A risky game that is not right for every kid

"You have to play this game like somebody just hit your mother with a two-by-four."

Dan Birdwell

"I like to believe that my best hits border on felonious assault."

                                                                                                                                                Jack Tatum

We watched a bunch of big men wearing 20 pounds of equipment pummel each other on a Sunday afternoon.

I know a stadium is not the Colisee in Italy, where gladiators fought to the death to entertain for their blood-thirsty Roman masters, but in football there are career-ending injuries and a lifetime of pain that comes with being slapped around like a heavy bag in a sweaty gym.

Large men play this game for big money and all the trappings that come with wearing a uniform in the National Football League. There are lucrative contracts and stardom for NFL players. The perks are numerous and that is why daring young men don shoulder pads to joust with opponents on artificial turf. They know there is danger, but these guys still suit up for Sunday.

In the course of four quarters, men with no necks slam into each other at a velocity that frequently does great harm to the body. This is organized violence on huge scale and it is also why I am grateful my son had no interest in putting on a football helmet.

He told me he was not interested in knocking around other human beings on Saturday afternoons and Friday nights.

My response: “Good! You will live longer. That makes you smarter than me.”

I  told him that if you don’t enjoy hitting people or getting hit, don’t play a game that requires brawn and the desire turn yourself into a human battering ram. So he became a swimmer, a thrower in track and a ski patroller during high school, and I am still so damn proud of him. He is his own entity and he exercised sound judgement.

I, on the other hand, loved the game and I found it fun to make a good, clean hit and knock the other guy to the ground with a huge smile on my face.

There is cautionary tale here for parents who might feel disappointed if their child is interested in the soccer or the swim team.

Any parent who makes the misguided attempt to live through their children is an idiot. It really is that simple. Push a kid into a certain sport and I guarantee you that your child will rebel in kind and his or her frustrations will manifest itself in many ugly ways.

Not every kid is cut out to throw around a pigskin or get down in the trenches with linemen who are hell bent on opening up holes with brute force.

Football, whether it is Pop Warner or high school, is a punishing sport, where the timid have no place on the gridiron. Sure, there a lot of nice guys who play football. As a sportswriter, I have met boxers and Mixed Martial Arts fighters who are kind and affable, but athletes of this caliber also understand there is an aggressive instinct —  or grit — that is required to participate in these rough-and-tumble sports.

If dad thinks his son is wimp because he shunned football to play golf or baseball, then dad needs to see a shrink.

There are a risky moments in all sports, but the percentage is higher in all contact sports. Still, with the raging debate over concussions in football, parents should think twice about their children’s participation in the sport.

As a lineman, I suffered two concussions, a bad sprain and a broken thumb playing football. The second head injury came when I played for the Norwich University football team. A swollen brain convinced me that it was not worth the punishment anymore, so I gave it up in college.

Do I have any regrets?

Absolutely none! 

It was an easy choice for me to walk away when it came to preserving my health, knowing all along I would never be an NFL lineman. I was quick and tough, but I didn’t have the speed or the bulk.

As for my son, I never second-guessed him about his decision. He is comfortable in his own skin and we avoided those trips to the emergency room that I often made as member of a football team.

Goodfellows52: GQ writer takes Maine to task for whatever reason

Goodfellows52: GQ writer takes Maine to task for whatever reason: “Bad writing is more than a matter of shit syntax and faulty observation; bad writing usually arises from a stubborn refusal to tell storie...

GQ writer takes Maine to task for whatever reason

“Bad writing is more than a matter of shit syntax and faulty observation; bad writing usually arises from a stubborn refusal to tell stories about what people actually do― to face the fact, let us say, that murderers sometimes help old ladies cross the street.” 
                                                                                              ― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Editors note: Here the link to (http://www.gq.com/story/do-we-need-maine-paul-lepage) the hit piece on Maine. If readers suffer any signs of disgust, stop reading it immediately and  pick up a good book.

A writer for GQ Magazine recently wrote a slice-and-dice column that took Maine and its residents to task for whatever reason.

He name is not worth mentioning or his writing — for that matter.

The piece is inane and belongs in a dumpster.

His acerbic thoughts serve no purpose other than to provoke and lambaste people in the Pine Tree State. He judged all Mainers by a governor who has had a handful pathetic moments during his time in office.

The writer appears to be as angry and ineloquent as our governor.

You sound like numerous uninformed posters who hide behind a thin veil of anonymity and spread their poisonous thoughts across the Internet. You took the long way around the barn to make no point at all.

You flayed away at a state rich in history and filled with genuine people who enjoy its vast natural resources and the cold, which keeps away blowhards like you.

There are many reasons why I am not a subscriber to GQ, but this writer certainly tops my list when it comes to explaining why I’ve never wasted $5 to purchase an elitist ad rag that caters to CEOs and Wall-Street types wearing $5,000 clothes. As far as journalism goes, I prefer the New York Times or the Boston Globe for eye-opening points of view.

I am surprised this drivel got past an adept editor and ended up in print. The writing is similar to an essay written by a disgruntled third grader condemning his teacher for assigning homework over school vacation.

There is no question the state is sparsely populated when you venture beyond Bangor. But there is Mt. Katahdin and the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, where people come from all over the world to enjoy and explore the state’s wilderness. 

Maine gave this country Medal-of Honor winner Joshua Chamberlain, who led a group of beat-up, shot-up Union soldiers who foiled the Confederates at Gettysburg, Penn. By the way, it takes a great deal of money to live in Portland, which is a great city and in some ways Boston’s little brother.

The Pine Tree State is bigger than all of us and our governor, but it has no room for a writer who pretends to be an erudite scholar. Obviously, a four-year degree didn’t do much for you as a writer.

I am outsider who didn't ride into the state on a high horse when I established roots here. I took a job, and along the way, I discovered there are good people here, and that could be said of any state in the union. Yes, I have been chided for being an out-of-stater and a Masshole, but my boyish good looks and self-deprecating humor have won over the staunchest Mainers.

I understand clever opinion pieces are written to stir the pot and make people think, but this piece of junk should have been spiked by the publisher.

Whatever reasons you have against Maine, please keep your jumbled thoughts and inadequate writing to yourself.

If you object to my opinion, do not contact me. Reading your nonsense was enough for three lifetimes, and I am sure a conversation with you would be equally fruitless.

Goodfellows52: Going on holiday and a lost gift from the past is ...

Goodfellows52: Going on holiday and a lost gift from the past is ...: “Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't...

Going on holiday and a lost gift from the past is discovered

“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!” 

― Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!

REVERE, Mass. — Blame it on the warm weather for my Christmas cheer and indomitable holiday spirit.

A week and half ago, we traveled Revere to celebrate the Yuletide with family and friends. It was the first Christmas I didn’t have to cook. I had become a man of leisure — at least for two days —and could enjoy the holiday without slaving over a hot stove.

You see, I didn't just survive the holidays. I enjoyed them for the first in a long time. Now I embrace the mayhem and the insanity that goes along with Christmas and Thanksgiving. I guess I always enjoyed the madness.

We left cloudy and cool Maine, and by the time we approached the Massachusetts coast on Christmas Eve, the warm embrace of a shining sun and a warm sea breeze greeted us.

The temperature rose to 70 degrees in the dead of a New England December. There have been warm Christmases in the past, but this was beach weather. It was astounding — and unheard of at this time of year. The warm sun put everybody in a good mood and the thought of

dreaming of a white Christmas would end up being an ordinary nightmare.

Before we checked into our room at the Red Roof Inn in Saugus, Mass., we had lunch with a generous cop friend of mine at the Prince Pizzeria on Route 1. The restaurant features a huge replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, only it is spelled pizza. My father took us there years ago, and of course, the fading memories of my parents suddenly became clear as we seated ourselves to feast on fried calamari and chicken wings.

After a small meal and trading tales about the old neighborhood, my friend and I parted company. We checked into our room at the motel before we made the three-mile ride to Revere.

We visited my uncle before we touched down at my sister’s three-story home, where 25 family members and friends waited to devour a 20-course meal complete with shrimp linguini and succulent stuffed mushrooms. The difficult part of my visit with relatives is glancing at our family home, which was sold eight months ago after my father died. It is next to my uncle’s house. When I stood before Al and Louise’s house, a house that once provided shelter to a loving family of six, I wanted to see my dad part the curtains at the picture window and beckon us to come inside to see mom, but my parents are gone.

The curtains were closed, anyway, and the my parents’ home, a loving, a modest home that was built in 1966, was occupied by new owners.

I turned and headed for the car, vowing not to spoil the holiday with my brief bout of melancholy.

I arrived at my sister’s home and was given a hero’s welcome. My mood improved with each hug I received from family members.

We ate, drank and we were merry despite the loss of loved ones, but I swear the warm weather helped us all feel better. We held a Yankee swap on my sister’s deck Christmas Eve. Nobody wore a jacket as a full Christmas moon appeared and lit up the yuletide sky. It was like a late spring day in the Greater Boston area.

A gift from the past

The kitchen table in any Italian home is a meeting place for the family. That was true for our clan as well.

After my parents passed, we divided up everything, including the Christmas decorations last April. When we decorated our tree and hung my parents decorations at my home, we discovered a Christmas ornament that my parents never gave their niece.

We gathered around at my sister’s home and presented our niece with the intended gift from her grandmother. I don’t know why the holiday ornament remained in a box downstairs in my parents’ home for the past 27 years. Perhaps, my mom forgot or she was waiting to give it to her niece at the right moment. The small mystery didn’t matter. The ornament has been delivered 27 years later.

Maybe, that small reminder of my parents was our small Christmas miracle this season. We certainly needed one after losing so many important people in our lives.

Christmas by the beach

Imagine walking the beach on Christmas day in spring-like temperatures with NO snow on the ground!

We checked out early and headed to Revere Beach, where the temperature was a balmy 65 degrees Christmas morning. Runners and bikers dressed in T-shirts and shorts wished us a Merry Christmas as they raced by on the boulevard. We spent over an hour walking on the sand and marveling at the warm temperatures. Winter set up shop by Thanksgiving and last Christmas was bleak and cold.

The walk, the sound of the waves and salt air presented us with Christmas morning that we would never be forgotten.

My mother loved the beach and my parents would buy coffee and sit on the wall during warm summer nights and chilly autumn days.

I felt them both in my heart this holiday. They were right there with us as we briskly walked along the sandy New England beach. My parents gave me life and a lifetime of love, and my sweet memories of them keep me going through each season of our lives.

Perhaps Christmas also serves to remind us of what is truly important in our lives.

Goodfellows52: A Christmas walk by the sea and donating historic ...

Goodfellows52: A Christmas walk by the sea and donating historic ...: PORTLAND — The three of us walked along on the beach at the Eastern Promenade thanks to bare ground and a warm sun that made the waters of...

A Christmas walk by the sea and donating historic artifact to the Independence Seaport Museum in Philly

PORTLAND — The three of us walked along on the beach at the Eastern Promenade thanks to bare ground and a warm sun that made the waters of the Atlantic sparkle with Christmas cheer.

I called it our Christmas walk on a cold Sunday afternoon. Runners and speed walkers passed us with a smile and a hello. Playful dogs and their owners roamed the sand. A vintage narrow-gauge train raced by, blasting its ear-splitting steam whistle that was heard clear across the empty bay. We waved to the conductor and marveled at a machine that was nearly a century old.

Was this the beginning of a new Christmas tradition?

I doubt it because Old Man Winter, who appears to have gone West for the holidays, has way of getting back at all of us the next season. This guy knows how to hold a grudge.

But for the moment, the old geezer has concerned himself with creating havoc on the West Coast, and that is just fine with me. The residents on the other side of the country need the water and I could do without the white powder. 

After last year, a warm December has been a real treat for many of us in Maine this holiday season, but whatever you do, don’t share your enthusiasm over the lack of cold temperatures and snow with skiers.

You might get a punch in the nose or be ignored the rest of winter. Whenever I mention this spring-like weather, I get dirty looks from my son — a ski patroller who lives for the white stuff.

I could give a damn about a White Christmas. 

Sorry Bing! 

I am perfectly content standing on cold, clear bare ground. Santa will just have use a helicopter to make his appointed rounds on Christmas Eve. Rudolph and his buddies can take the day off.

The walk in the crisp, cold Canadian air cleared my head and made me appreciate the fact that I can go for a two-mile walk with my wife and son and not get winded. The sea has always been my open-air cathedral where I go to sort out life’s problems.

Traditions fade and new holiday customs suddenly emerge with the passing of time and loved ones whose absence at Christmas dinner is always a heart breaker. Those who have passed on are now a part of Christmas past and a time that seemed so much simpler.

The holidays and depression often go hand and hand, and the absence of a mom and dad makes me acutely aware that all those wonderful people who celebrated the yuletide are gone forever.

But staring out across the chilly waters of East End Beach in a warm, winter sun preempted the deepest feelings of desperation. I was grateful my son was home from the University of Maine at Farmington. His presence makes the holidays that much more meaningful. While we were at work, he decorated the entire house with holiday spirit.

And so a new holiday tradition is born — the homecoming of my son.

By the way, depression and anxiety can find another mind to haunt — mine is occupied with positive thoughts. I miss my parents and all those who were so important to me during the holidays, but if I allow melancholy and the past to pester me, I miss what is going on the present — and that is not going to happen to me.

The gift that keeps on giving

Several days before Christmas, my son did something remarkable — at least in his parents’ eyes. He donated a historic artifact to a world-class museum in Philadelphia, Penn.

My son, a history major and honor student, had spoken with his archeology teacher about owning pieces of American history. The archeologist told him when people have private pieces of the past in their hands, other can’t see and enjoy a relic from the past.

My son took his conversation to heart and decided to donate an 1899 commemorative plate of the USS Olympia that was produced by Macy’s to honor Admiral Dewey’s fighting vessel, which fought in the Battle of Manila Bay during the Spanish-American War.

On Friday, we spent $60 to carefully pack and send the plate to the Independence Seaport Museum in Philly. We visited this maritime museum in 2013. If you like maritime history, this is to place to tour and learn. The Olympia is moored next to the museum and it is still in fighting shape. We photographed every inch of the naval warship during our last visit.

I am looking forward to seeing my son’s name next to the historic plate the next time we cross the Delaware River and visit the Cradle of Liberty.

My son continues to pleasantly surprise us, but that’s what children do when you love them.

Goodfellows52: When terrorism strikes, level heads must prevail

Goodfellows52: When terrorism strikes, level heads must prevail: " Hatred is corrosive of a person's wisdom and conscience; the mentality of enmity can poison a nation's spirit, instigate br...

When terrorism strikes, level heads must prevail

"Hatred is corrosive of a person's wisdom and conscience; the mentality of enmity can poison a nation's spirit, instigate brutal life and death struggles, destroy a society's tolerance and humanity, and block a nation's progress to freedom and democracy."

— Liu Xiaobo

"Everybody's worried about stopping terrorism. Well, there's a really easy way: stop participating in it."

 — Noam Chomsky

AUBURN — I voted for President Obama, and like many voters, I sometimes disagree with the commander in chief, but his common-sense approach to these inane terror attacks works for me.

How many times do you see politicians employ common sense whenever they open their mouths? We are often treated to nonsensical sound bites from presidential contenders like Donald Trump. Some of our nation's leaders sound just like the rantings and ravings of posters on news web sites. What a bunch of angry people we have become, and you can’t solely blame our negative actions on terrorists.

Was it necessary for the president to take center stage on national television Sunday night?

You bet! 

After what transpired in San Bernardino, Calif., and in Paris, and the frequency of terrorist attacks across the globe, we needed to hear what OUR president had to say.

Look, I never understood why background checks and gun control are an issue. There are people who shouldn’t own a water pistol, never mind high-powered semis which make mince meat out of human beings. I also realize the significance of the second amendment and the fact that this nation was settled with a gun.

At this point, don’t go shopping for a gun just yet even though I have one in the house, too, but owning a rifle doesn’t insure my family’s safety. Every time a deranged individual attacks an abortion clinic, we get a glimpse of our own home-grown terrorists who also use religion to justify homicide — with a rifle, of course.

But terrorism’s roots run deep and there are numerous reasons why people commit nefarious acts. Through the ages, all three monotheism's have experienced radicalism and its violent repercussions.

If hatred prevails and we single out people because of their beliefs, beliefs that I may not share, then chalk one up for terrorists who have succeeded in making a mockery out democracy and fools out of all of us.

I had no problem with law enforcement converting the terrorists’ SUV into the Bonny-and-Clyde death car after police were fired upon by these killers. Police did their job and saved us a costly trial. Anybody of sound mind does not want to hear assassins spouting their warped ideology in an American court of law.

This violent couple presented a clear and present danger to citizens, and law enforcement acted appropriately. Good people were caught in a crossfire of malevolence in San Bernardino, and all I can do is offer my condolences to the families — and my sympathy is not enough to console all those grieving souls — especially during the holidays.

I will never understand a person who claims to be religious, arms himself, chooses a soft target and begins blasting away like a gunman at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Ariz. How can hateful propaganda or a video streamed across the Internet inspire someone, anyone, to commit mayhem? Using a gun to make a point and murder dozens of fellow human beings is a senseless act and their point is lost right after the first shot is fired. 

Martin Luther King and his followers never fired a shot, but his words and devotion inspired a generation of young people, black and white, to act without picking up a pistol. They demonstrated, marched and withstood the water hoses and painful beatings, and they were only armed with the belief that all men are created equal.

We are not a perfect nation and there are several episodes in our history where we failed to live up to the phrase. Slavery, the subjugation of native Americans, the internment of Japanese Americans and exploiting cheap immigrant labor to satisfy a growing nation are a part of our dark past, but every nation has experienced growing pains at the expense of its citizens.

I offer no excuses for our embarrassing past, but we have come a long way thanks to a bitter civil war and a civil rights movement 100 years later that allowed us to turn the corner when it comes to hate and indifference. It was a long moment in history where citizens, black and white, made their point without resorting to violence.

Rounding up Muslims or tossing them out of this country is a nasty step backward, and anybody who understands the U.S. Constitution knows that. Remember, when Italians, Jews, Irish and Asians came here, U.S. corporations had no problems exploiting them for cheap labor. Our new countrymen experienced racism and indifference, and yet they still made their way in a nation that took them for granted and still helped build bustling nation from the ground up.

That is why turning on any group of people is simply wrong and gives every damn terrorists a reason to smile. This kind of thinking triggered the Holocaust and has been the catalyst for all genocides in every generation. There is no justification for murder — and that includes piety.

I’d like think all Americans are smarter than that. If we begin lashing out against a certain group of people, then terrorism wins and all our ideals mean nothing. 

What would our founding fathers say?

Keep that thought in mind during Christmas and Hanukkah this holiday season.

Goodfellows52: Our condolence to people of France

Goodfellows52: Our condolence to people of France: “ They were singing in French, but the melody was freedom and any American could understand that. ” Audie Murphy , American World War II...

Our condolence to people of France

“They were singing in French, but the melody was freedom and any American could understand that.”

Audie Murphy, American World War II hero

“Global terrorism is extreme both in its lack of realistic goals and in its cynical exploitation of the vulnerability of complex systems.”

Jurgen Habermas

“The enemy for the fanatic is pleasure, which makes it extremely important to continue to indulge in pleasure. Dance madly. That is how you get rid of terrorism.”

Salman Rushdie

“Terrorism is the tactic of demanding the impossible, and demanding it at gunpoint.”

Christopher Hitchens

To the proud and good people of France,

You gave us the Statue of Liberty, helped our ancestors win their freedom in 1783 and you remain the devout caretakers of our American war dead in pristine cemeteries across your great nation.

I can’t speak for all of my countrymen, but my family stands by the French and we offer our condolences to the families who lost loved ones in another inane act of terrorism in your country.

What fanatics did was solidify the bonds between free nations and brought worldwide condemnation from all of us. Each terrorist act brings us all together and it accomplishes nothing except to continue a war without end.

There will be blood, but it will ebb from the veins of terrorists whose misguided beliefs and nefarious ways continue to unite those who believe in the greater good.

War is like a street fight — somebody’s not getting up, and our survival depends our decisive actions.

The fanatic doesn’t understand an open and free society, which fosters ideas, ideals and the advancement of its people. France and its open-minded people have always enjoyed the fine arts and their culinary delights have been the talk of Europe.

Flip through the pages of history and there are centuries of proof that terrorizing a civilian population will bring only doom upon the perpetrators of violence.

The French fought against Hitler, whose V-2 rockets terrorized London. But all those missiles did was strengthen the resolve of the British as they huddled in underground subway tunnels. The French Underground was responsible for numerous historic acts of bravery during the D-Day invasion of France in 1944.

In World War I, the Germans used giant artillery pieces such the Paris Gun to instill fear in the French population. It is obviously those massive guns failed after the Allies won the war in 1918.

When the World Trade Towers fell on Sept. 11, 2001 in the United States, France supported us and the Canadians allowed American passenger planes to land after the United States ordered all civilian aircraft to stand down. The Holocaust united the Jewish people and Israel was born in 1948. America was the first to recognize this new nation.

Grand ideas like our U.S. constitution, which includes the phrase: “All men are created equal,” inspired a new nation. Nobody ever wrote a sentence like that in the history of mankind. That one bold stroke of a pen set the bar for all humanity, started our Civil War that put an end to slavery and sparked the civil rights movement in this country 100 years later. Gays can no longer be discriminated and are allowed to marry without retribution or harrassment thanks to our just laws.

The terrorist, with their warped views and unjust laws, will never comprehend a free state, but they know we will never back down or retreat.

So no matter what these bastards do, liberty and the greater good will prevail. But if we allow paranoia and hatred to seize us, these miscreants will have the upper hand.

At this moment, our skyscrapers are displaying the colors of the French flag and an unscheduled rendition of your country’s national anthem was performed at the New York Metropolitan Opera.

We feel your pain, but you are not alone.

Goodfellows52: Missing in action — forever

Goodfellows52: Missing in action — forever: Albert John Blasi through the years "He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me w...

Missing in action — forever

Albert John Blasi through the years

"He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."

                                   ~Clarence Budington Kelland

CAPE ELIZABETH — Lingering grief is like being buried alive in a shallow grave.

Melancholy is grief’s best friend, and if you immerse yourself in endless desolation, you will be consumed by your own sorrow — like a rotting corpse resting in the deep earth.

I won’t allow that kind of emptiness to rule my life. My father wouldn’t tolerate it, either. And I don’t have a choice — I have a family that still needs me despite my sadness.

My father, Albert John Blasi, died this weekend on Nov. 8, 2014 — another casualty of a cruel disease known as Alzheimer’s. He was buried with full military honors after serving a tour of duty during the occupation of Germany in 1954. Actually, he played baseball for the U.S. Army’s post teams. It was a good gig, and instead of lugging around an M-1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and donned a glove on a baseball diamond somewhere in Europe.

I have this great picture of him playing catch at Zepplin Field where Hitler’s Nazis rallied during World War II. Behind my father is a destroyed, concrete swastika — remnants of the Third Reich.

There were hundreds of mourners at his wake and a police escort accompanied the hearse to the cemetery where he was buried in Peabody, Mass.

I still have the flag which was draped over his coffin on that cold day. It sits in a case that rests on top of a curio cabinet that I bought for my parents long ago. Call it a shrine, if you like, but it doesn’t alleviate the pain that goes along with my father’s loss.

That takes time, sometimes counseling, and a begrudging acceptance, and there is no closure — just a deep wound that never heals.

He was a teacher, coach and father whose integrity, loyalty and compassion made him a respected member in a city just outside Boston, and his reputation as the Revere High baseball skipper for 42 years extended well beyond the borders of the Greater Boston area. Boston Globe writer Martin Pave did a wonderful job with his half-page article about my dad.

It is an anniversary that no one in our family cares to celebrate. The memories are painful and his permanent absence has left us all with a sense of longing and sadness.

The new normal is impossible to get used to, and there is not a day I don’t think about him or my mother. The house at 17 McClure Street has been sold, and that’s a different kind of sadness.

I knew hanging around my home recalling his last moments on earth would trigger paralyzing grief and a strong bout of depression.

That wasn’t going to happen. I did that for four years as I watched his beautiful mind and precious memories slip away as the Alzheimer’s slowly progressed.

So I spent this weekend visiting the ocean and walking trails along the coast with my son who came home from college for the weekend. He made these past few days bearable.

I grew up in a seaside community and I have always found the turbulent waters of the Atlantic a calming force in my life. We are all connected to the sea. 

The late President John F Kennedy said, “We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.”

Maybe that is why we headed south to visit one of our old stomping grounds — Fort Williams in Cape Elizabeth. It offers stunning views of the coastline and made me feel a helluva lot better to see the cold salt water lap against the shoreline and breath in the sea air on a chilly, windy November day.

For the next hour, I thought about my father, but in a positive way, avoiding the misery that accompanies grief.

Somedays are harder than others, but I have come to terms with his death, and although I miss him every day, I feel I was lucky to have parents who gave a damn about their four kids and put them first in their lives.

That feeling of loss never goes away as my grief subsides and acceptance takes a firm hold.

I see my father in my son and in my sisters’ children, too.

He lives on in all of us, but I still miss the man who stood for something good.

That will never change.