Beached on the Fourth of July

"When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood."

 Sam Ewing 

REVERE, Mass. — A wave of humanity shuffled past us as we sat on a stonewall facing Revere Beach on a humid July 4 night.

This was the place to spend an evening viewing fireworks from across the channel without the hassle of finding a parking space or dealing with a mob of rude people. Swampscot, Lynn, and Nahant were putting on blockbuster displays that could clearly be seen from Revere Beach. 

When we looked to our right of the beach, the town of Winthrop was also lighting up the skies just a few miles away, and yes, you could see Boston's incredible display, too. We watched it all from the comfort of a stonewall as gentle waves lapped the shoreline. There were also local, grand displays of explosives going off across Revere neighborhoods.

No Hatch Memorial Shell on the Charles River for three Mainers who avoid crowd scenes. The Boston Pops and its interpretation of the 1812 Overture by Russian composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky can transform a reluctant Patriot into a flag-waving citizen, but camping out two days to secure a front-row seat is not worth our efforts.

There were thousands of people wandering up and down Revere Beach boulevard as fireworks flashed all around us. Music blared from cars as traffic inched along the strip that is lined with several dives. State police patrolled the dark beach with their four-wheelers to keep the peace.

We were on a mission to seek out cool ocean sea breezes in the stifling city heat. There was a warm southerly breeze off the sandy shore, offering little relief to a sweltering public tempted to immerse themselves in the cool waters of the Atlantic.

A lot has been said and written about America's first public beach, and not all of it has been kind, but I still love the place, its fast food and the people who come from over the Boston area to spend a humid summer day.

The smells and crowds are notorious for triggering memories of the boulevard, which is one the best areas to jog or walk. And then there are beautiful woman who inspire any male runner or walker to go the distance. RHS teens staked their ownership of a stretch of wall that began in front of the MDC police station and ran all to the way Bianchi's Pizza. Kelly's Roast Beef was about a mile a way, but it was always worth the long walk to shell out a week's pay for a clam plate.

I was grateful to my family from Maine for sharing a wonderful July 4 and listening to my countless memories of beach that means so much to people who grew up in this city. We quietly watched the colorful flashes of fireworks up and down the surrounding shoreline on a typical humid night in Revere. There were hundreds of families doing the same.

Revere Beach has undergone so many restorations and transformations over a century. It endured the Blizzard of 1978, and even though the Cony Island of the East has passed into history, it is a part of me that I can't shake. Of course, I miss all those friends and family who once walked along its shoreline.

That's why I can't stay away from the place, especially on the Fourth of July.

Weather not a garden survives

"The trouble with weather forecasting is that it's right too often for us to ignore it and wrong too often for us to rely on it."  

— Patrick Young

AUBURN, Maine — Perhaps I should change the dateline of my blog to Seattle or Miami.

Maine is quickly becoming a rain forest or an Everglades. Soon, crocodiles and discarded pythons will roam Maine's streams and threaten the state's wildlife. Bugs will grow larger and more annoying, and sand traps will become quicksand as golf courses turn into raging rapids.

The rest of the nation is bone dry, and yet my yard resembles a rice patty or the Mekong Delta in Vietnam. I mowed my lawn, or should I say a wetlands where standing water is now home to one of the most  pathetic creatures in the world — the disease-carrying mosquito.

I never thought Maine had a monsoon season. Pine Tree inhabitants are waterlogged and the tips of their fingers look like prunes. The air is disgustingly humid and everybody feels like taking a shower every five minutes, and if you don't bath in this heat stay far away from me.

People in the Northeast are looking pale because the sun is shrouded by thick, water-soaked clouds. My Italian tan continues to fade away in the misty fog that blankets most of Maine.

And every night, when devastating thunderstorms roll around, I watch helplessly as buckets of water fall from the sky and inundate my garden, which is fast becoming a swamp.

For Maine, this is the seventh wettest June on record. For the state's sweaty and clammy residents, we are all playing cat and mouse with the weather as we try to get yard work done in between each soaking.

A Bermuda high is to blame for making life miserable in this part of the world. This pain-in-the-ass weather system has parked its rump off the East Coast, sucking up tropical weather  from the South that continues to drench New England. But in the Southwest, Americans are cooking eggs and cookies on scorched sidewalks in triple-digit temperatures. 

There are two hideous weather extremes at work in this great nation. Conspiracy freaks could have a field day with these screwy weather patterns. Ricky Nelson would have to change the lyrics to his "Garden Party" medley if he was caught in this weeklong downpour.

There is no question the lack of sun and torrential rain has stunted my garden's growth. Last year, I needed a wheelbarrow to bring all those succulent vegetables into the house each day. If our gardens don't see the light of day, then I am afraid this year's growing season is a washout.

But any farmer or gardener knows, we are all at the whim of nature, and it doesn't give a damn about any of us.

And that explains why growing vegetables will always remain a difficult challenge to those who work with soil and get their hands dirty every summer. 

Goodfellows52: This critter is grounded

Goodfellows52: This critter is grounded: "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."                                                                     ...

This critter is grounded

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 

                                                                 

                                                                        William Shakespeare

AUBURN, Maine — Here is another job I can add to my resume — trapper.

For several weeks, I noticed a nibble here, a nibble there as my broccoli plants were slowly being chewed to pieces. The phantom animal moved on to sample my cucumbers. 

What was next? My tomato plants! 

No way! This was my home and my garden was under assault. It was time to go to Defcon 5 and issue an APB on this elusive critter.

Whenever I turned my back, the culprit, which dropped in for breakfast, lunch, and dinner nearly everyday, is no stranger to gardeners across New England. 

Groundhogs are hated by green thumbs who the brave the elements, bugs and wildlife to grow vegetables. Groundhogs are the reason why makers of steel traps remain in business. There is no high-tech method to remove these scourges.

These fat bastards are said to be cuddly and cute, but let's remember it is a god damn rodent that is a nuisance as well as destructive. 

But it was time to throw down the gauntlet and take this sneaky rat out for a walk. I wanted to kill it, but my son, who has a kind heart and is a friend to all animals, persuaded me to cut the slovenly woodchuck a pardon. He said it would look stupid for big guy like me to beat up on a four-pound animal that is only guilty of doing what comes naturally to its species.

I cursed the groundhog's existence and threatened to the drop the fat fellow from a rope, but I listened to my family's common sense not to harm the gnawer, which treated my garden as its own personal smorgasbord.

My next door neighbor, Don, who often uses one of those effective Have-aHart traps to bag groundhogs, gave me permission to use his cage and trap the elusive bastard.

I set the trap, hoping this wasn't the brightest bulb in his family of adorable rats. But after a week, the varmint hadn't taken the bait. I figured the fluffy fat hairball knew what I was up to or found another garden to satisfy its insatiable appetite.

I had one more opportunity to capture the elusive groundhog. I decided to switch bait and go with a couple of sweet slices of watermelon to lure it into the trap.

I went to work Friday night when I received an urgent call from my wife. "Anthony found the groundhog in the trap," my wife said. "Wanna come home and see it."

I knew I could not leave work and told her that the old fat bastard would have to spend the night in our yard in a cage. 

It was not a happy critter.

The next morning Anthony and I paid the groundhog a visit. It hissed at me at times when I approached it and was not pleased with the cage's accommodations. 

We threw a sheet over him, lined the SUV with newspapers and headed to the outskirts of a state park. The groundhog was held in incommunicado until we reached our secret destination six miles from our home to set the voracious critter loose.

I placed the trap on the ground. I had Anthony on standby with a Bufford Pusser-type bat in his hand just in case the animal turned on me and wanted to pay me back for its apprehension.

I lifted the lid, and after a few seconds of hesitation, the groundhog bolted out of the cage like bullet of gun and headed for cover in the Maine woods.

"Look at 'em go," I said.

It wanted no part of us, but I am surprised it didn't give me the middle figure.

The best part of this adventure was being with my son. We cracked jokes and laughed all the way home.

It was a cool way to have a father-and-son moment and get up close and personal with nature.

I am sure this groundhog wouldn't agree.

Goodfellows52: A gardener and the Boston Bruins hit pay dirt

Goodfellows52: A gardener and the Boston Bruins hit pay dirt: “Gardens are a form of autobiography.”                                                    ―   Sydney Eddison ,   Growing Older ...

A gardener and the Boston Bruins hit pay dirt

“Gardens are a form of autobiography.” 
                                                 ― Sydney Eddison, Growing Older with Your Garden: How to  Garden Wiser as You Grow Older

AUBURN, Maine — The dirty deed is done.

I am not talking about the Boston Bruins dealing out a can of ass-whooping against the Pittsburgh Penguins. The Big Bad Asses from Boston won four straight, and I am confident the Stanley Cup is theirs just as sure as the late U.S. Gen. George S. Patton took Palermo and beat British Gen. Bernard Mongomery to capture Messina during the Sicily campaign in World War II.

Kudos to my beloved Bruins who have the skills, talent and the finesse to beat the Blackhawks for the Stanley Cup, which begins Wednesday night.

When I mention dirt, I am talking about my garden, which I planted last week. I also planted flowers next to the miniature windmill to brighten up the place, but I prefer plants you can consume at the dinner table.

I like really good dirt. I like the texture of good soil.  I enjoy eating fresh vegetables that grow in good dirt that is not polluted by fertilizers or pesticides. When I see that dark, rich black gold mixed with a year's worth of compost churn under the blades of a powerful tiller, I want to plunge my hands into the soil and begin planting.

That's why I like getting my hands dirty each spring. I have played in dirt all my life, and I think I am a better man for it.

My garden will feature summer squash (from seed), egg plant, zucchini, 18 tomato plants, broccoli, lettuce, Swiss chard (from seed), spinach (from seed), and carrots (from seed). My garden is like an old variety show from 1970s, and the stars are vegetables.

But I must warn all amateur gardeners that varmints are out and about and will wreak havoc on all green thumbs. The groundhogs have already bushwhacked my place, and my lettuce seedlings took a hit. I have now placed a bounty on the furry bastards. These nuisances better be looking over their shoulders.

I am not sure about our climate this growing season. April resembled March and May looked helluva lot like April. June has been an up-and-down month that continues to confound me. The monsoons are upon us and I am hoping my garden will hold up this season.

Farmers understand they are at the whim of nature and there is not a damn thing gardeners can do about it, either. The little varmints like aphids and Japanese beetles will come to know the swift hand of natural poisons.

So we roll the dice and take our chances, hoping our gardens yield a bumper crop that saves us some dough and provides us our recommended daily serving of organic vegetables.

Gardening is a dirty business, but amateur farmers like us have to do it.

Besides, we are going to love our vegetables. I guarantee it.

Goodfellows52: Serving his country and playing baseball in occupi...

Goodfellows52: Serving his country and playing baseball in occupi...: “ Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go ”   Bernard Malamud My father's uniform sports ...

Serving his country and playing baseball in occupied Germany

“Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go”

Bernard Malamud

“Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go”

 Bernard Malamud

My father's uniform sports three citations for his service to his country

Big Al Blasi pays a visit to his daughter's house

Anthony stands in front of a P-51 Mustang at the Brunswick Air Show. 

Anthony and Terri stand in front of an M-60 tank in Augusta.

Anthony and I on the deck of the U.S.S. Massachusetts - an old World War II battleship that now rests at Battleship Cover in Fall River, Mass.

A pair of bombing can't keep a proud and good city like Boston down.

AUBURN, Maine – There's a classic black-and white picture of my dad speaking with the opposing coach and his good friend Joe Bevere after Revere played Chelsea in a high school baseball game.

Big Al is wearing his traditional team cap, baggy pants and rumpled blue coat at wind-blown Curtis Park – a shabby baseball field battered by endless, cold sea breezes and summer humidity. An MBTA train used to rattle past the outfield as it raced toward Boston to drop off passengers.

The field is gone, but not my memories of my father's unforgettable moments on the diamond and that wonderful, old dusty field that was removed from my past to make way for a new school.

I sometimes stare at the picture that rests on my desk at the Sun Journal. I fondly remember moments when I served as the team's batboy and all the young men who played ball for my father.

My dad knows baseball like a sailor who is able to maneuver his vessel in a harbor with his eyes shut.

Big Al's knowledge America's pastime has served him well as a baseball skipper who coached the Revere Patriots for nearly 43 years without being run out of town.

What I often forget is that he was drafted and served his country during the Korean War. But Pfc. Al Blasi, and his brother, U.S. Army 2nd Lt. Rocco Blasi, missed serving in Korea by this much. Both of them ended up being stationed in Europe as the world rebuilt war-torn nations from the ground up.

They were both lucky, and they knew it. Europe was like a vacation on the Maine coast compared to slugging it out with the North Koreans and Chinese.

His outfit was the fabled Big Red One, a division that served with distinction in World War I. In the second war, the Big Red One was the first to fight the enemy in North Africa and Sicily. The division was also the first on the beaches of Normandy and captured the major German City – Aachen. The Big Red One remained in Germany until 1955 and was later redeployed to Fort Riley in Kanas. A movie starring Lee Marvin was made about the division's heroics during the second war.

There were no tales of combat for my father, but there were plenty of stories about him playing baseball in Germany. He was sort of like Joe Dimaggio who played ball in Hawaii to raise the country's morale during World War II.

Big Al owned the plate whenever he was at bat. He could hit, and when a high-ranking officer witnessed my dad's hitting prowess, he chose my father to play for the company's baseball team.

Life got a lot easier in the Army for my dad. Picking up a bat and glove was easier than carrying a BAR (Browning automatic rifle) or bazooka. He proudly served his country, but he brushed off the idea of making the military a career. 

But he did answer the call to duty and eventually became a sharpshooter. While he did not face the perils of combat, he witnessed an infantry unit bivouacking after a night of patrolling. The men were sleeping when American tanks on maneuvers came rolling through the German woods. Men ran for their lives and climbed thick trees to escape the blind, roving monstrosities that tore up the landscape.

Big Al was once given a lift from his uncle, Air Force Maj. B.J. Murano, who was a pilot who saw action from the seat of a B-24 in Italy during World War II. He also flew 100 missions in a fighter called the P-51. Murano flew my father home in that storied fighter that eventually became an icon of air superiority in that era.

My father rarely spoke about his experiences in the Army. He moved on and was busy working two jobs and raising four children. There was no time for the dedicated teacher and high school baseball coach to spend days spinning yarns about his tour at the local VFW Post.

After my mother died, he began speaking about his tour of duty, but Alzheimers has made it impossible for my dad to recall all those interesting moments in the service. The words don't come easy and he is frustrated, and I am saddened that his memories are quickly disappearing as this horrible disease progresses.

A few years ago, my dad wanted to sell his uniform for a few bucks. I pleaded with him to give it to me. My other siblings were not interested in it, but for me, it was a piece of his past and this country's history, and I didn't want to see the uniform in a stranger's hands.

I had worn his uniform at a Halloween party when I was in high school. 

There are three ribbons of citations sewn on the 60-year-old jacket. I had no idea what they stood for, so Anthony and I turned to the Internet and spent the next 30 minutes researching and identifying each ribbon. Those ribbons include the President's Unit Citation, Army of Occupation Citation and the National Defense Citation.

When I visited him a year ago, he gave the uniform to me and said, "What the hell are you going to do with it?"

I just smiled and didn't answer him. I think we both understood why I wanted his uniform in my possession

I am preserving his uniform to honor him, because that's what sons do for their fathers who give a damn about the right things in life.

Goodfellows52: Happy and rocky trails to you

Goodfellows52: Happy and rocky trails to you: Heading up the rocky trail Now that is a huge bolder. Nothing like seeing wildlife along the trail ...

Happy and rocky trails to you

“Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Heading up the rocky trail

Now that is a huge bolder.

Nothing like seeing wildlife along the trail

A foundation from an old home

TURNER, Maine — If you are looking for a stroll in the sun at Androscoggin Riverfront Park, take a good look at the ankle-turning trails and rough terrain up ahead.

There are peaks and valleys that will make you feel like you trudging along on a Stairmaster. You will be looking down a lot until you reach walking trails with no hazards. Huge tree roots and protruding rocks are like small landmines along the narrow trails, making it easy for any careful hiker to trip and fall.

"That was a killer trail," said my wife, whose soar back and feet can attest to challenging paths throughout the snaking 12-mile trail.

A weekend ago, we headed to the new park that is still being transformed into a hiker's paradise. The trail runs around the Androscoggin River. For the moment, it is free to the public. Take advantage before the state installs a gate and demands that you pay a park fee.

Beware, though, there aren't many outhouses along the way. I found that out the hard way when I received an urgent call from nature. And the trails are barely marked, and if you miss trees that are color coded, you will be in for long haul back to your car. There are no maps, yet.

I put mother nature on hold when a fellow hiker told me there was a one-holer down the trail a might. I figured it wasn't more than a quarter of mile to find the outhouse. Well, after marching through the wilderness for at least a mile, I started scouting for a secluded place to take of business. I sent my scout, Anthony, up ahead in search of relieve, aah, I mean an outhouse. He was like cavalry marching ahead of a regiment. He moves faster than me. He has youth and sturdier legs on his side.

Just when I thought I would have to take cover in the barren bushes, Anthony found one of the cleanest outhouses I have ever seen in the wilderness. Was there an attendant on duty? Would I have to tip him or her for the use of this backwoods facility?

I sprinted toward the toilet as Anthony kept an eye for Terri. I pleaded with Mother Nature for a reprieve.  I promised to be nicer to people if I made it in time. I swung open the door and made my peace with Mother Nature.

We carefully headed back up the trail, and I was feeling like a new man again.

I have tacked on information from Maine.Gov's Website about the trails:

Trails

• 12 miles of multiple use / shared use trails
  10 miles of hiking trails (6.6 miles shared with mountain bikes)
  6.6 miles of single-track mountain bike trails (existing and planned)

Multi-Use Trail (9.5 miles one-way), a central spine down the Turner parcel, is popular among ATV users, snowmobilers, bicyclists, horseback riders, and hikers. ATVs must use the north entrance parking area for off-loading.

Homestead Trail (4.5-mile loop with a 2.6-mile option; allow 2.5 hours for full loop) provides riverside hiking form the northern parking lot to the Picnic Meadow (1.1 mi.), where you can take the "Harrington Trail" (0.5 mi) and Multi-Use Trail back to the the parking area (1.0 mi.). To extend your hike, continue south on the trail past Picnic Meadow to the juncture with the Multi-Use Trail that leads back to the main entrance (1.8 mi.).

Ridge Trail (6.85 miles) is reached by following the extended Homestead Trail to the Multi-Use Trail (2.0 mi.). Turn left, proceed over a bridge, turn right and continue up to a ledge outcrop overlooking the river (1 mi.). Turn left and descend steeply toward the river on the Ledges Trail (0.4 mi). Turn left on the Multi-Use Trail and return 2.25 miles to the Picnic Meadow, and on to the parking area via the Homestead Trail (1.1 mi.).

Deer Path Trail (8.0 miles) adds an additional loop beyond the Ledges Trail, with the Bradford Loop Trail (0.5 mi) that connects with the Deer Path Trail. At 1.5 miles, bear right at a fork and follow 0.5 mi to Multi-Use Trail. Return via the Homestead Trail (2.0 mi).

Bradford Loop Trail (12.2-mile loop) requires advanced ATV and snowmobiling riding skills. It can be accessed from the north end of the Park by following the Multi-Use Trail.

Bradford Hill Trail (variable length trips, starting with a 9.6-mile loop) offers hiking from the Conant Road entrance. Follow the Multi-Use Trail approximately 3.8 miles, turn left onto Bradford Hill Trail, then turn right on the Bradford Loop Technical Trail and follow the Multi-Use Trail back to the parking area.

Pine Loop Trail (5.7-mile round trip) from the Conant Road parking lot runs along the river. Hike along the Multi-Use Primitive Trail 1.6 miles (please see the map - this is a rough trail section), then veer right to reach the Pine Loop Trail.

Goodfellows52: A letter and a labor of love from our son

Goodfellows52: A letter and a labor of love from our son: "The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom."                                                             - Henry...

A letter and a labor of love from our son

"The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom."                                                           - Henry Ward Beecher

AUBURN, Maine — Words start wars, bring peace and can, on some occasions, make a 6-foot-3, 350-pound former football player weep.

My son penned a remarkable tribute to his mother on Mother's Day. His words knocked this gridiron center to the floor. I felt like I was sideswiped by a nose tackle after I just snapped the ball to my quarterback. 

This letter is one from the heart from a young man who means so much to his parents. I knew our high school sophomore could write, but when I reread it, I realized Anthony was paying us back with his genuine love for his mother.

I won't reveal the contents of his letter. It is personal and it is for our eyes only, and it is a keeper.

If parents are selfish, abusive and oblivious to a child's needs, kids will pay them back in full, and their revenge will last a lifetime.

I guarantee it. I have witnessed their anger in action, and it is damn ugly.

Whatever it is worth, our son is the product of a home where love, kindness and his needs come first. He is also an anachronism, if you will. We raised him with books, museums and long incursions into the Maine woods and endless days at the Pine Tree State's beautiful beaches. We shunned video games and cable television. We have found those mediums of entertainment a waste of our time.

So what did we get in return? Well, he has been to paying us back with great grades, kindness toward others and continues to demonstrate his belief in the greater good— something the U.S. Congress has apparently forgot about.

There is no luck here. Anthony's demeanor and thirst for knowledge has been nurtured by a mother who has her priorities straight when it comes to raising a child.

This mother has her act together and Anthony has become a one-man show in the classroom.

Anthony's letter is better than any store-bought card or extravagant gift.  It will be framed, and you can bet it will be sitting on Terri's dresser three decades from now. 

In the letter, Anthony said he will continue to be grateful to his mother for her love and devotion.

We are grateful he feels this way about an extraordinary person — his mom.

Goodfellows52: A family affair and a city that remains strong

Goodfellows52: A family affair and a city that remains strong: REVERE, Mass. — I was raised on this beach. Time and weather has changed its appearance, but its sandy shores will always b...

Goodfellows52: A family affair and a city that remains strong

Goodfellows52: A family affair and a city that remains strong: REVERE, Mass. — I was raised on this beach. Time and weather has changed its appearance, but its sandy shores will always b...

A family affair and a city that remains strong

"The family is a haven in a heartless world." 

Attributed to Christopher Lasch

REVERE, Mass. — I was raised on this beach. Time and weather has changed its appearance, but its sandy shores will always be remembered as my playground during the summers of my youth.

For years, my mother whispered obscenities under her breath as my father navigated our big-ass Buick down a clogged Revere Street on steamy summer days.

If my family didn't leave early, we endured a 20-minute ride through stop-and-go traffic. We didn't have air conditioning in the car. The heat was stifling in our oven-baked automobile. It was a short journey through hell.

Growing up in a coastal community and bathing in the chilly waters of the Atlantic was worth running the gauntlet to spend a day at Revere Beach.

Last weekend, we walked on the warm sand and ignored a chilly sea breeze at America's first public beach. Everybody who is anybody was out and about, and there seemed to be a sense of relief on the streets. People were cordial and the bright sun contributed to my good mood. A couple of weeks have passed since the Boston Marathon bombings. The confusion and fear has subsided despite the ongoing investigation into the attacks.

My father's struggle

There were three important reasons why I visited Revere. We threw a small celebration for one of the U.S. Navy's finest — my niece, who married a Navy guy from the great state of Missouri. It was a fine, sunny cool day on the deck of my sister's home. The Boston skyline is clearly visible from her home. It was an opportunity to meet the in-laws, who also happen to be nice people, too. There was a buffet of Chinese food for well-wishers.

I also spent quality time with my dad who is trying to stay a step ahead of Alzheimer's, but this affliction is malicious and relentless. This is man who earned a master's degree in history. He was a successful high school teacher and baseball coach for 42 years, and here he was struggling to utter simple pronouns,

But my father and I had a memorable Sunday morning after my neice's celebration. Any good day with my dad is a blessing, because there are times when his thoughts are clear and his words come easy, and those moments of clarity mean so much to me.

Big Al speaks quietly as he searches for the right words, which evaporate before he can say them. It hurts him and all of us. We are helpless and often feel hopeless because there is no cure for dementia.

Back on the beach

I tried to coax my father to come along with us to the beach. He politely refused, so we bought him a hot dog and fries from Kelly's Roast Beef — a fast-food joint that claims to be the creator of the first roast beef sandwich. 

Anybody from the Greater Boston area is familiar with Kelly's scrumptious reputation for seafood. Their fish, clam and scallop plates are unbelievable, but you will need to take a small loan to pay for them. Kelly's clam chowder is worth the price, especially on a cold New England day.

When fear and evil strike out

Every time a terrorist strikes, our openness shrinks, freedoms dwindle, and our feelings of suspicion and revenge rise to the top of our emotions.

Four days after we visited the Bay State, my son returned to Boston for a class field trip. Anthony's fearless history teacher had the class visit the Freedom Trail, Paul Revere House, Bunker Hill monument and U.S.S. Constitution. Before he boarded the U.S. Navy's oldest commissioned ship, his classmates were told to remove their belt buckles, searched and advised that any visitor who leaves a bag unattended will be asked to leave the ship.

These guys were not fooling around!

The Navy has always kept a watchful eye on the Constitution, and rightfully so. But due to the Boston Marathon bombings that killed four people and wounded hundreds, law enforcement agencies are on edge, and that means we are all under constant scrutiny when these bastards act.

But their cruel acts didn't prevent a class of wonderful students from Edward Little High School from visiting Beantown last Thursday.  Sure, I worried about my son and the rest of those kids, but when we cower in our homes, terrorists win.

Terror works for a little while, but resilient Americans won't be dictated by fear, and that's how you beat evil.

Just ask the Nazis!