Getting soaked on this deal

AUBURN, Maine - For the moment, my vegetable garden no longer looks like the wetlands of the Louisiana Bayou. The wind-swept monsoons that washed out roads and flooded neighborhoods along of the state's overflowing rivers have abated.

The deluge began Saturday evening and didn't stop for nearly 24 hours.  But on-and-off heavy showers continue to make life dismal and damp for most of Maine. So far, nearly seven inches of rain have soaked the Pine Tree State. According to meteorologists, the rain won't fade away until Wednesday.

The Androscoggin River continues to swell, causing Great Falls to erupt with tons of water. The shallow banks along the river are disappearing as visitors brave the rain to snap shots or film the fast-moving water.

But who knows how long my garden will last in a nasty storm with no ending. And I will probably be mowing my lawn every 48 hours for the rest of the summer to keep it from growing like the Mekong jungle.

Weathermen saw this one coming last week when they began talking about a blocking high pressure system and a stationary low. I knew what that meant. That's when I went into a deep depression and began cursing Mother Nature's unkindness toward gardeners and farmers. It seems the old lady is always out to get us.

Every summer, this disheartening and plant-killing weather combination appears and makes me want throw in my hoe and shovel and plant grass instead of vegetables.

But I might have done something really smart to prevent a bunch of casualties in my underwater vegetable garden.

After cutting the lawn a couple of days before this soaker ravaged the state, I placed thick piles of grass clippings around my plants, and this may have absorbed the water and helped with the drainage in my garden.

Of course, a week of bright sunshine would be a welcomed sight for all green thumbs who have had their fingers crossed during these relentless downpours.

After all, we are the folks who bring good food to life.

Green thumbs up

AUBURN, Maine — A sunny forecast means all systems are go to plant my garden this Memorial Day weekend.

I am giddy just thinking about it because Mother Nature has given me the green light to get down and dirty with the rich soil in my well-groomed backyard.

I have an old beat-up radio on standby for that afternoon. Listening to the Red Sox, no matter how pathetic they might be, is a glorious way to spend an afternoon planting a garden. And then there is the option of imbibing a dark beer brewed right here in the Pine Tree State.

Sure, Mother Nature is an old fuss and quite sassy, but according to our local weathermen, the sun will burn brightly in the sky. If our weathermen screw up, I will know who to blame, and I will become as nasty as Mother Nature. I will show up with the rest of the farmers bearing sickles and torches, calling the weathermen out.

I know how these town folk can be when the weather lets them down.

Of course, we are talking about an extended forecast that can change on a dime in New England. Weather is fickle up here in north country. Never ever take your eye off the forecast — especially if you are a serious gardener like me. It is like taking your eye off a Clemens fastball that can peel away your skin with its velocity.

All gardeners mean business even though they understand they are at the mercy of the elements.

But if Mother Nature delivers this weekend, I am weeks away from eating fresh fruit and vegetables. It also means I won't be handing over my money to grocery stores to purchase expensive produce that is anything but organic.

Here on the Ponderous, we don't use chemicals and other crap to grow vegetables. It is verboten. I am like a damn hippy when it comes to going all natural to raise stuff you can eat without getting poisoned. I know Little Joe, Hoss, Adam and the patriarch of the family — Ben Cartwright — would agree with me.

Sure, I use fertilizer to get the ball rolling, but it is all natural compost. No dam chemicals.

I ran the tiller over my garden a second time last weekend, and since it is nothing more than one giant compost pile, the soil is looking real good.

So it is off to Farmer Whitings to purchase seedlings and to visit with fellow gardeners who also like to see things grow.

The rest is up to nature.

Another friend departs

"Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye?" — Author Unknown

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?　 I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave.　 Someone always leaves.Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos." — Charles M. Schulz

AUBURN, Maine — The corner deli was a hangout for lifelong gamblers, sports fanatics, coffee lovers and loyal customers who purchased  top-shelf salami or ham.

Conversation was just as important as making money at one of the best delis in the Greater Boston area.

The older gentlemen met at the corner of Broadway and Revere Street to sip a strong cup of Joe on Sunday mornings — and buy a pound of mortadella. 

The usual customers lingered long after they bought their meat to sound off about the Red Sox or Celtics. They were all arm-chair prognosticators and self-proclaimed experts on the future of Boston sports teams. 

But gambling was always the hottest topic of the morning. Everybody had a tip on a horse or dog in the ninth race. They talked about laying down their  bets at Wonderland or Suffolk Downs. I often referred to Suffolk as Suffering Downs, where hard-luck gamblers emptied their wallets looking for that one big score. The cliental at the Wonderland dog track was no different.

My father was the big draw at DiPietro's Deli. He was the high school baseball coach who  also served as  a spokesman for this unofficial brotherhood of sports nuts and gamblers. He would carry on in-depth conversations about the Patriots or that horse in the eighth race in between slicing meat and ringing up purchases

Of course, the owner, Carl DiPietro, would, on some occasions, make an appearance on Sunday mornings. Carl was a big man who could handle himself, but he was also a kind and trusted human being with integrity. He had the instincts of a  boxer and the brains of a college professor.  He was no stranger to colorful language , but the use of his ear-splitting adjectives made him one of the boys. 

Carl fit right in with the rest of the Sunday bunch. Like all of them, he loved to gamble and was regular at Wonderland. Revere is that kind of town where the action can be seductive.

I respected him for the respect he gave my father and me. He was a generous employer who took care of his help during the Christmas onslaught when hundreds of customers stopped in to buy expensive prosciutto for their pizza gainers. Old ladies would vie for the prosciutto bones to make their Italian soups.

When I worked with him, Carl would regale me with his exploits on the strip at Revere Beach. He was a regular at some pubs and enjoyed the Boston nightlife. He was not one to hold back or keep his opinions to himself. He was an avid listener of Elvis Presley and remained loyal to the King long after Presley was laid to rest in Memphis. Carl was also a fan of Roy Orbison and the Beatles because the guy really had good taste in music.

He also had a big smile and loved good jokes, and he was not shy about telling a few naughty ones when he was in the company of his trusted friends. I was  lucky  to be  included in his inner circle.

When I needed of $700 to pay off a student loan, and I didn't want to bother my dad, I turned to Carl for a loan. I was apprehensive, but Carl turned to me and said, "Just keep track of your hours and work it off." That was it. The deal was done. But I was always grateful to this man for that generous act of kindness and understanding.

Carl once told me this: "Don't ever steal from me. Eat anything you want, and take a sandwich to school if you would like. But just don't steal from me."

I never did.  Betraying this man's trust was simply out of the question.

But Carl was stolen from all our hearts when he died this week at 64 years old  — way too young for man who still had a lot of living to do.

English poet and priest John Donne once wrote, "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind."

Carl took an interest in me and played an important role in my youth, and in doing so, he became a friend for life

  He will eventually become a treasured memory of my past, but that's just not good enough for me.

A piece of the past

AUBURN, Maine — To many of you, this is an ash stump that should have met its end in the fires of my ancient wood stove.

To me, this heavy lump of rock-solid ash, which I rescued from the wood pile, is another masterpiece produced by the creative genius and earth's resident artist - Mother Nature, who continues to amaze us all.

This stump is from an ash tree that has been around for about 100 years. It has weathered numerous storms as it slowly stretched its long limbs toward the sky. But my neighbors had it removed after its size posed a threat to their home. 

The 50-pound log was used as a chopping block for nearly a year. It served me well as I split hundreds of pieces of wood with a 15-pound maul. It survived the elements and the constant pounding of my devastating blows. We got to know each other well, and I found the stump to be a trustworthy companion in the summer heat and winter's numbing cold.

With nearly all the wood gone, I was about break apart this two-foot chopping block, which would have provided four to five hours of warmth on a cold spring day. But I recently ran across an article about converting quality stumps into tables. And the more I looked at the log, and the way it was cut, I knew that this piece was candidate to become a rustic table. It is a really unique stump with a beautiful top and would look good outside or inside my home.

It will become a lasting tribute to my indomitable spirit and soar back. I removed nearly 4,000 pounds of solid ash from my neighbor's property in the searing heat. I chopped wood for most of the year. I figured I had two cords of wood at my disposal. That would have cost me nearly $400.00.

I tackled this uncomplicated project with zeal.

I peeled away the thick bark with a heavy-duty wood chisel. I scraped it all off while my orbital sander was waiting in the bullpen. I began with a medium coarse of sandpaper and finished off my sanding using a more fine brand.

The whole project will take about eight hours to complete.

During the sanding phase, I discovered tiny lead pellets on embedded in the face of the stump. I am assuming these minute chards came from a shotgun blast, which would not be out of the question. Before dozens of homes were built, this was the perfect hunting ground. I sanded over the pellets and made them shine.

I am at the point where I will apply at least three coats of varnish to make the stump stand out. When the varnish dries, I will sand by hand with fine wet-and-dry sandpaper to smooth out the rough finish.

Next comes the furniture polish, which should add a nice sheen to the wood.

My new table will serve as a conversation piece, a spot to place my hot coffee, and a fond memory of summer and winter spent chopping wood.

One flush away from insanity

“A hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove...but the world may be different because I was important in the life of a child.”

 Forest E. Witcraft quote

AUBURN — It was the only way I could rebuild my confidence and stop the madness. I refused to turn to anyone else. I decided to go it alone before it ruined our lives.

    Thus, I began my miserable descent into the dark bowels of my leaky toilet.

    Sure, I am handy and somewhat of an artist when it comes to woodworking, but I know I am no Bob Villa. And I am certainly not qualified to join the cast of "This Old House." 

    Those guys make it look oh so easy when they dismantle an old porch and build a 40-foot addition in its place in less than hour. Tearing up sub-flooring in a run-down kitchen and replacing it with fine solid wood is no problem for the "Old House" gang. They get the job done in days. I would be there for weeks, filling my old fu*&%ing house with obscenities which would make my cringing neighbors shut their windows.

    I put all trepidation aside and decided to tackle a plumbing project, knowing all too well I might be in over my head. Still, I figured if I screwed up, and that was certainly not out of the question, I had my go-to plumber on standby. Mike can run rings around the "Old House" bunch. Ever watch this guy replace a faucet? He's like a surgeon, and he can do it in a heartbeat. It was like he was never there.

    He's that good.

    But knowing Mike was waiting in the wings, and that I had another bathroom at my disposal, gave me the courage to plunge my hands into the cold, disgusting waters of my toilet. I had to work fast in this repugnant environment.

    I wiped the sweat from my brow with a facecloth and grimaced as I worked feverishly to remove the culprit — a leaky flap — which caused me to lose sleep each night. Every moment counted. A good night's sleep was riding on my every move.

    Listening to a leaky toilet can drive anyone insane. Running water was a good excuse for Green Peace to pay me a visit with some guy named Rocky.


   Now that I was inside the messy tank, I decided to remove the corroded arm with the broken handle, too. I don't know how I did it, but I unscrewed the nut holding the arm that was attached to the leaky flap.

    Done! I was out in five minutes, with hours to spare.

    That was not a close call, but it sure was gross.

    Once I was inside toilet, there was no going back. It was imperative that the toilet was working again, because living without two bathrooms would be a damn major inconvenience to a family with a strapping teen-age son.

     After the removal of the dirty rotten flap, I made an urgent call to my local hardware store. Those guys really understand a frantic homeowner. They told me they had the goods and gave me the support I needed to finish this stressful job.

    I raced down Minot Ave, hoping I would find the right flap or it could be curtains for my beloved toilet.

    The hardware salesman knew his plumbing products and I was relieved to find both parts for my toilet. It helped that I brought the dirty, rotten flap with me to find the right piece.

   

    I raced back to the bathroom, read the directions carefully and began attaching the flap. This was a delicate procedure that took a minute or two, but I was too far along to quit. With the flap in place, my apprehension eased. Now came the new arm and the attachment of the chain to the flap. Everything fell into place, including the new flap.

    I stepped back and sighed. I turned the water back on and watched the rushing waters engulf the new flap. All I could do was wait as the water filled the tank. I stood there in silence, listening for any leaking. The minutes seemed like hours. Failure was not an option.

I decided to give the new arm a test run. I flushed the toilet again and again, and still there was no leaking.

    Bravo! The leaking had stopped and I felt good about myself and looking forward to a good night's sleep, knowing I would not have to replace the entire toilet.

    After all, it is still the best seat in the house!

Garden of delight

"I wake up some mornings and sit and have my coffee and look out at my beautiful garden, and I go, 'Remember how good this is. Because you can lose it.'"
                                                                                                                                         - Jim Carrey

'AUBURN, Maine - All my garden needs is the churning blades of an industrial tiller, the application of natural fertilizer, the planting of vegetable seedlings, and the tender loving care of an avid gardener.

That would be me.

I finished the edging of my coveted garden, extending it three feet to the left. It is now a 20-by-30 foot square block of rich soil, giving me more space to plant an array of vegetables to feed this loving family of three.

The rising prices of produce have inspired me to plant gardens to not only eat right, but save money. Every time I go food shopping, I wonder if I will be forced to take out second mortgage on the house. Eating right costs a lot of dough, and I know fast food will shorten my life. I want to avoid the doctor, so I garden. And don't even think of waiting for an out-of-touch Congress to act on the rising cost of groceries.

I often hear the phrase, "How the hell do you find time to plant a garden." My terse response is this: "Well, shut off the TV, step away from your laptop, go without Facebook for at least a day, and stop wasting your damn time texting or twittering every damn soul on the damn planet."

I garden out of necessity and the joy of watching things grow. It gives this family the opportunity to devour the fruits of our labor as well as give back to neighbors who give a damn about us. 

Spending a day with worms, snakes, spiders and the rich, dark dirt, as I listen to a Red Sox game while I pull weeds in the hot sun, is a day at the beach for me. And an ice-cold beer is sitting there with my name on it.

Right now, I will be planting tomato seedlings, which means there will be plenty of grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches on the menu, and excellent pasta sauces made by a real Italian. 

And that would be me — because I am the Italian Stallion of gardening

I will plant melons, broccoli, cauliflower, swiss chard, spinach, carrots, and onions by seed. But I will turn to Farmer Whitings for tomato, lettuce, cucumber, zucchini and summer squash for seedlings. This local farm knows how to raise strong, hardy seedlings, and I have never been disappointed.

This mild spring has tempted me to plant early, but I know better. Maine's chilly weather can appear at any moment. I also understand I am at the mercy of Mother Nature, and she can be pretty nasty even in the month of May.

So I patiently wait for the last weekend in May to get here. But in two weeks, I will plant my seeds in the ground to give them a head start. The new patch of broken ground will be used for most of the seedlings.

But while this rare, warm spring entices me to start planting early, I will bide my time because I know Mother Nature can pull a fast one on any farmer. 

Goodfellows52: Ships ahoy, and T with Lizzie Borden

Goodfellows52: Ships ahoy, and T with Lizzie Borden: Anthony pauses with the USS Massachusetts behind him. Terri stands in front of the Massachusetts' 16-inch guns. Anthony and dad ...

Ships ahoy, and T with Lizzie Borden

Anthony pauses with the USS Massachusetts behind him.

Terri stands in front of the Massachusetts' 16-inch guns.

Anthony and dad stand in front of the Massachusetts' 16-inch guns.

Anthony and Terri check out the inside of the USS Lionfish.

Anthony stands on the conning tower of the USS Lionfish.

Anthony takes aim with the Lionfish's deck gun.

The U.S. Flag flutters in the wind at the stern of the Massachusetts.

“Men go back to the mountains, as they go back to sailing ships at sea, because in the mountains and on the sea they must face up.”

- Henry David Thoreau

       FALL RIVER, Mass. — We climbed up and down countless flights of steep stairs and squirmed through narrow hatchways in the bowels of World War II vessels for nearly four hours during Patriots' Day weekend.

These behemoths from the past stand at parade rest at Battleship Cove — a haven and an open-air, hands-on museum for proud ships, which stood in harm's way during conflicts around the globe. The site is located at the confluence of the Taunton River and Mount Hope Bay.

When you tour these floating marvels, get your sneakers on for a demanding workout that will leave your legs and back sore in the morning — and you reaching for a pain reliever. 

One clumsy move as you amble down a steep flight of stairs could cost you a broken leg or a nasty bump on the head. Snaking your way through tiny corridors is not for the claustrophobic and would give rats second thoughts about coming aboard.

Every flight I scaled left me wondering how brave sailors dashed through the ship's constricting hallways when the order for "Battle stations! This is not a drill!" was shouted over the public address system.

You see, we are history fanatics who savor our nation's military past. For us, going to Battleship Cove is like purchasing front-row seats at Hadlock Field or Fenway Park. Battleship Cove is one giant learning experience — especially for people who appreciate the sea and warships

Spend several hours on the decks of the USS battleship Massachusetts or the destroyer Joseph P. Kennedy and you will come to appreciate what courageous sailors endured when mighty guns blasted away at enemy targets in a naval engagement. 

I can't imagine batting down the hatches during a typhoon or the endless boredom in the blistering South Pacific heat, waiting for the enemy to appear on the horizon. Getting sleep below deck in those sweltering quarters must have been unbearable for these combat veterans.

Besides an eye-opening tour of ships, the Cove also offers "The Pearl Harbor Experience," a special-effects presentation in surround sound. Splashing water from the bay creates a simulation of enemy planes strafing ships while the presentation is shown on a giant screen.

Leaving Maine

We had been planning this whirlwind trip for some time. It was worth the journey.

Fall River is nearly four hours from our home in Auburn. There are several routes to get to Battleship Cove, but I charted a course straight through Boston.

 

Driving into the Hub is like the Joseph P. Kennedy maneuvering through a mine field. I am from the greater Boston area so I know drivers in the Bay State are a different breed and often resemble kamikaze pilots on the road. But when in Rome, do as the Romans do. And if that kind of thinking doesn't work for you in Boston, then damn the torpedos and full speed ahead as you race across the Tobin Bridge.

Once you are safely out of Boston, it is smooth sailing as you drive down Interstate 93 and then onto Route 24.  Jump onto Route 78 and head toward Fall River where the USS Massachusetts is clearly visible as you drive toward the Cove. It is a spectacular site even from the window of a moving car.

Treasure Cove

This trio of weary travelers found a parking spot about 100 yards from these magnificent ships. We grabbed the camera, took pictures of the Massachusetts' enormous propeller and hurried toward the looming goliaths resting on calm waters. The weather was just right as temperatures hovered around 70 degrees with a refreshing sea breeze.

We bought our tickets at the gift shop and went through a quick maze as we passed along the Joseph P. Kennedy. There are no tour guides at the Cove. So we decided to check out the PT Boats before we boarded the other ships.

The Mosquito Fleet

The Cove houses the PT 796 and 617. What I found surprising was their size and girth. These craft might look small in movies such as "PT 109," but they are huge and heavily armed.

According to the Cove's Web site, "these boats were generally 80' in length and carried a beam (width) of 20'. Typical armaments included four torpedoes and an assortment of 40 mm, 37 mm, 20 mm, and .50 caliber machine guns, depth charges, and rocket launchers. Three Packard Marine gasoline engines powered the boats to a top speed of 45 knots."

It takes about a good 45 minutes to peruse this exhibit, but when you see the various armaments, you will come to understand why these suped-up boats played an important roll during World War II.

The USS Massachusetts

Her crew of 2,100 lovingly referred to her as "Big Mamie." 

Touring the entire this vessel takes stamina. It's that big. But when hunger sets in and you don't mind fast food, check out the ship's mess hall. Cub Scouts were coming aboard to spend the night on her. 

What a bunch of lucky scouts.

The Massachusetts' 16-inch guns are massive. During its service in World War II, these weapons delivered ear-splitting, thunderous firepower. The ship, which was built in Quincy, Mass., saw action during the invasions of North Africa and the Marshall Islands.

Anthony and I found a way to get to the captain's bridge, where commanders called the shots from above those devastating 16-inch guns. Terri elected to remain below. After climbing several flights of stairs, I think she might have been right. But when you get to the bridge and sit in the captain's chair, you now have a front-row seat on one of the most powerful World War II battleships.

We discovered that one station housing the 40-millimeter Bofor guns are in working condition. Anthony put some elbow grease into raising the elevation of the guns and had fun sighting a target across the river.

The Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr.

Named after John F. Kennedy's oldest brother who was killed over the English Channel during the war, this sleek destroyer was commissioned in December 1945, too late to see action. But the proud ship served in the Korean Conflict and participated in the blockade during the Cuban missile crisis.

The Kennedy was one of the navy's workhorses for 27 years before being decommissioned in 1973.

The Hindensee

This unique warship was built in Russia and served in the East German People's Navy and then the Federal German Navy after reunification.

According to the Cove's Web site, the Hindensee carried long-range STYX anti-ship missiles and an array of defensive weapons designed to ensure her own survivability. The ship joined the Cove in 1997.

The USS Lionfish

Think small when you board this submarine and go below. It requires a lot of ducking and twisting and turning to move about in this cozy environment. The hatchways are four feet high, making it really difficult for guy like me who is stands at 6 foot 3.

A tour of the engine room and the subs' torpedoes   also makes you appreciate the men who served in the Silent Service.

When you are on deck, check out the conning tower and the sub's deadly deck gun.

The voyage home 

After an exhaustive tour of the Cove, we headed to the motel to make plans to drop in for tea with Lizzie Borden the next day. Of course, I got lost heading to the Comfort Inn, but one of Fall River's finest, officer Jason Staley gave us a police escort to the motel, which was just up the road. Talk about excellent community police work.

Of course, Lizzie is no longer with us. Her trial and subsequent acquital for the hatchet murders of both her parents in their home still draws curious tourists to 92 2nd Street No. 230 in Fall River.

We stopped twice for directions. One young man asked why we wanted to go "there." He said, "A lot bad things happened there, man. Stay away from there, man."

He was right, but my wife, who ardently believes ghosts lurk inside the Borden home, wanted to stand outside for a picture.

Why not. After all, it was once a horrific crime scene that ended in a dramatic trial.

Despite a round-trip of 430 miles and making the gas companies richer, I had the privilege of touring historic ships with my son and wife.

Some families find fun and happiness in the "hurry up and wait" atmosphere at Disney Land. We found our enjoyment on the decks of old battle wagons from an era when Americans banded together during one of the ugliest moments in mankind.

Goodfellows52: Take me back to the ball game

Goodfellows52: Take me back to the ball game: "You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday part...

Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.