Memorial Day

     I have a great memory. When I was in elementary school, my fourth grade class performed on stage in the Memorial Day assembly. We recited a poem that began “On Memorial Day in peaceful May, we honor the soldiers the Blue and the Gray…”. Yes, that's a Civil War reference (and no, I didn’t go to elementary school in the 1800’s), but the line stuck with me all these years. There have been many wars since then, and America has lost a multitude of soldiers who fought in the name of freedom.

     My father, William Mullowney, was a veteran of World War Two. He survived the war, but he was also a casualty of it. He was underage at seventeen years old when he enlisted in the army, but in 1942, the country was desperate for bodies to help stop the horrors waged by the German and Japanese war machines. 

     He was sent to the South Pacific with his battalion to stem the tide of Japanese insurgence hellbent on controlling every country within their reach. My father told me stories of the war, the one’s he could talk about. On a Philippine island, in a dense jungle, he spent twenty-four hours alone in a tree, locked in gun battle with a solitary Japanese sniper. So close they could look into each other’s eyes and realize they were both there for the same reason and they really didn’t want to shoot one another. Or the time he fell asleep on guard duty and his rifle accidentally discharged, causing a scar on his nose and loss of hearing in one ear. Luckily those were the extent of his war injuries. The physical ones, anyway. 

     He returned home from the war at age twenty-one, and the war came home with him. Some things could not be forgotten despite the victory celebrations and the happy-days-are-here-again mentality that ushered in a new golden age for the USA. I found out later in his life just how much he was affected by the war when I accompanied him to a doctor's appointment at the Veterans Hospital in Boston. He had some health issues and during his examination the doctor asked him about his sleep patterns at night. He replied, “Every night when my head hits the pillow, I relive the entire war, from the day I enlisted to the day I came home.”

     “Would you like to talk to someone about that?” asked the doctor.

     “No. I’m fine with it,” my father said.

     But obviously he wasn’t. That explained the random flashbacks and the heavy drinking. But nothing he did for the rest of his life could erase the memories. War does that to a person, it changes you fundamentally. And the scores of friends who didn’t make it back remind you how “lucky” you are. Lucky to be alive even though you spend the rest of your life trying to forget.

     Sadly, my father passed away in 2011. He’s buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery in Everett in a section that doesn’t allow headstones. He has a flat bronze marker with his name, date and an inscription that reads “World War Two Veteran”. The plaque doesn’t do justice to the hero my father was. There wouldn’t be a memorial large enough to contain his legacy. The way the calendar dates fell that year, his funeral was on Memorial Day. The twenty-one gun salute and the presentation of the flag at the ceremony completed the fitting tribute to this soldier who is now part of history. I think he would be proud to know he was laid to rest on Memorial Day in peaceful May on a day when we honor war heroes who made the the ultimate sacrifice to keep our country free. Rest assured, Papa, you will never be forgotten.

Turkey Trot

   

     The chilly gray weather last week felt more like November than April. After finishing some errands in Melrose, I headed back to Stoneham by way of Ravine Road toward Spot Pond. Mid way up the winding forest road, I passed a large object near the edge of the woods that made me step on my brakes and pull over. I carefully backed up my car to get a better look. 

     There was a huge wild turkey, in full Thanksgiving regalia, standing by the roadside, with tail feathers in full bloom. His chest was puffed out and he stood prouder than a peacock. I got out of my car to snap a photo with my cell phone. The big bird turned and walked into the woods, although “walking” isn't quite the right word. He floated regally over the forest floor like the Goodyear blimp. He moved like a slow-motion tumbleweed. This giant round ball of turkey looked like a grounded Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon that escaped its rope ties and was now drifting through the forest on the breeze. 

I stood at the edge of the woods, mesmerized by the turkey's extraordinary colors – browns, reds, even some blue hues. The bright red hanging gobbler, the orange eyes, and colorful array of tail feathers standing at attention were exactly like the holiday decorations that used to be allowed to adorn the walls in elementary school when I was young.

     I fumbled with my camera, accidentally shooting videos when I thought I was taking still photos. I kept pushing wrong buttons, getting some horrifying shots of my own face when I hit the reverse camera button on my phone by mistake. (Is that what I look like when I take a photo? That screen gem certainly won't be posted on my Facebook page.)

     Determined to get a great photo, I followed the giant, slow moving bird up a trail, deeper into the woods. There were two or three less ornate female turkeys standing in the sticks, blending perfectly with the brown and gray tones of the early spring woods (still no flowering buds in sight, by the way).

The big bird stopped his journey and turned towards me. He was truly majestic. We made eye contact for a second. I thought he would turn away and walk deeper into the woods. Instead he began a slow march in my direction. He eyed me like I was his Thanksgiving dinner.

     I slowly backed down the trail, recklessly clicking photos of branches and dead leaves as I made my way back to my car. I jumped inside my vehicle just in time. The turkey patrolled around my car, looking quizzically at my metal box on wheels. The top of his head was just under my driver’s side window. I swear he was the size of a large beach-ball, about 3 feet in diameter. 

     Other cars pulled over behind me to watch this amazing creature strut around in his finery. The bird had no fear of the line of SUVs encroaching on his habitat. I rolled my window down to speak with the driver who stopped across the road. 

     “That turkey is HUGE!” I said, sounding like Captain Obvious.

     “And bold!” replied the woman behind the wheel of her SUV. “Look at him!”

     I turned around to see the turkey using its sharp beak to puncture the tires of the car parked behind me. I witnessed a full scale raging turkey attack. The giant bird pecked and scratched tires of the SUV behind me. After accidentally snapping a few quick photos of the interior of my car (hey I tried), I decided it was time for me to go. Cars were passing each other and zigzagging on the wrong side of the road to get away from this killer turkey was out to get revenge for 400 years of Thanksgiving dinners past.
     I locked my car doors, stepped on the gas and zoomed up the hill toward Woodland Road . I watched the chaos behind me unfold in my rear view mirror. I wondered if the carnage of this turkey terrorist would make headlines in this week’s newspaper, or at least a viral video on YouTube.

A Little Bird Told Me...

     For the past few years, the computer application “Twitter” seemed like a unique idea searching for a purpose. Even describing it is a challenge. Twitter is an online social networking tool in which users post 140 character updates of what is going on in their lives, along with links to things they think are interesting, funny, or useful to their “followers”. Unlike Facebook, you don't have to be friends to see items posted by people or companies you are interested in. You simply click “Follow” and anything written by that person appears on your timeline. People use Twitter in many ways, some as a newsfeed by following prominent people or networks, some as a chatroom for close friends and family, and some as a miniblog for updating the world about work they are doing or events in their personal lives.

     Created in 2006 by a group of young techies, including Christopher “Biz” Stone, a local computer whiz who graduated from Wellesley High School, Twitter has become much more than a frivolous blogging application. The service rapidly gained worldwide popularity with 500 million registered users in 2012, who post an estimated 340 million tweets per day. The company’s estimated worth is upwards of a billion dollars thanks to its untapped potential.

     After you create a Twitter name and account, you simply type in a “Hashtag” followed by the subject you wish to read information about. A Hashtag is a word or phrase preceded by a pound sign (#) and used to identify messages on a specific topic. For instance, during the live broadcast of the Academy Awards, I typed in “#AcademyAwards” and anything posted by anyone on Twitter that included the words “Academy Award” would appear on my timeline. It’s a great way to connect with viewing audiences while watching live events, and you get to make snarky comments about your favorite celebrities. It was interesting to see backstage photos posted live at the event by the host, even if Ellen's star-studded “selfie” from the Oscars was determined to be a subliminal advertising promotion for Samsung. Thanks to the power of Twitter, it worked. People are still talking about it. Even Big Papi and President Obama have gotten into the act creating a recent controversial photo-inspired buzz.

     Twitter has some important uses as well. Users can receive up to the minute breaking news stories.  First hand information is instantly available immediately following air disasters, earthquakes and fires. You can even follow the Stoneham Police Twitter posts at @StonehamMAPD for local updates regarding situations happening in this town.

     I like the fact that Twitter limits the amount of words you can write in your post. You only get 140 characters to state your case – including punctuation. Brevity is key. It’s a challenge to type succinctly. It’s like fitting the right characters in a word puzzle or writing a haiku. Twitter posts force you to edit and clarify, two great writing skills that don’t come easily to some.

     I’m thinking of publishing a novel on Twitter – one sentence each day, posted with the hashtag #scottnovel. They say a journey of 1000 pages starts with 140 characters. Can I keep up the pace of writing one sentence per day? It will be difficult. When I'm finished, I could collect all my tweets in one volume but that would defeat the whole purpose of the quick bits and bytes of information that Twitter is famous for.

     Try it if you haven't already. Join Twitter for the fun of it. Follow me at www.twitter.com/scottmu and be prepared for 140 characters of insight, entertainment and fun on an almost daily basis. You might find a myriad of other uses for this important new form of instant communication as well. #ShamelessSelfPromotion

Brake Dancing on the Zakim Bridge

     My daily commute from Stoneham to downtown Boston is perfectly timed with the peak of morning rush hour. My home is in a great location, one traffic light away from Route 93. Unfortunately, that traffic light is in south Stoneham at the intersection between Friendly’s and Spot Pond Mobil. If you travel Route 28 in the morning you already know that short stretch of highway is a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. It’s a job just getting to work in the morning. By the time I reach my office I feel like I’ve already put in a full day’s work.    
     I’ve discovered many shortcuts to avoid Route 93 on my commute into Boston. After making my way through the intersection at Friendly’s, I can see if the highway is moving (it usually isn’t). I have the option of driving past Sheepfold toward Roosevelt Circle. Traffic at that rotary is always heavy getting up to the circle, but once you are there you have a slew of options:     
     You can enter Route-93. Even if traffic is slow, it feels like you’ve passed all cars who were sitting in traffic back at the Stoneham entrance. If the volume of traffic on the road is extremely heavy, you can get on the highway and immediately exit at Route 60 in Medford, then circle around the rotary and head up the ramp to Route 93. This method works as a last resort but you do save a few minutes if your desperate. There’s a lot of maneuvering for little gain because you end up back in traffic when you re-enter the highway but you still come out ahead of that Peter Pan bus you used as a place marker. If that sounds like a hassle, you can veer off Roosevelt Circle towards the Fellsway toward Wellington Circle (if you don't mind a million traffic lights). Once you make it past the Assembly Square Mall, take the ramp to the highway just before the Sullivan Square exit. Here's a Massachusetts driving tip: don’t wait in the line of traffic on the ramp. Simply drive past everyone to the top of the entrance and cut in at the last minute. The trick is to not make eye contact and wave thank you a lot. This was my shortcut of choice for a long time, but I knew there had to be a better way. I discovered Fulton Street, off Roosevelt Circle, which leads to Medford Square. The lights are annoying, but once you're on Route 38, traffic moves all the way to the I-93 on ramp just before Sullivan Square. It’s not ideal but it’s a great route for people who want to keep moving, and you pass a couple of donut shops.     
     Recently, I was given information regarding a secret short cut that involves Woodland Road and Flynn Rink. I can’t divulge the route because I had to sign a confidentiality contract. A secret shortcut is no good if everyone starts taking it. This hidden route is not for everyone. It’s fraught with danger, hidden drives and hairpin turns. But if it ends up saving me ten minutes in the morning, I’m there.Unfortunately, all of these shortcuts lead to the Zakim Bridge. This relatively short, beautiful span bridge is not unlike the bumper car ride at Canobie Lake Park. Every driver is changing lanes simultaneously so you have to be on your toes. It looks beautiful at night though.If you survive that treacherous stretch of trellis, you approach the O’Neill Tunnel of Horror. Before you enter, you are blinded by the glare of the morning sun and then immediately plunged into total darkness in the tunnel. You are forced to drive blind for the first few moments as speeding tractor trailers and weaving taxi cabs compete for each other's lanes. Hang on to your steering wheel and be prepared for anything at any moment, from any direction (including the ceiling). I can't forget hearing report regarding the metal safety rails along the tunnel wall. They were partially removed because of a “decapitation hazard” if a car accidentally drives into them. That news makes me keep my speed down much to the dismay of the oblivious drivers whizzing past me on all sides.     
     I’ve tried taking the scenic route from North Station to Atlantic Avenue. I’ve taken the McGrath Highway to Storrow Drive. (Spellcheck wants to change “Storrow to “Sorrow” which might be more appropriate.)
     Some people criticize my zigzagging shortcuts for taking longer than just sitting in traffic on the expressway. They can criticize all they want. I’ve got 185 channels on my Sirius Satellite Radio to listen to in my car so I really don’t care how long my commute takes. And if I’m late, I'll use the same excuse as everyone else in my office – “You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” Only in my case, it’s true.

Joyful Noise

My love for Top 40 music goes all the way back to the mid sixties when a new console stereo was brought into our house. It was a big piece of furniture – a polished walnut wooden cabinet with a hinged door on top. When you lifted the lid and looked inside, there was a turntable on the left, and a row of radio dials on the right. To me, it was a gateway to a whole new world waiting to be discovered.

The first album my parents bought was by Roger Miller, a crossover country artist who had a radio hit with the smash single “King of the Road.” Since the album was the only one we owned at the time, I got to know the songs very well. By placing the diamond needle stylus on the vinyl disc you could feel the rich warm tones of the tunes, along with all the snaps and pops that could be heard crackling from the speakers from repeated playing.

Every morning I would wake up extra early, creep into the parlor before the sun came up, and begin my 5:00 a.m. ritual of tuning in songs on the AM.radio. I would set the volume low and curl up on our royal blue polyester danish modern sofa, tuck an orange pillow beneath my head and listen to The Supremes, Barbara Streisand and Tom Jones sing about life and love until it was time for me to eat breakfast and get ready for school.

The nineteen sixties were a golden age for pop music, and Casey Kasem’s weekly American Top 40 countdown became a staple of my Sunday morning radio listening habit (as soon as I got home from church). I wanted to learn to play an instrument to make my own music but my training only went as far as the fourth string of my guitar. By the time I quit taking lessons I was semi-proficient at Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I could read the musical notes on paper. I knew my F-A-C-E from my E-G-B-D-F. However, I recently discovered there is more to understanding music than just knowing where the notes are.

 Music may be the universal language, but currently in my home there is a cultural divide between my jazz-loving son and his pop music father. “That’s not real music,” my son recently told me regarding my musical preference. “Jazz snob!” was my snarky retort. I'll take my father/son bonding any way I can get it.

My son is attending college majoring in jazz composition. On a recent ride home from the dorms, I thought I'd pick his brain for some technical musical knowledge. I asked him what “intonation” meant. I heard the word used on several occasions by Harry Connick Jr. as he critiqued would-be pop stars on this season's American Idol. I got my answer in the form of a vocal lesson from my son. He sang the scales in various keys to show me the difference. It takes training to hit the right notes and sing in perfect pitch. This explains why my attempt at becoming a vocalist in Vinnie and Larry’s teen-age garage band in the mid seventies didn’t quite work out . My vocal style falls somewhere between The Clash and Patti Smith.

Music comes from the soul, no matter if your a jazz purist or a Top 40 rapper. There is no right or wrong in my book. It's all about personal preference.

My son and I have agreed to put our musical differences aside. He’s listening to John Coltrane while I'm enjoying “Happy” by Pharrell Williams from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. In the world of music, it’s all good.

 Although I realize a career in pop music is a long-shot for me, I still dabble in the Garage Band program on my computer. I've produced a few original songs of my own, enough to burn a CD or post on the web to amuse my friends.

Thanks to my son, my musical horizons have been expanded. I've discovered jazz is an acquired taste but it's not my cup of tea. To understand what the perfect pop song should sound like, I suggest listening to anything by the seventies group ABBA. I hear the band has a reunion tour in the planning stages. I hope it happens soon, before I’m the old guy clapping along from the handicap section.

Sunday Walk

Still no iPod for my morning walk (I think Max has my charger) so I am left to exercising while listening to the voices inside my head (which is not a bad thing since I came up with a few new ideas. The first half of my walk was dedicated to last night's house party in Everett in my old neighborhood on the street where Priscilla and I grew up. Lot's of fun talking to everyone there. Did I really have six beers? I blame Nemo and his "Kings" card game. Six beers definitely not on my Weight Watchers program (hence the walk around the block this morning). I passed lots of squirrels gathering food for the coming winter, reminding me I am due to write another chapter of the animals of the Fells. I wish I time to talk one of the guided woodland hikes some weekend before the cold weather gets here. I think it would be inspirational. The second half of my walk led to finalizing an idea I have for a Halloween story I can use for my Stoneham Independent column. I'd love to save it for my book of short horror stories, but I think I'll use it for the newspaper and I can always refine it later when I get the book together (cuz who knows how long that will take). The secret to writing is to write. Perhaps I should not take my iPod more often.

Walkabout

I've been walking around the block every Saturday and Sunday morning as part of my new healthy lifestyle. I try to notice something different each time instead of tuning out to my iPod (Blondie & Talking Heads mostly). Today my iPod battery was dead so I proceeded to walk with my ears au natural.
A soft rain was falling like teardrops from the sky. Not tears of joy or sadness, more like tears of indifference. The smell of the trees and grass rose up. It was the smell of the end of fall, of desperation, of knowing soon the winter would come and mask any green smells with its seasonal white out of sterility. There were few cars on the road. The houses I walked past were empty nests with nothing stirring behind the closed blinds. The zipper broke on my Red Sox sweatshirt, a fitting symbol for a crumbling 2011 team. I am rushing home to charge my iPod so this never happens again.