12 Essays of Christmas, Day 4: The lights, the lights

"A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory,

 like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together." 

- Garrison Keillor

AUBURN, Maine - We choose one huge shrub on the front lawn and deck the barren branches with a variety of lights each Christmas.

We believe less is more and less is better - and cheaper.

Putting up Christmas lights is a 10-minute task for us. We are minimalists, and this short-and-sweet chore cuts down on profanity, frustration and stress, as I lovingly adorn our shrub with yuletide cheer.

Energy costs should be considered before putting your house on the map with a tacky lighting display that will stop traffic and be seen from the sky by a B-52 on a nighttime bombing raid.

We all marvel at homes that cause light pollution and wonder if the homeowners have deep pockets to fund lighting for 30 days out of the year.

Some Americans will spend hours installing lighting displays and paying electricians to trip the light fantastic and prevent a house from being ravaged by a conflagration that will also be seen from miles away.

A handful of elaborate lighting displays around Lewiston-Auburn demonstrate class, while others are tasteless reminders of velvet paintings of Elvis that are sold at flea markets for $5.

We also keep it low key inside our home when it comes to lighting. Our tree features small lights with a couple of modest stars on top.

Our fake tree, the impostor, lights up the back porch.

But this year, our kitchen is illuminated by a series of small porcelain towns with little figurines. The designs of the churches, theater and little homes are intricate and fill the kitchen with Christmas spirit.

The precious sets were given to us by a good friend. We gladly accepted them, and Anthony and I spent a couple of hours piecing several displays together.

Now little villages and a movie theater make our kitchen more cozy.

But if the spirit moves you and you are a person with unlimited wealth, then knock your self out and turn your property into a 1980s disco.

Sure, we'll stop by and ooh and aah from our car as we move on to the next holiday spectacle.

Goodfellows52: The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 3: What stress?

Goodfellows52: The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 3: What stress?: "Christmas is a necessity.  There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselve...

The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 3: What stress?

"Christmas is a necessity.  There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselves."  

~Eric Sevareid

AUBURN, Maine - I never understood how people find themselves exasperated over the holidays. 

They say they are tired and beat up from shopping?

Really! 

I give them that "are you f'%$#ckn kidding me" look.

You have a roof over your head, food on the table and money to purchase a few gifts for your children and wife, but you continue whining about running all over creation to get things done.

You are overwrought because of a holiday that asks us all to be kind to our fellow man for a just day.

You know who you are, but save us all from your diatribe.

We feel pressured to make the holiday just perfect. Martha Stewart shows us the way to celebrate the perfect holiday. The TV icon demonstrates how to perfectly fold napkins, wrap gifts, and whip up the perfect dip for perfect guests who will attend the perfect holiday party.

Good luck with that.

What some of us don't realize is that you've been given the gift that keeps on giving - if the faiths allow.

It's your family, and if you are fortunate, they will be there Christmas morning sipping coffee and unwrapping gifts.

George Bailey experienced an epiphany when a jovial old angel wannabe named Clarence took Bailey out for a walk for a wake-up call. Old George finally figured out that his family was all that mattered in his life.

I have witnessed family conflicts erupt over being late for a holiday gatherings to wrapping gifts the "right way."

It is all senseless. 

I also understand that melancholy goes hand and hand with the holidays. You get older, but the memories are still strong of a mom and dad who won't be seated at the dinner table on December 25.

That's not stress; that's sadness, and the two should never be confused.

There are millions of U.S. citizens who are without work, health insurance and looking for their next meal.

That's stress, and being poor in a nation that flaunts its wealth strips any struggling family of their pride.

When you gripe about putting up the tree or lights, keep in mind there are 27 families who are drowning in a sea of misery and grief due to a mindless shooting in Connecticut.

So consider yourself lucky when you gather with your loved ones on Christmas morning enjoying their gifts and drinking egg nog.

Goodfellows52: The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 2: The perfect tre...

Goodfellows52: The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 2: The perfect tre...: “Tradition: Sit with husband in a room lit only by tree lights and remember that our blessings outnumber the lights. Happy Christm...

The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 2: The perfect tree

“Tradition: Sit with husband in a room lit only by tree lights and remember that our blessings outnumber the lights. Happy Christmas to all.” 

-Betsy Cañas Garmon

AUBURN, Maine - Nobody I know wants a Charlie Brown Christmas tree drooping in the living room.

Brown's fragile tree might work for the Peanuts, but here in the real world a runt like that one just wouldn't do in the parlor. 

Guests would talk about us. We can't have that. What would Martha Stewart think of us.

That explains why we go searching in the New England cold for the perfect tree to adorn our living room.

But it costs money when you are seeking perfection.

Selling out and purchasing a fake tree feels like I am celebrating an artificial Christmas. We did buy a small fake tree that would give Brown's worn-out plant a run for its money. We bought it at a yard sale, and it sits in our closed-in porch during the holiday season.

It's our back-up tree.

But imagine stumbling upon a vendor who sells you a fine, full Christmas tree to fit your budget.

He's out there, and he offers returning customers a cup of good cheer by knocking money off of the price of a tree. He doesn't do it for everybody, but he seems to enjoy trimming the cost for me, and I appreciate that.

For the last 10 years, this "guy" travels from Waterville with a forest of Christmas trees in tow and spends about a month selling them in Auburn.

Calling him a nice guy would be understating this human being's genuine concern for his fellow man.

Every holiday season, we seek him out and he enjoys our annual hour of conversation. He delights in seeing my son and loves hearing about his academic success in the classroom.

He is the reason why you can't write off humanity and declare the human race a train wreck.

We pay the man and drive away with our tree that will soon brighten our living room with the sweet smell of pine,  stunning lights and decorations.

I look forward to seeing him next year.

Setting up the tree and clearing out a corner of the living room is a quick-and-easy task.

But after the lights, wraps, and decorations are up and a flashing, bright star is placed atop of our tree, it is all worthwhile.

The tree connoisseur

My father taught me the art of choosing the right tree. He really knew how to pick them.

Dad would find something we could afford and haggle over the price of the tree with a stubborn vendor. These guys would have made great congressmen.

He scrutinized its appearance, checking for bare spots and damaged branches before making the vendor an offer he couldn't refuse.

Then came the Herculean task of jamming the tree into the narrow sleeve of an iron, home-made tree stand that should have been sold for scrap years ago.

Dad drove the stand up the stump of the tree while spewing adjectives that would make our ears smart. He directed his anger with every blow he took with a sledgehammer.

I can still hear those colorful words, along the clanging of the hammer, ringing in my ears.

Once the tree was upright, then came the decorations.

When I became a strapping young man, dad designated me as the official tree lifter. 

I carried my load.

Thanks to my father, I can pick out a fine tree at a reasonable price. But that rusting, old iron tree stand still sits in his cellar as reminder of Christmases long ago.

But I won't part with it. I will keep the hunk of steel as a warm reminder of those cold winter evenings picking out a tree with my father.

Goodfellows52: The 12 Essays of Christmas: The endless memories

Goodfellows52: The 12 Essays of Christmas: The endless memories: "Christmas, in its final essence, is for grown people who have forgotten what children know. Christmas is for whoever is o...

The 12 Essays of Christmas, first day: The endless memories

"Christmas, in its final essence, is for grown people who have forgotten what children know. Christmas is for whoever is old enough to have denied the unquenchable spirit of man."

~ Margaret Cousins (1905- ), senior editor at Doubleday Publishing Company.

AUBURN, Maine — Christmas has a way of reviving fond and painful memories that hibernate until the yuletide rolls around each December.

Loved ones fall away with each passing holiday. There are more vacancies at the dinner table and less presents to buy. The Christmas cards are scarce. Missing loved ones have a permanent place in eternity.

All that remains are hundreds of photographs of family members who won't celebrate a holiday that celebrates family.

For nearly two decades, I traveled I-95 South to visit my mom and dad to spend a rousing Christmas Eve with nearly two dozen people. Mom is gone and my father is valiantly fighting Alzheimer's — a disease that slowly and cruelly wipes away the brain's memories.

We packed the car with gifts and made room for Anthony as we hit the road and headed to my former home in Revere, Mass. 

Now, Christmas Eve is a big deal at the Blasi household. The festivities are usually held at my sister's home, allowing my mom and dad to escape the stress of cooking for an army of friends and family. Guests would come and go as turkey, ham, potatoes, pasta, a giant bowl of sauteed corn and of course  — the shrimp linguini — were served in a buffet setting.

The shrimp linguini was my responsibility. My sister's father-in-law, Pat, a banker, taught me the secret ingredients that went into making up this sumptuous dish that kept holiday guests coming back for seconds. People came from miles round to feast on shrimp sautéed in olive oil, butter, black olives and minced garlic and onion.

When Pat passed away, I inherited the task of preparing the shrimp linguini for holiday get-togethers. I brought in a pile of it for the guys in the sports department one year. I never seen such a bunch of chow hounds gobble up my good cooking in under an hour.

So for the past couple of decades, I am the go-to guy when it comes to whipping up a mouth-watering entree of shrimp linguini.

I am that good, and some say I am the best.

Christmas Eve dinners got loud as people began quarreling over politics or worse — the Red Sox. These arguments were so heated that I thought cousins and siblings might trade blows.

When a bunch of passionate Italians get together to discuss the world's woes or the Patriots' chances to win another win Super Bowl, all I can say is look out!

You just might get a ravioli in the face when engaging in verbal combat with my family.

But when the shrimp linguini was presented to the seething holiday celebrants, things quieted down and a temporary truce was established to keep the peace.

The celebration would last for hours. There were the uncles who served in World War II and the children who tore up the joint with toy guns as the they waited for Santa to appear.

After Anthony began walking, I started running at Christmas. Toddlers have no fear when they realize they are bipeds who can turn on a dime.

I enjoyed the adults, but spending an hour playing army man or scaring the bejeebers out of the little ones on a cold New England night was a rare opportunity for this six-footer to feel like a kid again.

The guests reluctantly slipped away in the chilly night after an evening of wine and good food.

This is the time of year when I take dozen of pictures and movie clips. It is also the season when I peruse hundreds of old pictures to see who made it to the other side.

I miss them all great deal. But if I choose to succumb to a miserable depression, then I will miss the present and those precious moments with my son and wife.

After all, this is the season of hope, and I still have plenty of that — no matter what the future throws at me.

All I can say is Merry Christmas.

Goodfellows52: Talking turkey about high school football

Goodfellows52: Talking turkey about high school football: AUBURN, Maine — High school football was the main course on the Thanksgiving Day menu. For some reason, the 900-course meal at our gr...

Talking turkey about high school football

"Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable and safe in a confusing world." 

                                                              - Susan Lieberman

AUBURN, Maine — High school football was the main course on the Thanksgiving Day menu.

For some reason, the 900-course meal at our grandmother's house took a back seat until we froze our buttocks off watching two high schools butt heads in the early morning cold. 

The game was a social event for citizens who were just getting warmed up for turkey, stuffing and grammy's homemade apple pie.

But the game came first before all good citizens of Revere would indulge at the dinner table.

That was a tradition that lasted for decades. Filling our bellies with turkey was second to watching Revere and Winthrop slap each other around on the field.

The outcome of those two coastal communities slugging it out on the gridiron could be a real sore spot at the dinner table in the afternoon. 

I was a spectator and a participant during those Turkey Day games. I have suffered frostbite on snow-covered fields watching the Patriots roll around in the mud.

There is only one Turkey Day game played in Maine and that is between Portland and Deering. But in my native state of Massachusetts, football games are played across the Bay State.

Game day, 10 a.m.

Thursday mornings began with an 8 a.m., wake-up call from my frantic father — a sports fanatic who coached high school baseball for over 40 years.  You can find him on the couch with his face buried in the sports pages each morning.

Then came a round of phone calls to see who would be attending the game. We usually traveled with the Marras. Robert Marra was a music teacher, classical violinist and a man who studied the scoreboard page like a sheet from Mozart's music.

We piled into one car and sped off to the game. The crowds were huge. There were no distractions like cell phones. Nobody looked down but up at a game played by a bunch of tough kids who represented their community.

My dad and Mr. Marra would eventually unite with athletic director Silvio Cella, a former RHS football coach who ran his program like a U.S. Marine because he was a Marine who served in the Pacific during World War II.  All three men served their country. Cella and Marra both fought in World War II and my dad served during the occupation of Germany.

I played for coach Cella for three years. He was tough, but football is rough game, and if you don't enjoy being hit or knocking the other the guy to the ground, then play a more civilized sport like baseball or golf.

For two hours, we stood in the cold. The Patriots and Vikings traded blows before we finally began thinking about a warm meal and a hot cup of coffee

Time has the final say

I can't remember the last time my father and I attended a Revere football game. He is now 80 years old and he fighting his own battle with Alzheimer's.  

The disease is winning and the tradition of attending a turkey day game has vanished along with so many people I have loved.

All traditions are swept away by time, and there is not a damn thing any one of us can do about it.

Cronus (Titan god of time) always comes out on top.

I believe it was about 10 years ago when my father and I stopped going to the Turkey Day games. Mr. Marra and Mr. Cella sadly are no longer with us. And the loss our mother has slowed us all down.

But I know if I dwell in the past, I will lose the future, and that future is my son and wife.

No matter what lies ahead, I still have them, and many of my immediate family members, and that is helluva a lot to be thankful on this day.

Goodfellows52: Waiting for winter; Shopping and swapping for skis...

Goodfellows52: Waiting for winter; Shopping and swapping for skis...: We had a good run this season. Now its time to replenish the soil with natural fertlizer My majestic elm trees are bare, but thei...

Waiting for winter; Shopping and swapping for skis

We had a good run this season. Now its time to replenish the soil with natural fertilizer

My majestic elm trees are bare, but their leaves live on in my garden.

AUBURN, Maine — I want to thank November for being so kind to us the last couple of days. For people who enjoy the outdoors, the warm sun was a welcome sight.

We should count our lucky stars in Maine. We didn't experience the brunt of Hurricane Sandy and last week's Nor'easter produced only a dusting of snow that melted in a cold rain that same day.

November is a bipolar month. When it comes to warm and cold weather, November can go either way without a day's notice. 

Veterans Day was cloudy but warm on Sunday. Monday turned out to be bright and warmer. But I know what lies ahead, and there won't be a day at the beach until May.

I have seen Thanksgivings so cold that the skin on my face felt like a sheet of ice. And then there are those rare Thanksgivings when all you needed was a sweater to watch a Turkey Day football game at Paul Revere Stadium in Revere, Mass.

But I will give thanks to two spectacular days for giving me the opportunity to vacuum up the leaves with my Craftsman-built lawnmower and get the garden ready for next season.

I will never understand homeowners who spend days raking leaves when all you really have to do is mulch the stuff with a good lawnmower. Your lawn will appreciate it.

Cutting the lawn one more time meant I could cover and preserve the topsoil in the garden with mulched leaves and grass clippings. The winter will take care of all this mulch, pulverizing it into a sloppy mess over the course of the next five months. 

All this slop adds up to free fertilizer, courtesy of Mother Nature, who is a woman only a  gardener could love.

Shop and swap

Buying skis is a big-bucks purchase. It is right up there with buying a refrigerator or washer. 

My son, Anthony, is a ski patroller at Lost Valley in Auburn. I am proud of him and I like the company he keeps on the slopes. This select group of skiers are responsible for making sure all skiers are safe on the mountain.

Of course, I am on a budget. And the economy still resembles the aftermath of being hit by tsunami. So there's not a lot of cash on hand.

But despite our finances, Anthony still needed skis. We turned to the Auburn Ski Association's Ski Swap, which was held at Auburn Middle School on Sunday. We figured the Swap might just prevent us from taking a third mortgage on the house.

It was packed with skiers looking for a good deal. I had my check book in my hand as I prayed for a  bargain to come my way.

It did!

From out of the blue came Bob Sullivan — avid skier and all-around nice guy with the patience of a saint.

Mr. Sullivan has the knowledge of Olympian Jean-Claude Killy when it comes to ski equipment.

He found us skis, poles, boots and gloves ($212.00 total) we could afford, allowing us to outfit Anthony without forcing us to turn to a life of crime. We also sold a pair of skis for $57.00 at the Swap, knocking down our bill.

We live in difficult times, but Mr. Sullivan made it easier for this family of three to swing such a big purchase.

His help will keep Anthony on the slopes and us out of the poor house.

Thank you, sir.

Goodfellows52: When common sense finally prevails

Goodfellows52: When common sense finally prevails: “Common sense is not so common.”                                                                                                         ...

When common sense finally prevails

“Common sense is not so common.”                                                                                                                                   ― Voltaire

AUBURN, Maine - They finally figured it out that it was no longer worth going the distance to defend the running of the New York City Marathon this weekend.

It took them long enough to wake up and listen to the outrage from citizens along the eastern seaboard.

And all it took was Staten Island residents bawling their eyes out and pleas for help in front of homes knocked off their foundations.

Maine was spared from a storm that stayed to the south of the Pine Tree State.

New York City Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg did an about-face and made the right call to cancel the event even though it took days for his office to decide to put the kibosh on the race. But that decision should have been made the moment after Sandy blew through the area and leveled thousands of homes.

Sure, it would be an economic and morale boost to a city devastated by Hurricane Sandy. But I am not buying the argument that allowing the marathon to go on would have been in poor taste.

This decision wasn't about taste. It is about resources which have been stretched to the limit in New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.

Those areas hardest hit require a huge police presence to maintain law and order. New York City does not have the manpower to cover a race that runs through an area that was pancaked by a natural disaster.

Imagine runners sprinting through neighborhoods without running water and residents camped out in their yards waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

I shook my head when a marathon competitor whined about the race's cancellation on national television. I imagine he would have felt differently if it was his home that was washed out to sea or burned to the ground as helpless fireman watched from a distance. I guess he forgot that nearly 100 people lost their lives in a hurricane that was a 1,000 miles wide.

He doesn't have to go without water or look for his next meal. This athlete should act more like a marathon runner than a moron.

Now that this controversy has subsided like the raging flooding waters in NYC, the region can concentrate on helping displaced citizens recover from this destructive storm. In the long run, helping storm victims is what a recovery effort is all about.

After all, this was the cancellation of a race, but the real marathon will be about a tale of survival in the coming months, and this recovery will give all Americans a run for their money.