Tales from Kushala Sip

     

Clouds in my coffee...

On a crisp fall Saturday morning, I decided to pack up my laptop and explore Stoneham Square in search of an idea for my column. I couldn't think of a better destination than the Kushala Sip Coffee House located on Main Street across from the Town Common.
     Inside the coffee shop, friendly faces greeted every customer as they arrived and departed. The atmosphere was comfortable and relaxing. I think I've found a new place to write since the total vibe of this undiscovered gem seemed to inspire creativity.
     My imagination was running wild. I glanced around at the other patrons giving each one a backstory. A solo young woman on a laptop was intensely researching something on the web. Was she a medical student doing homework perhaps? A young gentleman sat in one of the upholstered chairs in the corner. Was he emailing his Tinder date from last night, or filling out online job applications for future employment? A well-dressed twenty-something ordered a latte. She sat alone at a window table. She texted on her cell phone, anxiously awaiting a response from her fiance or maybe a secret lover. To pass the time between texting she intently read a novel called The Flick. A heavyset man in a jogging suit settled in at the next table with a hardcover novel, a lemonade and a large hot chocolate – a slightly odd combination but who am I to judge. Two women sat in the front window seats watching the activity in the square. They had a lot to see since the Food Truck Festival was setting up on the common.
     I sat admiring the interior design of the place. The décor is light and airy. I'd call it modern industrial chic. The exposed lighting and aluminum heating ducts juxtaposed against the butcher block tables enhanced the place a open concept feel.
     The subtle instrumental background music was the perfect accompaniment to my writing. The style seemed somewhere between Mediterranean and Middle Eastern to me. I'll have to ask my jazz player son for his opinion when he visits the coffee shop with me. I relaxed in the comfortable chair wondering how long I'd be able to sit here without ordering another Kushala Mocha.
     I'm not sure if it was the caffeine or the atmosphere, but as I typed the words came fast and easily. I made excellent progress on my writing without any distraction, except my own inquisitive glances around the place. It was getting considerably busy at the counter. Curious patrons came in off the street asking for menus and wondering what delights might be in store for them. The two women sitting beside me split a pastry with their Pumpkin Spice Lattes while discussing their day.
     As time went on, a steady stream of customers flowed into the coffee shop just as fast as the coffee drinks were flowing out of it. The staff behind the counter had no problem keeping up with the flood of orders as the line grew. Everyone was greeted with a polite “Sir” or “Miss” followed by a “Thank you” and “Be sure to come again”. I realized this was no ordinary coffee shop.
     I took one last look around, not wanting to overstay my welcome. The place was filling up and I felt I occupied my table long enough, although I got the feeling I'd be welcome to sit here all day. Through the window facing the square, I had a view of the orange and gold leaves on the trees in front of the First Congregational Church. An American Flag on a telephone pole slowly waved in the morning breeze as a funeral procession drove by in silence.
     It was time to gather my belongings and begin my Saturday errands. For a few moments I was able to forget about life's hectic pace waiting for me just outside the door. This was one cup of coffee I wished would never end.

The Rise of Fall

     

Ellie in the pumpkin patch. 

September disappeared quickly and took summer with it. The weather was so warm and so nice for so long, it seemed the Fall season might be postponed  indefinitely. Last week, October’s calendar page dropped down like a guillotine blade, cutting off any remnants of summer that were left behind.

     The change of seasons happened suddenly. There was no progression of cooler nights, where little by little our bodies gradually got used to cooler temperatures and crisper air. The hot sticky temperatures of August stayed with us all the way until the end of September.

     Even the leaves on the trees kept us guessing if autumn would ever arrive. My wife and I took a late September vacation to northern New Hampshire. Any other year the foliage would be at its peak color viewing – red, yellow, orange and gold leaves as far as the eye could see. This year, everything was still deep green. Nothing to see here, folks. I was mildly disappointed but I’ll take warmth over cold any day. I was excited to see my first bear as it scampered across the Franconia Notch exit on Route 93. Even though my wife was driving, I couldn’t grab my cell phone in time to take a photo. I could only watch the bear running wildly with raised paws as he clambered up a hill of green grass and disappeared into a thicket of trees.

     Back at home, my air conditioners have all vanished from my windows as if they were never there. I think we’re safely past any more nights too humid for sleeping. My hooded sweatshirts have made a comeback while my t-shirts and shorts have gone into storage in the attic until next May or June (depending on the weather).

     It seems like yesterday I was swimming outdoors. Actually, yesterday I took my granddaughter to a pumpkin patch to pick a prize-winner for our front porch. And on our front porch our Fall flag flies signaling the early beginnings of the holiday season. My wife decorated our fireplace with festive scarecrows, strands of autumn leaves and burnt orange mums.

     The sun is still warm and the leaves on the trees are still green. I hope they stay that way for a long time, but I know their fall is inevitable. I wish there was a way to stay ahead of them as they fall from the trees, but that's not going to happen. I refuse to rake my yard until the last leaf falls to the ground. Last year I refused to rake at all, but I paid the price after the winter snow melted and I had to call in the professionals to manage the mess left on the ground. I’ll try to avoid that this year but I make no promises.

     As the days get shorter, the mornings are darker and the evenings arrive earlier. There is less free time on my schedule as activities multiply. I don’t mind. Being busy keeps my mind off the whisper of winter looming on the horizon. I don’t want to rush things, we still have a long way to go before then.

     Right now I’m going to enjoy goblins and gourds. I can still walk in the sunshine without a jacket on. I welcome the wafting smell of a fireplace from somewhere in the night. I cherish the sound of crunching leaves beneath my Reeboks. The season is ripe with traditions, from baking apple pies to making caramel apple martinis. And my favorite Fall pastime : ordering a hot Pumpkin Spice Latte with a pumpkin muffin at Dunkin' Donuts. Cheers to Fall 2015! I hope it lasts as long as this past summer did – and beyond.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

On the road again...

     I decided to leave my job after working at the same company for 28 years. It  took some time to mentally prepare myself for the final step. I spent the entire summer thinking about it. I talked to my family, friends and colleagues trying to rationalize the outcome in my mind. It was the hardest decision of my life and yet it felt so right. I wanted to have no regrets when I finally took the last step and wrote my letter of resignation.

     I wanted to leave the company on a positive note. I wanted to leave on my own terms. I didn’t want to stay long enough to become angry and bitter. I have a number of years left to be a productive worker, and I'm ready for a new challenge.

     I don’t want to slam the industry I worked in. Let’s just say it's on life-support, and watching its slow death was killing me. I saw many, many co-workers terminated during years of “downsizing”. They were all great people. The company I worked for was family-owned, and it was reflected in the close-knit relationship among the core group of dedicated employees who have hung on through severe economic times. Pay cuts and benefit losses became all too real during the 2008 recession. The cost of living skyrocketed while my paycheck plummeted. Things were not going to get better any time soon (or ever it seemed to me). I’m not a doom-and-gloom kind of guy, but I saw the writing on the wall and I didn’t like what it said.

     Coworkers rallied together to get me to change my mind. “You can’t go.” “You have to stay.” “We’ll start a petition to keep you.” “Of course they’ll make a deal so you can stay.” I wasn't surprised that didn't happen.

     After lunch on a quiet Thursday afternoon, I walked into my manager’s office and told him I was resigning from my position. He was visibly shaken. I caught him off guard. I calmly explained the reasons for my decision.

     I offered some suggestions of what could be done to modify my position at the company in a way that might work for me. I waited for any hint of an offer to make up for the recent shortfalls the company has imposed on its employees. Unfortunately, there were no lifelines on the horizon and I was adrift at sea.

     Since I had no job lined up, I inquired about the possibility of collecting unemployment compensation. That deal wasn’t on the table since I was told my position had to be replaced because my work was so valuable to the company. Ironically, it wasn't valuable enough for them to keep me. In fact, my manager’s last words were, “Do you know anyone looking for a job? We have to get someone in here right away.” Sadly, I couldn’t think of anyone I would want to put in my position.

When my exit interview took place in the Human Resource office, I didn’t have a lot to say (which is unusual for me). I wasn’t about to throw anyone under the bus, although that seemed to be the point of the interview. When asked what I disliked about my job I said, “I’ve been here for 28 years, obviously I liked my job.”

     On my last day, I was genuinely touched at the goodbye celebration my friends put together for me. It was completely unexpected and extremely appreciated. Like so many old-fashioned traditions, I thought going-away parties were a thing of the past. The festivities included a cake with a cartoon likeness of me on it, a handmade photo-collage good-bye card and a caricature of me with sentiments signed by my coworkers. I appreciated the generous gift envelope I was given by the group. I received a framed commemorative newspaper front page, complete with personal photos and a story full of poignant reminiscing from my colleagues. Afterward, I was treated to an intimate lunch with a handful of close associates – a perfect ending to my long career at the company.

     I walked out of the building on my last day feeling upbeat and happy, the same way I walked in so many years ago. As the door closed behind me, I stepped through another door – the door to my future. I walked to the parking lot for the last time knowing I have the power to shape my future into anything I wish. I looked into the crumpled cardboard box I carried, full of 28 years of memories, and I suddenly realized my options are limitless.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

     

Kings of the Mountain

This article is about what my son Max did on his summer vacation. It wasn’t really a summer vacation because he was working at an exclusive camp in northern Maine (so exclusive I can’t mention its name). Let’s just say, if your child attends this summer camp, money is no object. Along with all of the usual camp activities including swimming, horseback riding and arts & crafts, this camp also offers classes taught by top-of-their-field sports trainers and professional artists.

     The faculty at Berklee approached Max and asked him to consider taking a position at the camp to teach guitar lessons to campers during the summer. Along with his paycheck, he got room and board as well as use of the campground facilities during his time off. Max never taught classes before, nor had he ever gone camping, so he was happy to try both of them for the first time. I wished he was going to be a little closer to home; the camp was over three hours north, somewhere west of Augusta, Maine. The more I watched the news about the sudden rise in violence in Boston, the better I felt about Max taking his chances with severe weather and wild animals in the great north woods.

     In mid-June, we packed his luggage and musical gear into my Dodge Nitro and headed to the far north. Thanks to my GPS (and my wife’s driving) we arrived safely. Even though the camp facilities were immaculate, I still had reservations about abandoning my son in the middle of nowhere. Everything seemed too perfect, from the politeness of the camp greeters to their perfectly polished good looks. They were all super athletic, with golden blonde hair and gleaming white teeth. And there was Max, with his scruffy goatee and pasty white skin with only his guitar case for protection. As I drove away, I had visions of my son chasing my car down the perfectly groomed dirt road screaming, “Wait! Don’t leave me here!” But that was not the case. In fact, Max’s experience was the exact opposite.

     Max’s weekly telephone calls kept me updated on his progress as he adapted to his foreign surroundings. Although he’s very much a city person, he loved being immersed in something completely different from what he was used to back home.

     He made a lot of friends with the other counselors, even though there still exists a huge dividing line between athletes and artists. Max was able to navigate both worlds comfortably. He quickly bonded with Alan, a 22 year-old neuro-scientist who specializes in ceramic pottery. Like all of Max’s friends, Alan was intelligent, talented and living beyond the rules of classification.

     Time flew because of the camp's busy itinerary. Max taught guitar classes every day as well as working as Camp Counselor to the children assigned to his cabin. When another counselor left on short notice, Max was reassigned from his group of eleven year-olds to managing a group of fifteen year-olds. Although it was quite a challenge, he (and the campers) survived.

     At the end-of-camp Field Day festivities, Max and his fellow art counselors won the First Place trophy in a stunning victory over the shocked Athletic Division. So many close bonds were formed between campers and counselors, and between the counselors themselves. Max’s description of the tearful goodbyes at the bonfire on the last night of camp made me realize what a special experience this was for campers and counselors alike. And I’ve only scratched the surface of the stories I was told. I hope someday Max writes his memoirs of this special summer. It was quite eventful on a personal as well as physical level.

     When Max returned home, he was a much richer person from his two-month camp experience. He discovered he loves to teach. He understands how instructors can shape the lives of young people, much like the musical mentors Max encountered when he was beginning his musical journey. Being a guitar-teaching camp counselor was secondary to what Max learned about being a good person, and how doing the right thing is not always the easiest road to take, but it is the best one. The insight he got from hearing about the lives of these children from elite families who attended the camp was more educational than anything he could learn in school. Max wants to return to the camp next year to help other young musical artists find their career paths. I have a feeling he’s going to learn a lot more about himself as well.

Live Shot

     

Station to Station: The Joe Mullowney story

The recent murders of Virginia television reporter Alison Parker and her cameraperson/videographer Adam Ward affected me more than all the other senseless violence stories currently grabbing headline attention. The images of the murder victims were etched in my mind because of their familiarity. Adam Ward's career so closely paralleled my own son’s life it was uncanny, not to mention the uncanny physical resemblance. I’m still shaken by this story two weeks later.

     My son Joe is the same age as Adam Ward. He is employed at a major Boston television station working as a camera person with reporters on the street. Joe is at the same point in his career as Adam Ward was, a career he loves with all his heart. He loves the art of videography. Nothing brings him more joy than capturing a perfectly lit scene while he films the reporters who bring the world crashing into our living rooms during the nightly news broadcast. The breaking news stories are big and brash, full of bluster and noise, with lots of drama and intensity – kind of like Joe himself.

     Occasionally, Joe sends me photos from inside the news van of himself and his reporters when they are between stories. I love getting a rare glimpse behind the scenes of broadcast television. These photos show happy, smiling faces of people who work hard and love what they do. These photos are identical to the ones I saw posted on the news of Alison Parker and Adam Ward from WDBJ-7 in Virginia. Every snapshot of their young faces broadcast during the murder reports chilled me to the bone. I've seen the same photos before, sent to me by my son working with his own smiling reporters.

     Being fatally shot during a live broadcast makes the story even more grotesque. The time of the murders, 6:45 am, is a time you would least expect anything earth shattering to happen to you. And the location – inside a children’s water park – could not be less threatening. No wonder the television crew's guard was let down before they were gunned down.

     I worried about my son Joe when he graduated college and began his career as a “stringer”, chasing news stories in his beloved Crown Victoria. When his dashboard police scanner beeped, he sped off to the crime scene like a superhero, armed with only a video camera. He was always first to arrive, before the short-staffed local television networks could find an available reporter. He sold his news footage to all the Boston networks. He even contemplated contacting CNN to see if they needed a young roving reporter to do first person war correspondence in Afghanistan or Iraq. I was relieved when a Boston television station offered Joe a full-time job. “At least he’s safe,” I thought. I didn’t know how wrong I was.

     Working in a top ten news market gives Joe inside access to people, places and events the rest of us only experience second hand – from the finish line of the Boston Marathon during the 2013 bombings to President Obama playing golf on Martha’s Vineyard. Sure, there are glamorous assignments at Gillette Stadium and Boston Garden, but there are also tragic stories from inner city neighborhoods and uncovered horrors in picturesque small towns.

     “Do the news stories you cover affect you?” I asked my son.

     “I see these stories through the filter of my camera lens, Dad. It’s just me doing my job.” he responded.

     Good answer, I thought. But it’s a different story when he puts his camera down.

Heroes For Hire

   

First family: Marvel Comic's Fantastic Four

The 2015 Boston Comic Book Convention (or Boston Comic Con for those in the know) arrived in the city last weekend. And with it came the usual (unusual?) collection of dedicated costume wearing individuals who spare neither time nor expense to manufacture dead-on make-up/costume recreations of their favorite fantasy characters. Now that comic book culture has gone mainstream and infiltrated everything from television, movies and toy stores, there is no shortage of dress-up material for these unique individuals who want their inner geek voices heard.
     Along with the cosplay aficionados, there was an array of celebrities making guest appearances. The exalted creator of Marvel Comics, Stan Lee, was happily meeting and greeting fans. At age 90 he is inspirational and revered by everyone in attendance. Also appearing were Brett Dalton (CBS's Agents of Shield), Hayley Atwell (Marvel's Agent Carter), Robin Lord Taylor, (Gotham's Penguin), and my personal favorite, Cassandra Peterson (Elvira, Mistress of the Dark).
The center of the crowded convention floor is called Artist's Alley, where many big name artists are sketching commission pieces and signing autographs. I spoke with Annie Wu, artist for the hot new Black Canary series. Her comic book combines super-heroes and rock bands. Annie Wu's unique, edgy art style fits the tone of the book perfectly.
     I spent most of my time speaking with artists, writers and creators from the independent comic book market. These are people who love comic books so much, they spend their own time and money creating and self-publishing their work in an effort to make a living doing what they love. It's endless self-promotion and salesmanship as they try to get their material noticed in a hugely crowded field. With enough perseverance, talent and luck, some of them succeed against insurmountable odds – much like the heroes in their books.
     I have a deep kinship with these writer/artists. These people are born with stories to tell. The excitement in their voices is contagious as they describe their work. Matt Bessette, the creator of the comic book Daemone, Slayer For Hire, told me how his character evolved from the artist's years of attending Catholic school. He was fascinated by stories he learned about angels and demons.
     Equally excited about her work was Kata Kane, writer and artist of a series called Altar Girl. Her unique artwork caught my eye and drew me to her table. Altar Girl looked like a Japanese cartoon version of Archie from Riverdale combined with Sailor Moon from outer space. Kata gave me a brief outline of her story – angels, demons and keys to Heaven and Hell; there seems to be a reoccurring theme in the independent comic book world. Kata got funding for a second volume of her work from donations from fans on Kickstarter.com, where enough money was pledged so the artist could produce her next book. It's nice to see someone succeeding in doing what they love through their own perseverance (another recurring theme in the independent comic book world).
     I left the convention inspired to continue my own work. I've been marketing cartoon ideas for quite sometime. Cartooning is genetic. It's in the blood. Add some sweat and tears and you've got the formula for success. I'm looking forward to attending the convention next year to speak with more of these amazing artists and writers who create impossible dreams out of nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a few strokes of a pen. Don't give up! There's a market for your work. You just have to find it.

A Midsummer's Daydream

     

Time and tide wait for no man.

      I'm sitting here on a Sunday morning, smack-dab in the middle of summer, trying desperately to hold on to each fleeting moment of the season. I barely believe my calendar when it tells me it’s the end of July, which signals the beginning of the end of summer.

     I enjoyed the stretch of ninety degree days we had last week, especially after last winter which doesn’t seem so long ago. On a muggy Tuesday night, I attended a meeting for one of my various extracurricular activities. The person who greeted me at the door tried to make small talk by using the old standard summer conversation starter, “Hot enough for ya?”

     “Are you kidding me?” I replied. “These are the days I’ve been waiting for since last January. These are the days I thought would never come. Hot enough for me? No. It’s not.” I could have just answered with a nod of my head or a polite laugh, but I wanted to make my opinion known.

I want to find a way to make the remaining weeks of summer last. I want time to drag slowly. I want the days to slow-cook in the heat. I will relish the next few days of broiling, hot-as-an-oven, fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk temperatures. Disco inferno me, please.

I'm even enjoying my yard work this summer. Anything is better than shoveling snow. Pulling weeds in the hot sun feels like a day at a health spa. Mowing my lawn on a humid morning just makes relaxing in the backyard more rewarding.

    Working full time is the only thing standing in my way from a summer of pure bliss. Monday through Friday I wake up early and open my back door to let in the cool morning air. I wish I could enjoy a leisurely breakfast on the patio but there just isn’t enough time. The table and chairs look inviting under the shade of my Maple tree. I'm afraid if I sat out there with a cup of coffee, I’d have no incentive to ever leave for work. I’d get lost listening to the birds chirp and the tree branches sway. Instead, I wolf down my coffee and english muffin and jump into my air-conditioned car and sit in traffic on the expressway. I’m stuck in a flood of traffic instead of sitting by the rising tide of Nahant Beach.

     My beach days seem so long ago. On weekend mornings I’d pack some snacks and drinks in a cooler. I'd gather some beach toys for my son. I'd grab some towels, a blanket and a folding chair and we’d head for a day by the shore in the hot sun. We’d find our spot in the sand, just the right distance from the water’s edge. We’d walk the coastline for a couple of miles picking up green and blue sea glass and looking for horseshoe crabs. I'd catch up on summer reading while watching my son play in the water. When it was time to go home, we’d rinse the sand from our feet and pack up. It was always a challenge to drag everything back to our parking space in one trip. We’d have lunch at Wendy’s, eating inside the car trying not to drop any precious french fries on the floor. We’d travel home, tired and sunburned, ready to do it all again the next day.

     I’m lost in my midsummer’s daydream until reality intrudes on the edge of my thoughts. My son is now a junior in college. School (and working to pay for school) consumes his life, just as work and paying debts consumes my own.

     I’d give anything to go back to those days of summer past, to be walking down that hot stretch of sand, proudly watching my son discover the world around him. Our two sets of footprints follow us along the beach, my larger ones pressing deeper into the sand next to my son’s smaller, numerous ones as he tries to keep up with me. The cries of the seagulls flying overhead are drowned out by the booms of the waist high waves crashing onto shore. Inch by inch, the tide washes away the tracks we leave behind, but that’s okay. My memories of those days are cemented in stone, hopefully to remain untouched for all time.