For this fortunate son, the stories of my father continue

The caption reads: “Umpire Mike Caira listens politely as Revere coach Al Blasi dramatizes his clam that Arlington’s Ron Valeri was out trying to steal third base during yesterday’s game. Blasi lost the argument and Revere lost the game,2-1. 

Editor’s note: This is a poem by Diana Der-Hovanessian called “Shifting Son.” It is a poem that has never left me and now has more meaning since my father’s death.

SHIFTING THE SUN

When your father dies, say the Irish

you lose your umbrella against bad weather.

May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh

you sink a foot deeper into the earth.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians

When your father dies, say the Canadians

you run out of excuses.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Indians

he comes back as the thunder.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,

he takes your childhood with him.

May you inherit his light say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the British,

you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,

your sun shifts forever

and you walk in his light.

LEWISTON, Maine — It appears the positive impact of my father’s legacy as a great baseball coach and an adept teacher will follow me like my shadow for the rest of my life.

His dedication to teaching and his community was what made him an icon in Revere, Mass. — and the endless stories about the big man with a deep voice and reassuring smile are still bandied about well beyond the borders of Massachusetts.

I have always been proud my father’s solid reputation and integrity because I loved the guy. He played baseball and other sports in the U.S. Army during the occupation of Germany in the mid 1950s. He missed the Korean war by a year, but instead of lugging around the M1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and glove during his two years in the service.

He passed nearly five years ago and his absence still hurts like the nagging pain of a human joint ravaged by arthritis. Alzheimer’s was merciless when it claimed him, and anybody who is forced to endure “The Long Goodbye,” well, my heart goes out to you.

When you care about someone that much, there is no letting go.

The other night, I was assigned to cover a mixed martial arts event at the Androscoggin Bank Colisee. Fighters come here to mix it up — and these free-for-all battles are not for the faint of heart.

I was introduced to a man by the name of Nick Disalvo, who is a co-promoter, lawyer and a 1995 graduate of Revere High School in the Bay State

I was stunned when I learned he was one my father’s students and a player for the RHS baseball team. I shook Disalvo’s hand.

“I loved your father and respected him,” Disalvo told me.

“Yeah, I still miss him. The emptiness never leaves,” I said.

We spoke in a darkened Colisee as workers rushed to get the ring ready for the amateur fighters. We shared memories of my father for 30 minutes. Mr. Disalvo went on and on about my dad and how he taught Disalvo the game. 

Whoever thought I would be discussing my late father with one of his dedicated ballplayers in the middle of Lewiston, Maine.

I didn’t want him to stop talking about my dad. Every story Disalvo shared about my dad brought him back to life.

Disalvo’s kind words about Albert John Blasi quelled my fading grief and eased my pain. I was grateful to Disalvo for his reverence for my dad.

Everybody who played for Big Al always has a story to tell — and hearing their appreciation for my father never gets old.

He has been dead for nearly five years, and yet his influence on his students and players continues to this day.

I once read that you are never really dead until the last person who knew you dies and your influence on the living stops.

I know I have not heard the last from his players or students because Albert John Blasi, a big man with a kind heart, coached the RHS baseball team for 43 years.

And they still talk about him to this day, which makes me a fortunate son who was raised by a father who loved his family, school and community.

Goodfellows52: A warm evening springs into action with Philharmon...

Goodfellows52: A warm evening springs into action with Philharmon...: "Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety ...

A warm evening springs into action with Philharmonia Boston Orchestra

"Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything." 

                                                                                  — Plato

FARMINGTON, Maine — I blame the Philharmonia Boston Orchestra for knocking Ludwig Von Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 from the top of my list after listening to a group of gifted musicians turn in an eye-opening, awe-inspiring performance of the German composer’s Symphony No. 6 — the “Pastoral.”

His ninth symphony, particularly the fourth movement, “Ode to Joy,” was always No. 1 with me when it came to Beethoven’s numerous works.

But alas, the “Pastoral” now tops ’em all.

Maestro Jinwook Park and his merry band of talented musicians were in Farmington on a warm and perfect Saturday evening to conduct the “Pastoral” and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, which left a grateful crowd cheering for more at the University of Maine at Farmington’s Nordica Auditorium at Merrill Hall.

After the first movement of the Pastoral, I was sold that Beethoven’s Symphony No. 6 will relegate the ninth symphony to second place even though “Ode to Joy” will always have a place in my heart.

Park’s aerobic style of conducting motivated his musicians and roused appreciative patrons, but his infinite energy also wore me out and made me want to take a nap. His enthusiasm was contagious as the uplifting music swept over all of us.

Watching these accomplished artists perform with the precision of a surgeon’s gifted hands, while a stunning sunset was clearly visible from Merrill Hall’s large windows, made a warm spring Saturday night entrancing.

UMF professor of music Steven Pain delivered an enlightening introduction about Beethoven’s fifth and sixth symphonies and gave the crowd a new take on these unique and treasured pieces. Pain explained why German conductor composed the Symphony No. 6. The composition is about Beethoven’s encounter with nature, and he translated his observations into a powerful four-movement wonder.

My mind began to wander and I found myself thinking of my garden or hiking in the Maine woods half way through the “Pastoral.”

By the final movement, my blood pressure had dropped and my optimism grew as the orchestra raced through the fifth movement. 

After intermission, Philharmonia played the Symphony No. 5, beginning with the first movement that is all too familiar to most classical music lovers. I enjoy the final movement, which is a stirring finale to a great composition.

My son, Anthony, who will be graduating next month from UMF, told me about the concert. My wife, Terri, and I took the 45-mile trip up Route 4 to listen to adept musicians from the Greater Boston area perform.

According to the university, “The New Commons is a public humanities initiative of the University of Maine at Farmington, Maine’s public liberal arts college, in partnership with the Maine Humanities Council.

“Our goal is to build a cultural commons for our community at UMF and for the state of Maine: a collection of 24 cultural works proposed by students, faculty, and members of the community, and selected on the basis of their potential value to the community.”

My goal was to enjoy an evening with my wife and son and the Philharmonia Boston Orchestra made that happen on a perfect evening topped off by timeless music.

Goodfellows52: Cat-TV teases Cindy-Lou

Goodfellows52: Cat-TV teases Cindy-Lou: "Cats have it all - admiration, an endless sleep, and company only when they want it."  — Rod McKuen AUBURN...

Cat-TV teases Cindy-Lou

"Cats have it all - admiration, an endless sleep, and company only when they want it." 

— Rod McKuen

AUBURN, Maine — If you don’t acknowledge our cat in the morning, you do so at your own peril.

Cindy-Lou is our wake-up call and there is no snooze button to silence our noisy tenant when our girl is up and about raising hell.

She runs around, meowing: “Get your sorry asses out of bed.” She needs to be stroked and hugged because this fur ball won’t take no for an answer from a pair of bleary-eyed adults.

You will never make it to the coffee pot because Cindy Lou will stand between you and your first cup of Joe. Feeding her first is the only priority or you will be tripping over this rambunctious beast before brewing that magic, dark stuff that gives us all a lift each morning.

You see, Cindy-Lou has a lot to say for a cat that was adopted from an animal shelter. She has been with us for a year, and six weeks of that was spent wooing and cajoling the frightened cat to leave the basement for the comforts of a warm couch. Then we spent another week re-enacting the movie, “The King and I,” while humming along to one of the featured tunes: “Getting to know you.” 

This is by far the most vocal feline we have ever taken under our wing. She screams for attention and her ear-piercing rants will bend your ear.  She’s like a rooster that cackles at first light.

We lost our beloved Tabby, who I categorize as a stealthy feline, last March. Tabby didn’t say much, and when humans tried to talk to it, Tabby gave you that Robert De Niro look in the movie “Taxi Driver: “Are you talking to me! Stop talking to me!”

Cindy, though, is one demanding cat that refuses to be ignored, but I have grown used to her endearing snarls and occasional swipes from her sharp claws.

She fearlessly stands her ground except when I pull out the vacuum to clean the house. Her eyes widen with fear and she bolts downstairs and into the deepest recesses of our damp basement, waiting for me to put that god damn machine away.

Her reaction to the vacuum puts a wide grin on my face, and that smile also appears when we pelt the picture window with snowballs. Cindy-Lou leaps from the recliner and heads for cover, screaming: “Incoming!”

But I found another way to occupy an indoor cat with a lot of time on its paws.

I call it Cat-TV, which is live, daily programming from our front yard. We have two bird feeders for seed and one for suet. The feeders sway in front of the picture window, tantalizing Cindy-Lou, who spends hours sitting in a recliner next to the window and daydreaming of the day when she dispatches one of our feathered friends.

After serving Cindy-Lou her meal, I draw the shades and watch the cat seat itself just in time to gawk at a handful of birds dining in the morning sun.

Cindy will do this for a couple of hours, allowing me to enjoy my coffee in peace before I begin punching out a story for the Lewiston Sun Journal sports section.

Did you know that cats chatter with delight when their prey is just within paw’s reach? The chatter becomes louder as a variety of birds gorge on my feeders.

Cindy crouches in the recliner to keep a low profile to watch blue jays, woodpeckers and chickadees pick at the Blasi’s home-cooking. Large cardinals really draw Cindy’s attention.

Her eyes never leave the window as sparrows belly up to the window feeder. The birds are now within striking distance of Cindy-Lou, which is ready to pounce. She leaps from the chair, but the window acts as a barrier, and she bumps her head off the glass as a sparrow flies away to the protection of hedges surrounding the front lawn.

The chickadees are the most audacious birds that have learned to ignore the cat during a lunch break.

So I continue to invest in bird food for a cat that is just waiting for the moment to bag a robin or woodpecker.

But she stands a better chance of knocking off a hapless mouse that made the fatal mistake of wondering into our home.

A cat by any other name; Oh deer me; We (Scrooge and I) come a wassailing

"Cats have it all - admiration, an endless sleep, and company only when they want it."

AUBURN, Maine — This holiday season the Blasi family made a momentous decision to change the cat’s name — or at least use several other aliases.

The resolution will affect the household for the coming year. We debated and debated — for five agonizing minutes — at the kitchen table over a bowl of hot punch. After all the haggling, we agreed to a new name for a cat that never ever stops talking.

We will be in court on Monday to make it official after we file papers with several lawyers. The cat will also be summoned by several aliases depending our our moods and how much this hairball bothers me when I am filing a damn story at the kitchen table.

My wonderful, beautiful wife named the cat “Cindy Lou Who,” the sweet kid from Whoville in “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.”  Every time I hear Grinch, I think of a nonsense-filled Washington, D.C. occupied by Li'l Abner and his hillbilly friends.

Terri has also called the Cat — Diva — which has several definitions, including “a self-important person who is temperamental and difficult to please.”

In this case, it is a cat and it owns our hearts — and she knows it. It screeches when it demands to be fed and wanders the house, bellowing “Hello.” It really does sound like that.

The cat, which we bought from an animal shelter the past March, is a drama queen — and we are convinced “Diva” is appropriate. She wakes us out of a sound sleep in the dead of night with her ear-piercing, unbearable screech. She is miserable until she has her morning, stinky food, much like I feel when I suck down my first of cup of coffee.

Diva never stops talking and screeching — and it can be intolerable until you give in and crack open another can of smelly cat food. This is a cat with a hair-trigger temper that will take a swipe at you when she’s having a moment— and there are many.

She’ll steel your chair because Diva is a rascal and an assassin, who knocked off several mice and screamed at the top of her lungs after she committed the bloody deeds.

And so Diva will be the cat’s name — along with several aliases.

To be honest, I don’t think the cat gives a damn so long as it eats — just like a Scrooge acquaintance — who wouldn’t attend “The Old Screw’s” funeral unless he was also fed.

Oh deer me!

I was hustling back from a University of Maine at Farmington men’s basketball game that I covered a couple of Friday’s ago in Farmington.

It was a dark and cold night, my friends. Everybody was at home enjoying their wood stoves while I kept my eyes on a lonely stretch of road in search of danger.

I had to file a story, because that’s what reporters do.

I raced around a hair-pin turn on a hill at about 50 mph on dangerous Route 4 in Livermore when a giant buck leaped in front of my Rondo Kia. 

I had a three-second window to decide if I wanted to live or die on a dimly-lit country road on a freezing Friday night.

I skidded, veered a bit to the right, hit the gas pedal and slammed in the deer’s ass. I hit it hard and it limped off into the woods. I drove off to call it in. I accelerated to lift the hood to prevent the deer from crashing through the window.

I heard the glass cover on the left-front headlight shatter after the impact, which could be heard for miles. I limped home with one headlight and a fear that there were other deer lurking on the side of road ready to pounce on other unsuspecting drivers.

I needed to file my story because that’s what reporters do.

I also needed a stiff drink because that’s what this reporter required after dodging the Grim Reaper.

The Old Screw warmed my heart

I have read just about everything that Charles Dickens published over his lifetime, but I never sat down with “A Christmas Carol.”

I’ve watched several movies called a “Christmas Carol” or “Scrooge.”

So I promised myself that I would read the Dickens’ story about angry old man — like Henry F. Potter — who despises the world and tries to make Bedford Falls a hellhole for young George Bailey.

There’s a real-life versions of Scrooge or Potter in our nation’s capital.

I was enthralled as Dickens took us through Ebenezer’s tumultuous life — with three diligent spirits who slapped around the miser along the way.

He certainly had it coming to him.

The short story is spectacular, especially the way Dickens reveals his characters through sharp dialogue. The book has certainly withstood the test of time, just like Philip Van Doren Stern’s short story, “The Greatest Gift,” which we all know as “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Dickens and Van Doren Stern had it right when they penned two ageless stories about miserly, selfish old men whose only concern is themselves and the bottom line.

Sound familiar?

But “The Old Screw” figured it out in the end when he said: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!”

I leave you with Scrooge’s epiphany and bid you all a happy holiday.

Goodfellows52: Giving thanks for some wonderful memories

Goodfellows52: Giving thanks for some wonderful memories: “Traditions are our roots and a profile of who we are as individuals and who we are as a family. They are our roots, which give u...

Goodfellows52: Goodfellows52: Cat and mouse with Cindy-Lou

Goodfellows52: Goodfellows52: Cat and mouse with Cindy-Lou: Goodfellows52: Cat and mouse with Cindy-Lou : "Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a function."  — G...

Giving thanks for some wonderful memories

“Traditions are our roots and a profile of who we are as individuals and who we are as a family. They are our roots, which give us stability and a sense of belonging - they ground us.” 

                                                                                        — Lidia Bastianich

AUBURN, Maine — A holiday tradition vanished with the death of my father.

But when you are the survivor, you long for the custom that brought you closer together with a parent.

I was fortunate to be raised in Italian neighborhood with nearly a dozen relatives on one street. Thanksgiving meant a stream of cousins and uncles, a smorgasbord of home-made food and booze — particularly fine wine.

There were traditions within traditions and one was rooting for your high school during Turkey Day football games across the state of Massachusetts. 

For nearly 50 years, you would find my father and me at a wind-blown, frozen football field watching Revere High School confront the Winthrop Vikings on a brisk Thanksgiving morning.

Spending a cold morning at Harry Della Russo Stadium or Winthrop’s ocean-side field was the prelude to a dinner for 20 relatives all vying for sumptuous meals and share a shot of Anisette to take the chill out of those football fans returning from the game.

During the games, we lamented about the cold and spent a couple of bucks on hot chocolate. There were adults who were seen reaching inside their jackets for  their flasks filled with rye or brandy.

I envied them. I found hot chocolate didn’t stop the shivers triggered by the biting cold. But a belt of brandy might be just what the doctor ordered in sub-zero temperatures.

Back in the day, the Div. I teams from the Greater Boston Area drew big crowds. The game gave former RHS football players like me a chance to catch up with former classmates as well as hang around my father — Albert John Blasi.

Big Al coached the Revere Patriots baseball team. He believed in supporting the football team and the game gave him the perfect excuse stay out of my mother’s way in the kitchen. My father did not find slaving over a hot oven a palatable way to spend the morning. Making soup or salad was the extent of his culinary skills.

Those talks in the car before we got to the field were precious to me. I watched my dad flip around the AM dial looking for other high school football scores as we raced home for a round of pasta, fish and Turkey.

Thanksgiving Day mornings watching high school football came to a slow stop when age caught up with my dad and the death of his close friend, Robert Marra. My father and Mr. Marra were fixtures in the stands. Both are no longer with us and a tradition disappeared with them.

The memories are sometimes painful, but I know I was lucky to have those significant moments with a father who loved his family and community. Going to a high school game would not be the same without my dad.

Thanksgiving traditions sometimes fade away with time, but those memories of my father standing in the cold watching a game come alive every holiday.

For that, I am thankful.

Goodfellows52: Cat and mouse with Cindy-Lou

Goodfellows52: Cat and mouse with Cindy-Lou: "Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a function."  — Garrison Keillor AUBURN, Maine ...

Cat and mouse with Cindy-Lou

"Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a function." 

— Garrison Keillor

AUBURN, Maine  — It has been nearly five months since Cindy-Lou left  “The Upside Down” world — our dark, damp cellar — to hang out with the three of us and enjoy the creature comforts of the rest of our home.

For a while there, we thought Cindy would elude us for all eternity by hiding in every orifice in our three-bedroom home.

There were sightings and brief encounters with her, but for a month or, she preferred the “The Upside Down.” During her stay in the cellar, she chalked up three confirmed kills, ripping up three mice and ending our pest problem.

She was moonlighting as a deadly assassin and I applauded her precision in ridding our home of those vile, disgusting rodents. She was like Max von Sydow — who played an unfeeling G. Jourbert — an assassin for the CIA in “Three Days of the Condor.”

Nature gave her killer instincts and we needed to protect our home. She also kills and eats ants and flies when they covertly slip into our home. The insects are like snacks for the cantankerous Cindy.

We were in despair that we might only catch glimpses of a cat, which ate her meals while we slept, but suddenly Cindy came out — just like Boo Radley did in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”  

She, and only she, decided that we were worth her time and love.

She is a fussy dame for a five-year-old cat, but we have learned to live with her endless demands. When she screeches for a treat, her bellowing won’t stop until she is fed. We almost always give into her demands for peace of mind.

Cindy likes to swipe at all of us and I never pet her when she is the floor. She will bait you with those big eyes and then strike with her sharp claws. 

But she is always on the prowl for bugs and mice. The premises are safe under the watchful eyes of Cindy-Lou.

She never stops talking and it is funny when she lets out one of those “HELLO” calls in the hallway. 

We will keep her around because she is good company and we enjoy our fireside chats with a cat that just can’t keep quiet.

That’s because cats always have the final say and owners, deep down, know this autonomous animal calls the shots and has no sense of diplomacy.