Goodfellows52: Slamming the door on closure

Goodfellows52: Slamming the door on closure: Writer's note: Writing a book review is not my forte. This is a letter addressed to Nancy Berns who wrote a brilliant book called "Closur...

Slamming the door on closure

Writer's note: Writing a book review is not my forte. This is a letter addressed to Nancy Berns who wrote a brilliant book called "Closure." I found it fascinating. The book is an in-depth look at how "Closure" is overused. For a man who has suffered loss, I can assure you there is no closure for me. But this book is worth a good read from an author who did a fine job covering a lot of ground about this tired word. Here is a link to one of her lectures:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0rCfXSdYPE

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Dear Nancy Berns,

For me, there is no such thing as "Closure." It is a tired word used by media and grief-ravaged people looking for an instant end to their sadness that will never come. 

When it comes to death's stark finality, "Closure" and grief don't belong in the same sentence.

While I appreciate how you tackled this complicated subject, I believe grieving is a lifelong process with no end. I have discovered that I live with gnawing pain, but I refuse to permit grief to dominate my life.

That's why I find your book refreshing, eye-opening and well done.

I know you have suffered the most devastating loss of all — the death of your child.  I am truly sorry, because I know how much I cherish my son. You can read about our adventures at www.goodfellows52.blogspot.com.  Despite your heartbreak, I am glad you found a way to complete this book.

From a personal standpoint, using a stopwatch to time grief is a lesson in futility.

I lost my mother and nearly a dozen loved ones who shaped my life.  That parade of death continued with the demise our mothers, two friends who committed suicide due to this oppressive economy, and a former co-worker who was murdered — all in a period of just two years.

My mother's death was like having a house dropped on me. There is not a day I don't think about her. It has been nearly three years, and the thought of closure has never crossed my mind. I am not depressed or find myself curled up in the fetal position, but there is a huge sense of longing that continues to this day. 

I understand loss and that our deaths are inevitable. Like John Donne wrote: "Every man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind."

But whenever I hear the word "Closure" described as one of the stages in the grieving process, I shake my head.

It's really absurd.

I want to "close" out my letter with these thoughts. Your book was thorough and enlightening, but it confirmed my beliefs: There is no closure - just a lifetime of longing and endless sorrow tempered by time.

Thank you again, and I am sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

Anthony Blasi

53 Valley Street

Auburn, Maine o04210

Goodfellows52: Sailing the seven seas

Goodfellows52: Sailing the seven seas: “ I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; and all I ask is a tall sh...

Sailing the seven seas

“I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.”

 John Masefield quotes (British poet, 1878-1967)

BATH - There's a place where Maine's maritime history is on display and offers visitors a unique perspective on the life of hardy mariners, master shipbuilders, the state's shipping industry, and the role it played on the high seas.

Last Sunday, the Maine Maritime Museum threw open its doors to the public for free to celebrate its 50th anniversary. You could say our ship came in for this family of three. A visit would have cost us $40.00 for the day. That was generous of the museum to do this for a public who undoubtedly enjoyed its fine exhibits, the back drop of the Kennebec River and its life-affirming sea breezes.

My son has a passion for maritime history - especially naval vessels from all nations. For a baseball fanatic, this is like going to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox come undone.

A cool fall day and brilliant sunshine made for spectacular afternoon to catch a glimpse of the Bath Iron Works, which is just up the river from the museum. It took us nearly four hours see everything the museum offers. If you enjoy walking, love the ocean and all its lure, and had a secret desire to become a swabby and sail the seven seas, this is the place to spend a day.

There are numerous exhibits and illustrations inside the main lobby and there are also informative outdoor displays.

If you are a reader, it will take you about 90 minutes to visit the indoor exhibits. During our tour, the museum featured "The War of 1812" display,  cannon and a two-shot flint-lock pistol, two cannons from the HMS Boxer, gowns from the Saco Peace Ball, and Letters of Marque signed by President Madison. 

Model ships of the past will make you pause and stare as you marvel at these complicated exhibits. There is a large, working engine of a ship, whaling gear, a ship's doctor's surgical instruments, sabers and numerous pictures of Maine's maritime past. 

The gift shop has an impressive array of books about the maritimes.

For children, there are working displays, and what child wouldn't want to get behind the helm of a ship, watch a boat launch or tour a mansion.

Master Anthony aboard the Sherman Szwicker

One of the most impressive, working exhibits is the Sherman Szwicker - a sailing yacht that is a twin-mastered schooner built in Canada in 1942. It offers a great deal of room thanks to its deep draught, and the entire yacht is 142 feet long. It is beautiful sailing vessel that is moored at the museum.

The museum is also restoring a section of the Maine-built, American clipper ship, Snow Squall. 

According to the museum's Web site: "She made voyages all over the world, carrying valuable and time dependent cargoes. In 1864, she was heavily damaged trying to round Cape Horn and was abandoned in the Falkland Islands. Through conservation efforts, In 1987 she was brought back, a fragment of her former self, as a unique surviving artifact of the age of American clippers. The bow section and others parts of the Snow Squall were recovered and are now housed at Maine Maritime Museum."

The museum's location is so large it includes numerous outdoor exhibits. There is the Boat Barn that features small, sleek boats, and the Lobster Shack houses about dozen lobster boats.

Across from the museum sits the Donnell House - a roomy Victorian-era home. According the Museum's Web site, the home of shipbuilder William T. Donnell is being restored. You will marvel at its rooms and priceless furniture.

If you are drawn to the sea, then hop aboard and take cruise through time as the Maine Maritime Museum helps all visitors navigate the Pine Tree's ocean-going past.

Goodfellows52: Harvest moon

Goodfellows52: Harvest moon: My splendid carrots and freshly grown gourds, which I call affectionally call gordo. AUBURN - My garden is coming to an abrupt end.  ...

Goodfellows52: Harvest moon

Goodfellows52: Harvest moon: AUBURN - There is strong evidence that my vegetable plants have been using performance enhancing fertilizer. My plants look lik...

Harvest moon

My splendid carrots and freshly grown gourds, which I call affectionally call gordo.

AUBURN - My garden is coming to an abrupt end. 

September's cool nights and fading sunshine means fall is taking over and squeezing out summer.

September is like a mafia thug closing in another crook's territory.

But my hardier plants hang on. I looked at my carrots and saw they were ripe for picking. My pristine soil has yielded a bumper crop of these tasty, orange wonders.

I began yanking carrots left and right and can't wait to throw them in the steamer Sunday. I will also blanch the rest of several giant zucchinis. I lost a bunch of tomatoes to blight.

But my carrots look just fine, thank you.

What a way to end a growing season that gave me one of the most spectacular gardens I have grown.

AUBURN - There is strong evidence that my vegetable plants have been using performance enhancing fertilizer.

My plants look like they have been juicing, and I would like to know where they got this illegal substance. 

There could be a huge scandal at 53 Valley Street, and the controversy could be comparable to the United States congress investigating Major League Baseball for steroid use

I might be forced to contact the proper authorities or go before a grand jury to testify against a bunch of vegetables that have given so much to me this summer.

There is no question my vegetables came across with the goods. 

I estimate, and this is no tall tale, I produced a bumper crop of 30 cucumbers, 30 summer squash, 20 zucchinis, a couple of hundred tomatoes, and I still haven't pulled my carrots. The broccoli and Swiss chard continues grow. I had about 300 blueberries because I trimmed them and offered words of encouragement.

But thanks to cool Maine nights and a drenching rain, my tomato plants have expired and everything has slowed down to a walk in my Garden of Eden. Right now, I still have Swiss chard, broccoli and carrots to pick until October. They are the hardiest plants in the fall.  I also had an abundance of pears and blue berries. 

Life was certainly sweet for gardeners in the Pine Tree State this season.

I have frozen about 20 pounds of summer squash and zucchini, and there is frozen tomato sauce lining the freezer in my refrigerator. 

I never fertilized my garden. The soil is that good. 

But I think there are two reasons why my garden was a success this season, and I swear by these two key ingredients.

I had plenty of wood ash to go around after my neighbor generously donated nearly 3,000 pounds for freshly cut ash.

After a bit a research, I was surprised to learn that wood ash in small amounts is beneficial to a vegetable garden. I began dumping the stuff on the garden throughout winter.

In the spring, I began spreading lush grass clippings and began using it to smother weeds around the plants, which took a lot of pressure off my back and knees.

But here's the deal when using my secret ingredients to nurturing a bountiful garden.

You can't burn crap in a wood stove and then apply its poison-ridden ash to an unsuspecting garden. And you can only use grass clippings if you didn't fertilizer your lawn.

Oh, and one more thing: Talk to your plants. Tell them you love them and want them to be good plants so that when they grow up, gardeners can be proud of them each growing season.

Look, gardening is a passion, and I enjoy eating vegetables that are not laced with pesticides. Besides, watching things grow alleviates stress in a world that is a mess for the moment.

Goodfellows52: Faire thee well

Goodfellows52: Faire thee well: "Become a student of change. It is the only thing that will remain constant."                                                    ...

Faire thee well

"Become a student of change. It is the only thing that will remain constant."                                                                                                                             Anthony J. D'Angelo

LEWISTON - Something spectacular happens when you gather a bunch of low-maintenance and intelligent kids and ask them to create technology projects that will spark a child's curiosity.

Anthony is member of this group who participated in Lego Robotics and solar powered cars competitions in junior high. 

That old gang from Auburn Middle School held a reunion, sort to speak, to demonstrate their knowledge of technology during the Mini Maker Faire at Bates Mill on Saturday afternoon.

Their inspiration came from a dedicated schoolteacher - Jim Rowe, who has been running this succesful program at AMS for years. 

There were other creative geniuses at work at the Faire. One young man built a working telegraph that caught Anthony's eye and there was a booth where participants were taught how to make toy airplanes out of styrofoam. There were also do-it-yourself wind-power projects and weaving.

All good stuff for creative minds.

And if you needed a break from looking all the demonstrations, a tour through Museum L-A is equally impressive. The museum documents the area's history of work and community.

Mr. Rowe helped supply the material for his formers students and helped them prepare of Saturday's event.

Watching this bunch of focused kids and how they went out their way to answer questions from children and adults was impressive. 

The guys even performed a couple of demonstrations, racing solar powered cars down the old floors of the Bates Mill.

I was proud of my son for pitching in to help make their demonstrations a success. His friends also went the distance to show other children that learning in and outside the classroom is a worthwhile endeavor.

Goodfellows52: September Mourning

Goodfellows52: September Mourning: "But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness.  The sun warms my back instead ...

September Mourning

 

"But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness.  The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head ... The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on."
-  Robert Finch 

"'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone."
-   Thomas Moore, The Last Rose of Summer, 1830

LEWISTON — We have only so many summers to spend with our son before he sets out on his own, leaving us with hundreds of pictures and dozens of home-made movies of our moments with him.

Time does this to all parents, and it explains why September gets a bad rap from me.

I can smell September at the end of every August. 

It is like a damn prowler lurking in the shrubs, and I am the one who gets mugged every fall.

September's distinct odor emanates from grass covered in a dewy glaze and drifts through the cool nights as the days grow shorter.

If you can't detect September's cruel presence during August's last gasp, then you are suffering from allergies or are oblivious to the world.

September acts as a sign post for autumn — a season that quietly shoves summer aside and subtly prepares us for Old Man Winter's arrival.

September is deceptive and messes with our minds with Indian summers and cool nights. It tries to persuade us to let go of summer and move on to winter.

I am never sold!

I have always dreaded September's entrance. My abhorrence for the ninth month of our calendar began as a child, who spent most of his youth at Revere Beach during long, hot summers.

September's appearance meant summer was about to get the heave-ho, and its arrival added up to fewer trips to the beach thanks to the opening of another school year. 

Every time September tapped me on the shoulder to remind me summer was finished, my siblings grew older, and we would eventually be dispersed throughout the world. No longer would all four of us be together on those sandy shores, eating pizza in the boiling sun. 

It was September's fault and its appearance always made me depressed. Oh sure, I got over summer's abrupt end by November, but it doesn't make it any easier each August.

But if it means I have to suffer through another September to spend another glorious summer with my son and wife, then I will withstand the pain of a heavy heart and be grateful there is a May, June, July and August.

My dislike for the month grew during long high school football practices in August's stifling heat. September's repugnant odor was at its strongest on the practice field, and after running wind sprints for 20 minutes, all I could think about was a dip in the cold ocean — and of course, girls.

And now I lament as another summer passes and my son is a year older and an inch taller. But I am fortunate he still makes time for his mom and dad and enjoys trips to the ocean with both us. He is a low-maintenance young man with high aspirations, and there is not a day I am not proud of him.

Then September comes along and spoils our fun in the sun.

My wife and son are back at school and the house suddenly becomes empty. Not good for a guy suffering from mood swings at the hands of September.

For the last 19 years, the L-A Balloon festival has become another one of September's  reminders that summer is on the way out. We have watched the launches nearly every year at Railroad park in Lewiston. The three-day event is worth getting up at 5 a.m., especially when about two dozen balloons of all sizes and colors are launched into the sky.

It is a sight to behold as these unique balloons disappear into the heavens — along with another wonderful summer and all its splendid moments.

Meeting on the mountain

Climb every mountain!

Imagine having this for view while enjoying your morning coffee

Some where out there lies Ichabod Ricker. 

It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something.  ~ Charles Dickens

BROWNFIELD - Terry Blake's homestead sits on the side of a ben that puts Waltons' Mountain to shame.

John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan from Virginia would feel right at home at a landscape that would make any tired soul bow to nature. An outdoors photographer might be tempted to pay good money to turn his camera loose on this place.

We took a long drive through winding roads that are sprinkled with amazing views of lush green mountains and pristine lakes to visit the quiet New England town of Brownfield - population of about 1,300.

The Blake Reunion was being held at Terry's home, which is located in Maine's version of the Swiss Alps, and with free food and drink on the menu, well, it was worth the hour-long ride through Casco, Mechanic Falls, Poland, Naples, Bridgton and Denmark on a bright and warm August day.

Long rides through the backroads of Maine are simply delightful. I not only find the drive restful, but the sharp turns and bone-jarring bumps make me feel like I am competing in the Baja 500. And with the entire family on board, there was good conversation and music during our trip through central Maine.

There are no TVs or portable DVD players to kill time in our family vehicle. The cell phone is off and technology takes a backseat to our journey through the Pine Tree State.

I will never understand why some parents install a TV screen in a van. Is it just another way to ignore their children? I would rather hear what is on my son's mind. And I am afraid I am going to miss something on our short journeys.

We drove up the long rode to Terry's ranch when we were stopped by a pair of dogs that wouldn't budge. It was interesting standoff for a few moments.

Those Blakes are good people. They are from Terri's mother's side of the family. And it was certainly kind of Terri to open his home to all of us.

As we roamed around Terry Blake's vast property, which includes about 400 acres of open meadows nestled in between large, rolling hills, we caught a glimpse of his three majestic horses. These are well-fed and kept animals. Watching them prance around makes anyone appreciate their beauty.

Anthony and I went out on the back porch to enjoy the view when Anthony noticed a lone tombstone sitting in the middle of a manicured meadow about 150 yards away. 

Imagine having an entire meadow all to yourself for all of eternity. 

My son spotted the lone grave. Anthony's discovery sparked insatiable curiosity. We were compelled to inquire about the gravesite' occupant. Terry was happy to reveal that Ichabod Ricker has been resting in peace since his death in the 1880s.

Well, we had our fill of good food and rich conversation before we said our goodbyes.

I enjoy sitting around and chewing the fat with relatives. No texting, chatting online or emails - just face-to-face conversation with real, live people.

Look, reunions are a great way to stay in touch and trade old memories with relatives, but they also remind us of  loved ones who can no longer attend these get-togethers for the living.

I am sure old Ichabod Ricker would agree, although he is not saying much these days.

I can't sea clearly now

"To myself I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me."

                                                                                                         Isaac Newton

PHIPPSBURG — Some where hidden in all this fog lay the Atlantic Ocean. 

I could hear the loud rumble of waves, but no beachgoer could see the huge body of water from the shoreline. 

No sun, no ocean, just thick fog that you remember in old horror flicks. The fog would have made an excellent backdrop for the 1940s movie, "The Uninvited." 

If fishermen were at sea, I don't see how any skipper could navigate in that thick soup that hung around at Popham Beach. 

We were all in a fog on Sunday.

An obscuring haze covered the beach, lowering visibility to about 35 yards. 

The misty and pasty stuff snuffed out the sun, but the oppressive humidity hung around to make everybody feel uncomfortable. You didn't have to go swimming to cool off. Beachgoers got drenched just sitting in the warm sand as the low-flying cloud of vapor left us all feeling damp. There was a sheen of moisture covering the hair on my head and arms.  

I would wipe away the water, but minutes later, I was covered with murky film.  

Anthony and I watched as dozens of swimmers disappeared into the mist as they headed toward the choppy ocean. 

We joined them, hoping to latch on to a few giant waves. After a quarter mile walk, the soothing water stood at our feet. The water was warm, but when I looked back toward the beach, it vanished into the white haze. 

There were no signs of life beyond 50 yards. 

Walking back to the sandy beach would put our navigation skills to the test.

The water was unusually warm and I started thinking about sharks — really big dangerous sharks. Several days ago, a swimmer was bit by a great white off Cape Cod's Ballston Beach in Truro, Mass. 

There is nothing great about a great white sharks. They might look awesome on a nature show, but getting up close and personal doesn't appeal to me. 

Popham's cold waters do warm up in August, but the tepid water felt like I was taking a swim in a neighbor's pool.

My fear didn't stop me from diving into the surf, but I would quickly surface, see if Anthony was topside and quickly scan the water for a dorsal fin cutting through warm sea.  

I didn't like it, and I didn't like these bastards hanging around the New England coast.

Let them eat other fish and lay off the human flesh, I say. 

Thanks to changing temperatures in the world's oceans, great whites are paying more visits to our shorelines and sharp attention to unknowing tourists flopping around in the surf. 

Motion in the water is like signaling a shark that dinner is ready. 

I grew up a couple of miles from the ocean. Revere Beach was my second home as child, and I was like Jacques Cousteau enjoying its vastness. I couldn't get enough of the salt water or air, Kelly's Roast Beef, Bianchi's Pizza and foot-long hot dogs. That was our diet during summer months.

My mother ordered all four of us to the beach on those sweltering days. 

It was years ago, but shark warnings went up along the Massachusetts coast. I was 10 or 11 and didn't concern myself with sharks. 

I ventured 80 yards as the tide was going out when I heard yelling from the beach. 

At first, I thought everybody was waving at me. I waved back. I blamed the hot sun on their peculiar behavior.  

Then I heard the word, "Shark," from the shore and I got a little nervous. They were telling me to come in due to shark warnings, and I was floating target

I looked side to side as I trudged through the surf, fearing I was about to be cut in two by a shark with a voracious appetite.  

Terror can act like springboard when you are swimming for your life. I trembled as I safely rushed to shore. 

That was years ago. 

All I had to contend with was annoying fog and a warm ocean on a quiet Sunday afternoon at Popham Beach.  

And that was just fine with me.

Good show, England

"Democracy no longer works for the poor if politicians treat them as a separate race."

                                         Frank Field, British Labour Party politician

Dear good citizens of the United Kingdom,

Pay no attention to an American from across the way.

Mitt Romney's critical comments were uncalled for and unfortunately became a small distraction to a world-class event — the London Olympics.


Romney, who desperately wants to be the next resident in the White House, was trying to prove he is an authority on foreign policy and belongs on the world stage, but his visit hardly won the hearts and minds of the British people. Insulting one of America's staunchest allies didn't help persuade the world that he has honed his diplomatic skills.


I can see why Brits might be offended when the GOP's presidential hopeful questioned London's handling of the Olympics. The British government doesn't need an arm-chair critic to conduct its affairs.


After all, England is a nation that gave us Winston Churchill, World War II General Bernard Law Montgomery, William Shakespeare, Henry Purcell, Charles Darwin, Ernest Shackleton, Charles Dickens (one of my favorite writers), Masterpiece Theater and most importantly — the Beatles.

By the way, chaps, Prince Charles and I share a common bond - we are avid environmentalists who love gardening.

Despite a world economy that remains fragile at best and the constant threat of terrorism, Great Britain forged ahead to gather athletes from across the globe to compete in London.

Pulling off such a succesful extravaganza in these tumultuous times is a Herculean task for any free nation. I am also convinced that the British government has taken every precaution to insure the safety of athletes and spectators.

I know a majority of Americans believe Brits are a splendid people who have done a bang-up job when it came to organizing such a spectacle.

Look half of America has trouble taking this presidential candidate seriously. I urge Londoners to dismiss his comments and enjoy your moments in the sun for the next two weeks.

By the way, England, good show!