Look, there is nothing I like better than sending one of his battleships to the bottom. I know he takes great joy in deep-sixing one of my carriers.

And we both take pleasure watching our destroyers and cruisers pelt each other with their 10- and 5-inch guns with the roll of a dice.

We are both trying to rule the high seas as we roam this vast ocean, but in between setting our flotillas on a course of destruction, we strike up discussions during these fire fights. No topic is taboo. We share our stories of the past and opinions about the present.

There are a lot of things I could be doing around the house.  

But I know I will never spend these precious moments with Anthony again. I sop up these minutes with my son, knowing all along that the games we play will not continue forever , although I wish they could.

Goodfellows52: A stitch in time for my valentine

Goodfellows52: A stitch in time for my valentine: A valentine for Terri AUBURN, Maine - I didn’t want to go the traditional route and shower my beloved wife with flowers on Valent...

A stitch in time for my valentine

A valentine for Terri

"I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty... you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are."

                                                                                                                                    J. D. Salinger

AUBURN, Maine — I didn’t want to go the traditional route and shower my beloved wife with flowers on Valentine’s Day.

Sure, I purchased a small box of chocolates to go along with a Hallmark card, but my valentine deserved more than a dozen roses and a warm embrace after 22 years of marriage.

Going out to eat and spending a small fortune on food that adds to the waistline was certainly an option.

Been there, done that.

I wanted this token of my love to be unique.

What to do?

Well, it just so happens I was heading to the Waterfront Flea Market located at Fort Andross in Brunswick on Sunday.

Well, we strolled up and down the isles nearly a dozen times, hoping to spot the perfect gift for a woman who has devoted so much of her life to her son and husband.

While my son, Anthony, was busy looking through antique books, I got the notion to check out the dozens of old paintings.

Nothing stood out as I wandered the floor, hoping to find that perfect gift for her. Anthony had settled on the book, “They Were Expendable," a 1942 book about the men who manned the U.S. Navy’s PT boats during World War II.

After another 30 minutes of checking out a treasure-trove of relics from the past, I was about to give up and pay a visit to the florist to purchase roses.

Anthony suggested taking one desperate last look before we shoved off. I peaked inside one room and there it was - Terri’s gift. It was the perfect combination of intricate needle point and cross stitching of an Amish farm scene.

Terri is an Amish fanatic. She reads books about the Amish's way of life and really can't tell you why she has such a fascination with the Amish.

The 12-by-16 needle point was impressive and was done by an 89-year-old women who spent months making each stitch count. I don’t know where this elderly woman got the patience to complete this work of art.

Anthony and I agreed to purchase the needle point with hopes that Terri would appreciate the gift.

When Terri opened the wrap and took a good look at the needle point, she smiled and couldn’t stop thanking me. Anthony said, “Dad, you scored big.”

I knew that 22 years ago when I married Terri.

Get over it, Pats fans

"Listen, I don't mean to be a sore loser, but uh, when it's done if I'm dead, kill him!"

- Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy in the movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

AUBURN, Maine — There was still snow on the ground Monday morning. The wood stove was hot as hell, providing comforting heat as I ambled toward the coffee pot to pour myself a hot one. Our silly cat was clawing at the door. I reached for the morning newspaper in the cold air.

Nothing had changed since Sunday night when the New England Patriots lost a heart breaker to the New York Giants. It's been seven days, and if you are still brooding or whining, get some professional help. There are plenty of shrinks in the phone book.

I didn't turn to the bottle for a little Southern Comfort or call my family in tears. No finger pointing from my sofa seat. No loud cursing. No banging on the stop sign outside my home on a quiet street in Mayberry RFD.

I am betting some fans wanted to throw themselves off a bridge Sunday. 

Not me! I hit the sack and drifted off without any tossing and turning.

I was over the Patriots' loss as soon I flipped the television channel to watch Masterpiece Theater on PBS. OK, I am a snob and enjoy watching British-made mysteries.

It's not that I didn't give a damn. I am not a disgruntled fan shopping around for another NFL team to root for next season. I will always be a Pats fan. Hell, I grew up in the Greater Boston area in a town that is a stone's throw away from Fenway Park.

Give up on the Pats? Never, god damn it! I am from Massachusetts, god damn it! That's like turning my back on the Bruins, Celtics and Red Sox. That would make me a communist, a traitor or even worse — a member of the Republican Party.

Look, Tom Brady and the rest of his crew marched off with a truck load of cash that you or I will never see in this lifetime. Nobody died and it was game that kept us all on the edge, especially when Brady launched a long-distance pass into the end zone. I knew it was a long shot, but that didn't stop me from acting like Pollyanna while the ball sailed into the air. I crossed my fingers and promised to give up four-letter words or never touch a drop of dark beer.

Well, not really.

Sure, watching New York take one Giant step past the Pats left me gut shot with a hole the size of cannon ball. But my wounds quickly healed with a strong cup of coffee and the love of a good woman.

I made no plans to travel to New York to disrupt the Giants' celebration. I am not a sore loser. I wish the Giants and Eli well in their next endeavor.

Of course, there will be THOSE fans who want to make a villain out of Wes Welker and label him a Bill Buckner, who was crucified by overzealous Red Sox fans who seemed to take pleasure in punishing this man.

So Welker didn't catch the ball and there were other dropped passes during those crucial 57 seconds. You know that that means — these guys are human. Anybody can screw up. Leave this man alone. He probably feels worse than any rabid Patriots fan covered in face paint.

You feel let down by the Pats' loss. Get a frigging life. Remember, knucklehead, it's a game. Accept it!

In Boston, it was sad to see that a handful of people were arrested after the game for acting like morons. So your team loses a close one, and that gives you an excuse to turn over cars and shoot up the neighborhood? Forget jail. Stick them in a deep hole in the woods.

Look, New England, we took it on the chin this time.

The best remedy for our broken hearts is to throw our full support behind the Celtics or Bruins.

Better yet, spring training is around the corner. Before you know it, the Boys of Summer will be back on the diamond and the memory of that cold day in Indianapolis will fade in the summer sunshine.

Goodfellows52: Patriot games

Goodfellows52: Patriot games: AUBURN, Maine — Sports bars will be packed with customers who will be three sheets to wind by halftime. Pizza joints and liquor store...

Patriot games

    AUBURN, Maine — Sports bars will be packed with customers who will be three sheets to the wind by halftime. Pizza joints and liquor stores will experience their own version of Black Friday. 

   And the good citizens of America will open their homes to anybody with a six-pack of beer and a bucket of chicken wings, as we all gather to watch the New England Patriots and the New York Giants beat each other up in the Super Bowl on Sunday night.

   
   It is the Coliseum in the heart of Rome all over again — without the spears, axes and swords. There is no battle to the death in this matchup. These Spartans are spared and will head to the bank with cold, hard cash in their pockets. And the Game is in Indianapolis, but it still feels like the Coliseum.

   
   But I want no part of watching a game at a tavern. I don't want to listen to annoying, tipsy patrons give me their take on the game. Every bar-stool critic will offer his prediction with words slurred by booze. Back off you boobs. Tell it to someone who gives a damn.

  

    I haven't invited a soul to my house to watch the Big Game on a big TV. I have a small TV. I don't want friends or relatives distracting me when it is a critical fourth-and-2 situation on the 30-yard line for the Patriots. I don't want to feel pressured to make my home spotless or cook for 30 people who might leave my house in a stupor and get behind the wheel of a car.

   
   Keep it!

   
   I will be home watching the game with my son, Anthony, and wife, Terri, who won't holler at the television. They won't disown the Patriots when Tom Brady throws a rare interception in the first quarter.

   
    I won't be hammering away on Facebook during the game. I don't have an account. I don't need updates via email about a Game I am also viewing. My laptop will be off.

   
    Before I tied the knot, I watched games at local establishments. What I found just as amusing are intoxicated fans stumbling from one bar stool to another to get in some one's face about the Game. The noise level was insane and patrons were more focused on their chicken wings than the Game.

   
   Whenever I have been invited to enjoy the Big Game at some one's home, I couldn't concentrate with people carrying on about the weather or politics. 

   Too much background noise.

   
   So I will be home and I won't be alone. I will cook a good meal. I might have a libation as the Pats do their best to knock down the formidable Giants.

   
    I will not install huge signs on my lawn, buy a Patriots cap or shirt, or attach a bumper sticker with a Patriots logo on my vehicle. I don't need to proclaim my allegiance to New England by becoming a spectacle in my neighborhood. 

   There will be no body painting in my home. I am not the wacko auto mechanic David Puddy who scared a priest to death with his New Jersey Devils face painting in a heart-warming "Seinfeld" episode.

   I am a quiet Patriot who walks softly and carries a 12-ounce beer in his hand.
   

   I want quiet.

  
   But if you do show up at my home with beer and pizza in your outstretched arms Sunday evening, that just might get you in the door.

His dream continues

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

-  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

AUBURN, Maine - My mother was listening to the radio while performing the mundane chore of ironing on a Thursday evening. The announcer mentioned that Martin Luther King, Jr. was about to leave his hotel room in Memphis, Tenn.

I was eight years and I wasn't really sure who Martin Luther King was or why he was in Tennessee. It was my birthday, April 4, 1968, and my new toys and bouncing around the parlor floor were my only concerns.

I watched my mom barrel through a pile of clean clothes with her hot iron. She loved listening to radio and thought television was a big waste of time.

It still is!

The radio was her ear to the world, and of course, there was her music, which I grew to love later in life.

For some reason, and I can't explain it to this day, I also turned my attention to the radio for one historical moment when the announcer, in a panicked-stricken voice began reporting that King was shot in the face. I looked at my mother. She appeared frightened.

A few moments later I learned that King was gunned down on a balcony at the Lorraine Motel. I couldn't understand why anybody would want to shoot him. I didn't know or care that he was black. I was an eight year old who suddenly felt sad that somebody was murdered.

I don't remember the rioting that followed after King's assassination. For the next several days, this eight year old listened to the grownups talk about his death. It would be years before I would come to fully understand what a remarkable man Martin Luther King truly was and appreciate his personal sacrifices.

King was one of the iconic and charismatic leaders who was cut down along John and Robert Kennedy during of the tumultuous 1960s. I was too young to comprehend how one man rallied people of all colors through his writing, peaceful marches and rousing oratorial skills.

Ever read some of his writings? 

His "I have a dream" speech is remarkable until you read his writings from "Where do we go from here" or the "Lincoln Memorial Address." These are outstanding works that raised the level of debate about equality and injustice in a nation that was coming apart over the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam War.

Fast forward to my son who had just entered the fourth grade at Washburn Elementary School. Anthony is a reader, and one day he pulled a book about Mr. King from the shelves of his school library. His class was studying King's accomplishments, but Anthony went further to learn more about this role model. I was impressed with my son who has always thought outside the box when it comes to research.

But what was equally impressive was that a man who gave his life to help stamp out inequality and racism in a nation that believes: "all men are created equal" was still inspiring young people since his death nearly 40 years ago.

Something new

An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.”

— Bill Vaughn

AUBURN, Maine — I am hoping this New Year won't be the same old, same old.

There are no guarantees and there will be no resolutions from me. The universe is a funny place and the cosmos makes no promises and could give a damn about you and me!

Resolutions are a crock of ... well I won't use that word because this is a family blog even though I could give the late Harry S. Truman a run for his money when it comes to firing off a round of vulgarities. I admit I am no stranger to the F-word, but I do try to use it sparingly. I know this raunchy word offends people, but as an adjective, it is second to none.

While the rest of humanity was celebrating 2012 with rum and vodka, I spent the evening putting out a major daily metropolitan newspaper about — you guessed it — 2012. Of course, there are many people (please stay away from me) who believe the human race is at the end of its rope because the Mayan calendar expires this year.

For those of you who think 2012 is our epilogue, find a good shrink and ask for those little green pills that will make you happy again. Better yet, get a life.

There are at least dozen ways humans will go the way of the typewriter, but basing armageddon on a group of people who lived hundreds of years ago and sacrificed thousands of their fellow men to deities is simply absurd.

Knowing the show will go on and I remain above ground, I have made goals for this year. There are still many things I want out of life, but many remain out of my reach.

I would like to make more money, but I don't strive to be rich. The almighty dollar is not my Holy Grail. I am already a wealthy man who is married to woman who possesses beauty and brains. My son excels in his academics and is a gentleman who understands why please and thank you might just take him to the top. That makes him priceless. I have three sisters who I consider assets despite our skirmishes.

I want to use the cash to buy experiences, not things. I want to travel more, fix up the house, and pay off the nefarious banks which own the note on my house. I want to make credit cards obsolete — and I am not giving a dime to any politician.

I also realize all the money in the world will not rescue my mother from eternity. Money can't buy back Louise's love and understanding. That also goes for Dorothy Millett — my mother-in-law, who was buried the day after Christmas. I miss her cooking and common sense.

If I had the cash, I would invest in finding a cure for Alzheimer's, which, at this moment, is stripping my father's brain of his precious memories. I am losing bits and pieces of a proud man whose integrity and loyalty seems outdated in a world enveloped in greed, corruption and indifference.

If I could use the money to step back in time, I would intervene on behalf of two acquaintances who committed suicide over money woes brought on by a bad economy.

I figured the quickest and devious way to make money is run for Congress. I like the perks that come with a job, where special interest money comes rolling in and health insurance is guaranteed for life. The job requirements are simple: Promise your constituency everything but give them nothing, and ignore the Greater Good.

I wouldn't mind giving world peace another shot. But I doubt that will happen. The human race seems to enjoy fighting over religion, resources, pride, the Red Sox, the damn Yankees or those sneaky Canadiens. I like peace, and it's cheaper than war.

I am also hoping for no major health emergencies. My wife has had to endure two serious operations. Enough, already!

I am growing a bigger garden this year. Grocery shopping is traumatic. Food prices are ridiculous and the amounts are shrinking even though you are paying more for cereal.

I would like to purchase a car that runs on hot air. There's a huge untapped supply in Washington D.C., and its renewable, too.

What I really want out of this New Year is peace of mind. It's something money can't buy and it isn't asking for too much.

Goodfellows52: 'Tis the season to appreciate your family

Goodfellows52: 'Tis the season to appreciate your family: I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. ~ Charles Dickens AUBURN, Maine — Whenever they walk thro...

'Tis the season to appreciate your family

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.  ~ Charles Dickens

AUBURN, Maine — Whenever they walk through the door at the end of a day, I know I am one lucky SOB, and I don’t need a holiday to remind me of my precious family. For me, it is the most wonderful time of the year — all year long.

Losing loved ones and friends have taught us all that there is no certainty in life and our small worlds often change in a heartbeat when tragedy strikes. Nobody is here forever and time has a way of whittling down the herd.

But I see no harm in celebrating Christmas — a holiday that forces friends and family to take a timeout from multi-tasking and sit at a dinner table together without the distraction of computers and cell phones.

No Facebook, Twitter, or My Space! When we gather at the dinner table, face-to-face conversations begin — and no topic is taboo. Discussions about sports, religion or the morons who run Congress turn into a war of words as we look into the whites of our eyes. It’s not pretty, but it beats texting or posting nonsense on a social media Web site. There is nothing like a heated discussion at the dinner table. It’s pass the ham and fire off fusillade of acerbic opinions during Christmas dinner.

If you find a way to ignore the commercialism and pressure of emptying your wallet to outspend your family members for gifts, Christmas is a great excuse to sit on the sofa, watch Clarence set George Bailey straight and recover from a tryptophan high from the turkey. It also allows me to ponder the more important questions about “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I always wondered why Clarence didn't kick Potter’s butt all around the county for being so underhanded.

For me, Christmas and all the trimmings makes me realize that I was lucky enough to spend another year with my wife and son. The yuletide is also a not-so subtle reminder that there will come a day when our gatherings will cease.

With 1 and 6 Americans swelling the ranks of the poor, I feel fortunate and guilty at the same time for having enough money to cook a turkey and shrimp linguine for my family. There are gifts under the tree, food on the table and heat in the house. 

I am damn lucky.

I am not an Ebenezer wannabe who saw this holiday as a humbug before a bunch of ghosts ganged up on the old sourpuss. What’s wrong with throwing up a tree and turning your house into a giant neon sign, anyway? Presents are welcomed and a belly full of turkey and an endless stream of pies give me a damn good excuse to make merry on this day.

For years, I travelled down the Maine turnpike to visit my parents and get together with nearly two dozen people on Christmas Eve. It was an event I looked forward to every year until my mother died and my father found out he had Alzheimer's - a cruel disease that is slowly and agonizingly destroying his mind. Over the years, death has whittled down my list of friends and family.

So I decided to remain in Maine and enjoy a quiet holiday. I haven’t stayed at home during Christmas in years, and I don’t miss the two-hour ride to Boston.

The next two days will be spent exchanging presents and eating good food on a cold winter mornings in front of a wood stove heated by ash wood that was given to me from a generous neighbor. I will chop wood, cook a big breakfast and large dinner — just the three of us on Christmas Day.

And when the tree comes down and the holiday lights are packed away, the memories of another loving Christmas with my son and wife will see me through the new year.

Goodfellows52: It's beginning to look like insanity

Goodfellows52: It's beginning to look like insanity: Our tree, outdoor lights and Anthony and Terri make three. “ The best Christmas of all is the presence of a happy family all ...