School's Out

"This is not what I meant by Jamming."

     With the first year of college behind him, my son has returned home for the summer. My wife and I just got used to having the house to ourselves, and now we are transitioning back to living with a teenager again – and all the joy that comes with it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear the pitter-patter of little feet around the house again, even if the pitter-patter is from size eleven Nikes on nineteen-year-old feet.

      When both our children moved out last year, there was an adjustment period as I faced the spectre of a big old empty house. Of course, I knew I would miss my boys. Their comings and goings at random hours and impossible-to-figure-out schedules became the norm. I found the best way to deal with young people sharing my house was to try to adhere to my own schedule as closely as possible. When our lives intersected at the dinner table, it was a rare treat, something to be cherished.

      When the boys left, I adjusted life in my tranquil home rather quickly. The amount of daily laundry shrunk from a mountain to a tidy pile, neatly placed inside a clothes hamper instead of thrown in the invisible hamper on the laundry room floor. House cleaning chores took minutes rather than hours. Imagine what it’s like to return home from a hard day's work to find your house in the same condition as you left it that morning. It was shocking at first. No dirty dishes overflowing in the kitchen sink. No frozen food wrappers strewn about the countertops. No face cloths left in the bathroom sink. And, miracle of miracles, there were bath towels in the towel cabinet (good towels too, not the threadbare ones with the frayed edges I usually get stuck with).

      But life is ever changing, and this summer has brought change once again. A few weeks ago I drove to the college campus to load my Jeep with my son's belongings and moved him back home until September. Now he is trying to adjust to the world outside the protective dome of college life. My son has gotten used to three meals a day prepared for him in the kitchen at the dorms. “The menu at the dorm kitchen is awemsome,” he says. “It’s like having a private chef.” Don’t get used to it, kid. There are no private chefs on Gorham Avenue. Maybe this summer my son can use his spare time learning how to cook something besides Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

     Laundry Mountain is reaching towards the ceiling again. I can understand having lots of clothes and bedding to wash when you first return home, but after a few weeks the pile seems to be replenishing itself exponentially. I have a house rule: do not leave clean laundry in the laundry room. It tends to get mixed up with the dirty laundry and “someone” ends up washing it again. Perhaps it’s time for a refresher course in House Rules.

      I also get to share my car with my son on the weekends. I don't mind since I don’t do a lot of driving between 10:00 pm and 2:00 am which seems to be prime time for nocturnal college students. I can't remember what the gas gauge looks like when it's above a quarter of a tank. I haven't seen that sight for awhile.

     I'll be making more lifestyle changes to accommodate my summer visitor. I’ll have to play my music at a lower volume on weekend mornings. Saturdays and Sundays are when college students make up sleep time they lost from staying up all hours Monday through Friday. My grocery bill almost doubled from adding items I don't usually buy – Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Taquitos (huh?) and Annie's All Natural Homegrown Shells and White Cheddar (a must have for all college student diets). On a positive note, the weekly phone calls to transfer money into my son's bank account have stopped. Now he asks in person.

     Welcome home, son. We missed you dearly while you were gone. Your triumphant return home has brought a blinding ray of sunshine into the comfortable routine your mother and I have settled into. At least I’ll have help with the yard work this summer. Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

Bird Flue

     

     A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. A bird in your fireplace is worth $125, at least according to the pest control service I called to help me with my wild animal home invasion.

     Last week my wife and I had a rare day off together. We sat in our living room sipping coffee when a strange noise caught our attention.

     “What’s that noise?” my wife asked.

     “I think the trash barrels blew over,” I said.

     The noise sounded again. 

     “It’s coming from the fireplace,” my wife said.

     “No, it’s just the wind,” I said.

     “It’s coming from the flue,” my wife said.

     I muted the television volume and we both listened for the origin of the perplexing sound. Our two cats joined our silent listening party. They sat with their attention focused on the fireplace like children awaiting Santa’s arrival. 

     There was a definite rustling in the chimney flue, echoing into the fireplace. I turned the lever to open the flue to investigate further. The flapping sound started and stopped. It sounded to me like an injured bird trapped in the chimney. The question was how to get it out of there.

     I turned to the all-knowing internet for guidance. My wife Googled “how to get a bird out of a chimney” and sure enough the answer magically appeared.

     The solution was simple. Turn on  a flashlight and leave it inside the fireplace with the flue open. The bird will eventually head towards the light. I closed the fireplace screen and waited to see it this easy internet tip worked. I envisioned the scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s film The Birds, where a massive storm of winged creatures explode into a home by way of the chimney. 

     Within minutes, we heard a flapping of wings. A bird came down the chimney and landed in my fireplace. Unfortunately, that was the end of the internet tips. I had to figure out what to do next.

I was expecting a broken-winged sparrow to flop into the corner, waiting for me to scoop it up in a shoebox and bring it outside so it could recuperate in the wild. Instead, I got a raving mad medium-sized North American Starling with an attitude problem. 

     The angry bird crashed around the inside of my fireplace looking for a way out. It latched onto the fireplace screen and shook it with its sharp talons. It pecked violently with its razor-like beak. Its piercing black eyes sent a message to me – and it was not a friendly hello. 

     “Just throw a towel on it and carry it outside,” my wife said.

Easier said than done. I cautiously opened the fireplace screen and quickly tossed an old bath towel into the fireplace, completely missing the bird. 

     “What are you doing? Are you afraid of a bird?” my wife asked.

     “No. I’m afraid you’re going to freak out if it gets loose inside the house. Remember the mouse incident of 1998?” I said, trying to deflect the question back to her.

     I tried throwing another towel in the fireplace, but the bird was moving too fast.

     I had a business card on the refrigerator from a local pest control service. This wild bird definitely qualified as a pest. I called the number and the service said they could send someone right over. I thought the price was steep – $125 per bird for removal – but it was worth it to end this siege.

     The exterminator showed up promptly and assessed the situation. He was oddly bird-like in his own way – he had a nest of straw colored hair, a large pointed beak of a nose, and nervous, darting eyes. He wore protective glasses and gloves. He asked if he could use the towel I had thrown in the fireplace to grab the bird. For $125 he could have at least brought a net of his own. He asked me to open the front door and stand clear while he trapped the starling in the towel and ran to the front porch to release the angry bird into the wild. 

     He checked the flue (with my flashlight) and said, “You’ve got another one up there.”

     Upon my recommendation, he used the internet flashlight trick to coax a second bird out of the flue. 

     “I hope there aren't any others up there,” he said.

     “I hope not either. At $125 a bird, I can’t afford any more,” I said. I was going to ask for a discount since he used my towel and my flashlight, but I didn’t want to press the issue.

     My wife was happy with the results. She wanted the birds treated humanely so they weren’t injured in their relocation back to the outside world (although I still think my Duraflame log solution would have been a heck of a lot cheaper).

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.