Goodfellows52: A tale of the macabre that jars a loving memory lo...

Goodfellows52: A tale of the macabre that jars a loving memory lo...: The Blasi family gets spooked by a lurid tale told by Ira Glassman on National Public Radio's "This American Life." W...

A tale of the macabre that jars a loving memory loose

The Blasi family gets spooked by a lurid tale told by Ira Glassman on National Public Radio's "This American Life."

Where there is no imagination there is no horror.

~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

AUBURN — A spooky story told over a radio is more terrifying than a slice-and-dice movie on the big screen.

Don’t believe me!

Orson Welles' broadcast of H.G. Wells’ "War of the Worlds,” which is a tale of a Martian invasion on Earth, drove the residents of New Jersey mad with fear on Oct. 30, 1938.

Listen to a story of the macabre over the radio and your mind wanders when an adept narrator scares the living crap out of you. Weird and horrifying images pop into to your mind when you hear about two kids who were nearly kidnapped by a bunch of psychos near a cemetery — or the guy who used foxhole humor to describe his working environment in a morgue. The narrator cracked jokes about mangled corpses and organs kept in glass jars. 

I couldn’t stop laughing.

TV just doesn’t cut it when it makes a sorry attempt to frighten us with ridiculous images of a guy with chain saw dissecting another human being. It’s all fake or worse — computer generated crap.

The mind is a scary place to be when tales of terror are spun over the radio. There are more horrible thoughts or weird incidents stored in a human mind than can be recreated on television. Real-life horror stories abound in the deep recesses of our fragile brain.

The three of us gathered around the dinner table as dark skies gave way to a warm sun on a quiet, chilly, autumn Sunday afternoon.

I tuned into WBUR, Boston’s National Public Radio station, on my Mac. I love radio, and my MacBook Air offers dozens of radio stations. I really hate TV where pathetic reality shows or 24-hour news stations like FOX, which features unfair and unbalanced reporting about all the crazies from the Republican Party, permeate the air waves.

We got lucky and found Ira Glassman, the host of NPR’s “This American Life,” airing a bunch of old horror stores. After all, the devil’s night is upon us — Halloween — which is a bunch of bull, but Beelzebub's favorite holiday gives retailers a chance to fatten their wallets.

I don’t believe in ghosts, and when you die, you are dead as door nail, to quote Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” You are not coming back to haunt a house or scare some poor bastard in a cemetery. You are worm food unless you decide to be cremated.

We sat like the “The Waltons” as we listened to one horror story after another, but instead of an old Philco radio, we listened to a computer. I wonder what Johnboy would think?

The first story was about a woman who was attacked by a rabid raccoon outside her home, and her nightmares when she tried to get treatment for rabies.

But the next vignette of horror was a story I heard before with my 10-year-old son in 2006.

Ten years ago, Anthony and I sat on the bed to listen to Glassman’s tales of horror. The story was about two brothers who hitched a ride with people who resembled members of “The Adams Family.” All I could think about a group of drugged-out, disfigured, dastardly people in the front seat.

It is a true story

As the two boys traveled with the occupants of the car, they began to realize these adults were up to no good and they wanted out. The boys plotted their escape and bailed out of a running car as as those crazies drove up and down a cemetery in the dead of the night looking for their escaped prey.

My son would leave the room as this tale of an abduction grew more terrifying by the minute. The boys in the car opened the door and leaped out and ran for their lives. They raced to a house lit up in the distance where somebody was having a keg party. The car and its ghoulish occupants followed in hot pursuit through the graveyard.

When they got to the home, partygoers heard the boys’ story and saw the spooky car off in the distance in the cemetery. A few brave souls from the party tried to get the car’s license number before the ghouls disappeared into the darkness.

Anthony is now a 19-year-old college freshman who sat at the table to hear the entire story. He was amused and no longer afraid.

But what is more frightening to me than this lurid tale of abduction was where did nine wonderful years with my son go.

Now that’s terrifying to parents who adore their son.

Goodfellows52: Walking for a cure and my father

Goodfellows52: Walking for a cure and my father: “It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers th...

Walking for a cure and my father

“It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” 

― Rose Kennedy

LEWISTON — We took a long walk for a good cause on a chilly Sunday morning.

A couple of hundred people tagged along to raise money for “The Long Goodbye,” also know as Alzheimer’s — the devastating disease of the brain.

It is the scourge of the elderly and the bastard killed my father. For me, this murderer is the enemy of the state and needs to be put down with a powerful drug. The medical community has declared war on this SOB, but so far, there is no cure or a way to slow its progression despite all the research.

For four years, I was helpless as Albert John Blasi’s mind faded away. He raised four good kids, and was a compassionate teacher and coach. He succumbed to Alzheimer's on on Nov. 8, 2014. Those last hours of his life were enough to trigger depression in all of us.

So my wife and I walked through New Auburn and along the the Androscoggin River as a chilly autumn wind gave us a head’s-up that winter would be making a return engagement in the Pine Tree State. We walked with people who either lost a loved one to the disease or were in the midst of taking care of a stricken family member.

There’s not much you can do when Alzheimer’s targets a loved one. You experience the horrible pain as a loved one slowly disappears into the night. There is no cure for this malevolent killer, which robs victims of their cherished memories.

Alzheimer’s, like every killer disease, is simply cruel. I watched my father struggle to remember or speak and eventually he forgot how to eat — and there is not damn thing I could do except watch him die.

So we walked, talked and traded memories of my father during our three-mile trek. Terri and I had insightful conversations about Big Al. I thought him with each step I took and found the grief still lingers and impossible to shake.

We donated money, listen to people speak about loved ones battling the disease and then followed the course mapped out by dedicated volunteers. Donors were given flower pinwheels and were planted in the park.

But instead of being consumed by depression, we decided to take active steps to do something — anything — about this mind robber.

Sometimes, you think all the fundraising and goodwill are just futile attempts to stamp out the disease and make us feel good. But once you get involved, you feel like you are taking evasive action and no longer a bystander watching the suffering.

Participating in fundraising events might help families avoid this long ordeal, but time is of the essence for all those slipping away.

So open your wallets, take a long walk with caring people and go the distance for a cure for Alzheimer’s. Being involved is one way to battle grief, helplessness and an opportunity to eliminate this disease.

Goodfellows52: Mouths will runneth over in politics

Goodfellows52: Mouths will runneth over in politics: " Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself."  —  Mark Twai n We’ve dumbed...

Mouths will runneth over in politics

"Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself."

 — Mark Twain

We’ve dumbed down television, made reading a good book a Herculean task, and the Internet has become a hodgepodge of the inane and a home for narcissi.

So why not continue to make a farce out of the next presidential election where a lengthy roll call of pathetic candidates offer empty promises to voters who have little interest in their own future.

Like all kids who are taught that the United States presidency is where men of honor and intellect run for office for the greater good, I believed that the best and brightest, with the highest regard for their fellow man, belonged in the Oval Office.

But any voter, who has common sense has seen the current crop of self-righteous, presidential wannabes, is probably thinking about voting for their cat or staying at home on election day to watch a reruns of “Seinfeld.”

The Grand Old Party is loaded with paranoid characters who rant and rave about illegal immigrants, the elderly (because they have lived too long), global warming lies and their greatest nemesis — the government — also known as the Evil Empire to many republicans.

Many of them resemble the “Seinfeld” character “Crazy Joe Devola.”

Answer me this!

Why do candidates run for election even though they hate our government? They see evil everywhere in Washington D.C. They tell us our greatest fear is the establishment and believe it is ruining our lives. And yet, they have no problem making money working within the government.

Funny how that works.

So why do they want be government employee? Of course, the obvious answer is to collect a big paycheck, endless benefits, and satisfy their ego.

They are masters of doublespeak — deliberately euphemistic, ambiguous, or obscure language. That’s the textbook definition of political language that is used as ammunition by career politicians who can’t possible provide a voter with reasonable answers to today’s complicated problems.

Right now, and I am not naming names, but there is a GOP contender who wants to bomb oil wells to put an end to endless terrorism emanating from the Middle East.

Does this uniformed presidential candidate understand the environmental consequences of blowing up oil wells, which would make Americans wince when petroleum prices rise like Mount Everest?

And while he spews blanket statements about our dismal future and evil, illegal immigrants, hoping to frighten Americans into voting for him, there are others like him who tout their “my country, right or wrong” attitude.

I cringe when I hear someone say, “I am voting for him because he speaks his mind.”

What the hell does that mean, anyway?

To me, it is another candidate spewing outlandish remarks to alienate a constituency already divided by party lines. Making rude comments pulls a nation apart. There are millions of supporters clapping their hands for a candidate who shouldn’t be running for the school board, never mind the White House.

I will never understand why half the middle class votes against its best interests when they cast their ballots for the GOP.

The guy, who wants to carpet bomb oil wells, jail illegal immigrants and switch Denali (the high one) back to Mount McKinley if he is elected president, just got a ringing endorsement from a former vice presidential contender from Alaska.

That should tell you something about the lowest common denominator in American politics. He should have asked Moe, Larry, Shemp or Curley to join his political campaign.

By the way, the top GOP contender, who speaks his warped mind, just went with the flow when he promised to support the Republican party.

So much for being a maverick in politics. In the end, they all go with the flow and a nation suffers thanks to a lack of leadership and vision.

Remember that when you vote!

Goodfellows52: Those damn Yankees do it again

Goodfellows52: Those damn Yankees do it again: A few days ago, three brave young Americans — Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler — put themselves in harm’s way when they pl...

Those damn Yankees do it again

A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom.

                                                                                                                                            — Bob Dylan

A few days ago, three brave young Americans — Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler — put themselves in harm’s way when they placed themselves between an armed terrorist and fine citizens going about their business on a high-speed train traveling from Amsterdam to Paris.

These guys didn’t flinch when they went after a man carrying a Kalashnikov assault weapon, a Luger automatic pistol and a box cutter. 

By the way, these courageous fellows were unarmed.

There’s an old saying: “Never bring a knife to a gun fight.” 

And they didn’t even have a knife. 

All they had going for them was their brawn and fists — and it was enough to subdue the attacker.

It is reassuring when people with a sense for the greater good, uncommon valor and the overwhelming desire to protect law abiding citizens from mayhem come forth to save the day

There is a lot to be said about America, and some of it has been nasty, but when we step up, there’s really no stopping us — and I don’t say that with arrogance. 

Just ask the Nazis!

These young men didn’t give a damn about their own personal safety after taking down a Moroccan national who was armed and dangerous

Now, those three big Americans, who were holiday in Europe, have suddenly become heroes because of their decisive and fearless actions.

I know there were other courageous passengers who also attempted to foil the terrorist. This example of bravery is just one reason why terrorism doesn’t stand a chance in a civilized society.

Too bad it takes a nefarious act to bring us all together despite our obvious differences.

I believe these three Samaritans deserve more than a hand shake from the governments of France and the Kingdom of Netherlands.

And that is why President Francois Hollande presented France's highest honor — the Legion d'Honneur medal — to the three Americans and a Briton on Monday. I am proud of these three young men.

I commend the French for paying tribute to these heroes. I have always been grateful to the French for their meticulous care of cemeteries where Americans soldiers rest after giving their the last full measure of devotion to their country and to the rest of the free world. Of course, Americans should always appreciate the French for giving us the Statue of Liberty and allowing the Marquis de Lafayette — a french military officer — to serve in the Continental Army during the American Revolution.

All I can say is "Vive La France" and kudos to those three Yanks who put the kibosh on a possible terrorist attempt, and I am not alluding to that damn baseball team from the Bronx.

After, I am Boston-bred and a diehard Red Sox fan.

Goodfellows52: A flag for my father

Goodfellows52: A flag for my father: 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 Arm...

A flag for my father

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 French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When you 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 English,
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.


Diana Der-Hovanessian

AUBURN, Mass.— A five-hour round trip and a heart-warming graduation party over the weekend kept my mind off the conspicuous absence of my late father on this special day.

If you are a father who has been a guiding light to your children and made sacrifices for the sake of your union, you deserve this one-day tribute — Father’s Day — that rolls around each June. But any more than 24 hours of celebrating fatherhood and most dads lose interest and find it annoying. They want to go back to sports page or the last two innings of a Red Sox game. 

A one-day fuss is all we need.

Good fathers really don’t rely on an at-a-boy or a slap on the back for a job well done. Good food, a tie, socks or a trip to a local eatery will satisfy the most dedicated fathers.

We are not looking accolades, but a good beer always brings a smile to our worried faces.

It is a tough job, but we are obligated to do it — and it is a one-shot deal in our short lives. Good fathers know this and that’s why they want to get it right. There are no do-overs.

To fathers who don’t take an interest or simply ignore their children all together, then you should be water-boarded by people who are morally bankrupt like yourself.

I have no respect for abusive or disappearing dads who don’t understand the responsibility of raising a child they created. When fathers fail because they don’t give a damn, we all pay for their stupidity and their callous nature toward their children.

Society bears the brunt when a precious child is ignored. The human cost is high for all over us thanks to distant dads.

My father was a highly intelligent man who tried to be there during those watershed moments in his children's lives. Sure, he had faults, but he was there for us. He was the guy bringing up the rear and made sure there was food on the table and clothes on our back. He worked hard as a schoolteacher and coach and kept a marriage together for nearly half a century.

That’s why I missed the gray-haired man who gave so much to his family, community and country. I wanted to see him working the room and talking to relatives about sports and this crazy, mixed-up world at Saturday’s party. He died nearly eight months ago of Alzheimer's, and there is not a moment I don’t think of him, especially on my the first Father’s Day without him.

My father had the kind of loyalty that you never see in our Congress — where 535 guys and gals run the show with the “what’s in it for me” attitude.

That is why he never considered being a politician. Telling the truth and being truthful with his students and players was his way of life.

I am lucky I have a son to remind me of my father.

Two weeks ago, I ordered a flag case for the flag that draped his coffin when he was buried with full military honors on Nov. 15, 2014. My son helped me write the engraved inscription. Albert John Blasi served with the Big Red One — a unit that served with valor during D-Day at Utah Beach on June 6, 1944 — during the occupation of Germany in the 1950s.

He wasn’t at the party on Saturday and there was no need to call him to wish him happy Father’s Day on Sunday. His house is sold and McClure Street in Revere, Mass., seems empty to me.

But my dad’s spirit and smile were present in the faces of my nieces and nephews, and of course, my sisters.

He lives on in them and I was lucky to have known him for 55 years.

All I can do to honor him is continue to be a good father and carry on his loving legacy of commitment to family. That was his inheritance to me and it is worth a small fortune to any good father.

Goodfellows52: Call it a wonderful night

Goodfellows52: Call it a wonderful night: "Sometimes I think life is just a rodeo. The trick is to ride and make it to the bell."    ...

Call it a wonderful night

"Sometimes I think life is just a rodeo. The trick is to ride and make it to the bell."

                       — John Fogerty - "Rock and Roll Girls"

LEWISTON, Maine — I was too proud to feel sad when my son was received a hand shake from the superintendent of schools on graduation night.

He quickly strode to the podium. His name boomed from the Androscoggin Bank Colisee’s loudspeakers for a split second in time.

It happened so fast. Nineteen fantastic wonderful years passed by without any fanfare. I didn’t have a moment to reflect as I continually pressed the button on my digital camera as he left the stage. I wanted to capture and preserve every moment — frame by frame — for this family’s history.

The Edward Little High School graduate returned to his seat with a smile on his face. We cheered from the stands, but I don’t think he could see us in that sea of proud, smiling faces.

He made it! And he passed with flying colors!

His grades were good enough to earn scholarship money, but his report card doesn’t reflect his good nature, humility and the way he handles all people with kid gloves and sincere respect.

When they look at Anthony’s grades, they won’t know how responsible or how devoted he is to his community and family. Those attributes come from being raised right in a loving environment and from teachers who went the distance for him.

I am still numb after witnessing this watershed moment in my son’s life. He is now an adult who has to think on his feet without his mom and dad hovering over him. If I had it my way, I would pay for a U.S. Marshal’s detail to watch out for him the rest of his life. 

Let’s call it protection.

I will always miss the little boy who cluttered the living-room floor with hundreds of Legos that caused us great pain when we stepped on the plastic pieces with our bare feet.

But tonight was his night to shine and bask in the glow of a remarkable achievement — getting a high school diploma and being accepted by a reputable university.

I am grateful I had the privilege of being a stay-at-home father during his formative years. I also understand there is no going back. I would be wasting my time spending hours rummaging  around past. 

Like my son, I am forced to go forward in life. I will carry those sacred memories of his childhood along the way as this family starts out on our next journey.

After taking numerous pictures and shaking hands with other students who graduated that night, I drove Anthony back to Edward Little for project graduation. All students were required to make an hour bus trip north to the University of Maine at Farmington.

I dropped him off on a perfect summer night, but I realized I would no longer be taking him to school. I was just another a parent in the crowd wondering where did those 13 spectacular years go.

I felt a bit of depression as I drove past Edward Little, but I put the kibosh on melancholy after witnessing his significant accomplishment.

This night belonged to him — and there was no room in the sweet summer air for depression or looking back because his next stop is college and we will be there — with a camera, of course.

Goodfellows52: Coach's day

Goodfellows52: Coach's day: Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel REVERE, Mass.— A handfu...

Coach's day

Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest inheritance. ~Ruth E. Renkel

REVERE, Mass.— A handful of former Revere High School baseball players gathered at Tony Conigliaro Field behind the school. Strong sea breezes whipped around the chilly park as temperatures hovered in the low 60s.

Gray-haired players shook hands and soon stories about the late coach Albert Blasi were being traded like valuable baseball cards. Round after round of one-upmanshipabout my dad’s life dominated the conversations as venerable players desperately tried to reel off buried memories of a man who coached the Revere Patriots for 42 years.

Those hidden recollections were buried by the weight of time, but surfaced during Al Blasi Day on a windy Monday afternoon.

Revere High School paid tribute to a man who loved the game and all his players. I am grateful to the school and the people who attended the event.

It is hard looking at the baseline in front of a bench. It doesn’t take much to remember my father, dressed in baggy blue pants and a rumpled blue jacket with Revere stamped on it, pacing up and down with a score book in his hand.

They raised the flag with my dad’s name on it next to the Stars and Stripes. I don’t how my dad would feel about all the hoopla or seeing a flag waving in the breeze with the name,”Blasi” on it. An honor guard saluted as a recording of the national anthem played behind the backstop.

And on that day, the clouds gave way as the sun made a splendid entrance and lit up the field with young athletes who never knew my dad.

But that’s OK with me because change is inevitable as we all fade from the picture.

Just seeing that flag wave in the breeze took the chill out of the air and made me feel proud of my father.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Thank you all for coming. I won’t take the long way around barn and my dad always made it point to get to the point — except when it came to sports.

So please permit me to speak for a few moments.

REVERE, MASS. — Despite a lifetime of passion for America’s pastime, Albert John Blasi believed baseball was more than a game played with a bat and a hard ball.

He saw the sport as way to mold and inspire young men, bring people together and instill pride and devotion in his community.

His values and sense of the greater good were forged by his strong Italian heritage and a community that always had his back. He carried his reverence for humanity whenever he stepped onto the baseball diamond or in a classroom, and his moral compass served him well while he was stationed in Germany with the Big Red One in the1950s.

Now, I know everybody has an Al Blasi moment, and whenever I hear a well-told yarn about my dad from his former players, I perk up with pride.

After all, he coached for 42 years without being run of town. I have to believe his long tenure is due to a supportive community and administration, and I can’t thank this city and residents enough for their support.

I could spend 24 hours regaling all of you with stories about Coach. Every story is priceless. But I won’t do that so breath easy.

Those stories about a teacher and a coach will be retold for decades by the young men and students he met in school or on a baseball field. But today is about a community that comes together to honor a man who shared so much of himself with his students and players who have gone on to do great things.

I can’t imagine the countless lives my dad touched during his tenure as a coach and teacher. He loved the diamond just as he loved being in the classroom. There are several shoe boxes full of black-and-whites of his players still sitting in his closet.

I see many familiar faces here today. You know, whenever a student would shout “Coach” or “Mr. Blasi” from a passing car, a proud smile always filled my father’s face. He loved being remembered by his students and players. Seeing a familiar face never got old for him.

If you really knew Al Blasi, you had to realize my dad didn’t just live for the game. He also lived for his players. He connected with his players just like a batter connects with the ball with a swing of a hardwood bat.

When he asked me to be the bat boy for the team, it was an opportunity of a lifetime to spend those moments in the bright son with my father at wind-blow Curtis Park. Those memories of coach are resurrected every spring whenever I cover a game and watch those young coaches pace up and down the baseline.

When an editor friend of mine heard I was going fishing with my son, Anthony, at one Maine’s numerous lake, he took me aside and told me this: “You know, fishing isn’t always about fishing. It is about the time you spend with your son waiting to reel in the big one.”

My father realized long ago that baseball wasn’t just about baseball. To him, the game was about his players and the community he loved so dearly.

Thank you Revere, players, supportive parents and administration for honoring my father. The Blasi family is grateful for this remarkable tribute.

Goodfellows52: Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien Umpi...

Goodfellows52: Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien
 Umpi...: Print copy by Globe photographer Jim O'Brien  Umpire Mike Caira listens politely as Revere coach Al Blasi dramatizes his claim that A...