Seasonal Affective Disorder

Go into the light: Stoneham does Christmas.

You're not reading the original words I wrote for this week’s column. Like the Elf on the Shelf, I hid that article in an obscure corner hoping nobody will find it. That column, entitled “Of Gifts and Guns”, was too intense to publish this time of year. I wrote about the Colorado Planned Parenthood mass shootings because one of the victims had ties to our area. Nancy Kerrigan’s tearful memories of Garrett Swasey on the news were enough to dampen on my rapidly dwindling holiday spirit. I ended that column with the words “...by the time you read this, another horrific event will no doubt happen to knock the Colorado shootings out of the headlines...”. And then the terrorist attack at the social service center in San Bernardino happened. I decided it was too depressing to write about such horror during this season of joy even though it is in the forefront of our nation's collective thoughts.

You can say I’m burying my head in the sand, no pun intended. Instead, for this next couple of weeks, I'm focusing on the positive aspects of the holiday season. After all, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. At least that’s what Johnny Mathis keeps telling me over and over as he sings his merry songs on my FM radio.

Instead of writing about mass shootings, I prefer to write about the happy faces of children and parents alike at the tree lighting ceremony on the town common. Add Santa Claus, pony rides, hot chocolate and trolleys and you have a holiday recipe for a great night of good old-fashioned family fun. I don’t even mind the traffic in my area as people flock to the Zoo Lights exhibit at the Stone Zoo. I haven’t visited the display yet this year, but it’s on my list of uplifting holiday activities. The season is so short, I’m trying to do something every day to enjoy the time as the holidays fast approach.

I thought Christmas shopping would brighten my mood. I took advantage of the unseasonably warm temperatures and made my annual trek to Redstone Plaza. Shop local, I always say. Although it wasn’t terribly crowded, there were still many shoppers out and about. I found some great gifts for my family, and one for myself: a sock-monkey dressed in an elf suit. My spirits were definitely on the upswing.

I turned off my 24-hour news radio station and turned on the 24-hour Christmas music channel. Just hearing songs about Winter Wonderlands and White Christmases is enough for me. I don’t need any real snow. I have enough memories of last winter’s accumulation to last a lifetime. Even Karen Carpenter’s tragic life can't spoil my enjoyment of her heartfelt renditions of holiday classics (although it is sad she won’t be home for Christmas no matter what she says in her song). It’s hard to feel blue when your singing along to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman.

When the world’s dire situation began creeping into the edge of my consciousness, threatening to destroy my tenuous (artificial?) joyful mood, I decided to telephone my sons just to say hello and tell them I love them. And the best part of those phone calls? They didn’t even think it was strange.Last night while driving through Stoneham I noticed the cheery light displays illuminating homes around town and in my neighborhood. Some people went overboard with their decorations, some exerted minimal effort (me), but it’s the thought that counts. We all can’t be Chevy Chase.

Shocking and savage current events lurk around every corner along with threatening shadows of a bleak future, but I have a secret weapon. I simply look at my granddaughters smiling face. Within her bright, beautiful blue eyes I see the true meaning of Christmas. In her innocence I see a future full of hope and love.

Table Talk

Room for dessert.

My dining room sits in silence like a museum display of a scene from the past. For a long time it’s been unused and gathering dust. As the holidays near, the room slowly begins to show signs of life. Today the room reflects the change of seasons. It’s filled with brown, gold and orange hues. The shining wooden table is decorated with a leaf-themed runner. Next to the fall flower centerpiece there are turkey candlesticks and pilgrim figurine salt and pepper shakers that pour spices out of the top of their heads. The dining room is ready for Thanksgiving even if I’m not.

“Why do you have such a big table in that room?” one of the children asked.

“To eat our meals on.”

“You eat at a table? Wow!”

Wow indeed. Meals have migrated from dining rooms, to kitchens, to living rooms and beyond. On a recent visit to my sister-in-law’s new home, she proudly gave me a tour. I was surprised when she said, “We don’t have a kitchen table. We wouldn’t really use one.” Unheard of, I thought. (I’m writing this column at my kitchen table right now.)

It may be a thing of the past, but dining rooms hold so many memories for so many families. My grandmother’s second floor apartment housed a huge wooden dining room set that would be right at home in a giant's castle (although I was a lot smaller back then). Every Sunday dinner felt like a holiday. Nana’s hot oven ran all day as she created magical treasures – roasted chicken, homemade bread, chocolate chip cookies and, of course, her famous lemon meringue pie (so good I used to eat it warm before it had a chance to cool).

Times have changed. Week night dinners are rarely served at the kitchen table. My wife and I eat dinner in the living room in front of the television while we watch Days of Our Lives on DVR. My dinner table is now a folding oak “TV table” (I’m not even sure that’s what they’re called these days). After all these years we are far removed from romantic candlelight dinners (we save those for power failures). We still have meal time chats, recapping the events of each other's day (just the highlights, no boring job details about things the other person has no interest in). We hit Pause on the DVR if we have important news to share.

In an effort to keep traditions alive, my wife recently resurrected Sunday family dinners. There’s another place to set at the table with the addition of our granddaughter's high-chair. We enjoy keeping in touch with our two sons on a weekly basis. It's nice to enjoy a leisurely meal while catching up on current events in their lives. We get to share thoughts on the future, as well as reinforce happy memories of the past.

Now that the dining room is coming out of hibernation, lots of memories are resurfacing just in time for the holidays. I remember my mother-in-law’s monumental Thanksgiving dinner in the 1980’s when I included a place-setting for my video-camera at the head of the table to record our epic meal – and that was before reality television really took off. One year the basket of rolls caught fire while being passed over lit candles on the table. On another holiday our dining room table was extended with a second table to accommodate the large number of guests. The two tables formed an “L” shape through the doorway and around the corner all the way from the dining room into the kitchen. Thanksgiving dinner in two rooms!

My dining room is so much more than a showpiece for flower vases, fancy curtains and unused furniture. Every meal celebrated there is a true dining experience. It’s important to preserve it even if we don’t use it to its full capacity anymore. It’s a room full of memories I’m not willing to give up yet. It’s a room without television, internet radio or cell phones. It’s a room full of peaceful silence and faint echoes of a past not yet forgotten.

The New Guy

And my manager is 23 years old.

It's not easy looking for a new job at age fifty-seven. Actually, looking is the easy part, it's the “finding” that's difficult. At the end of September I left my job after twenty-eight years without the safety net of another job to fall into. The company I worked for appeared to be going downhill, and I didn't see business rebounding any time in the future. I decided to cut my losses and pursue greener pastures, and all the rest of those cliches people say when they are starting over. I took a daring leap for someone my age. I had faith I'd land on my feet in a better place – at least I kept telling myself that.

Most people thought I was crazy for not having a job lined up before I left. My supportive family and a few close friends stood by me and helped me rationalize my decision. I put on a brave front, smiling when I said I believed something better would come along. However, as my final day at work approached, I wondered if I made the right decision. My resume solicitations did not return the multiple employment opportunities I was expecting. In my mind I already turned down several positions waiting for the right one to come along. Unfortunately, there were no offers coming in for me to reject. I didn't have a Plan B.

As luck would have it, I got a call from a new company on my last day at my old job. I bid a hasty farewell to my coworkers. I left my goodbye party and headed straight to a job interview. My fears of unemployment had been unfounded. My interview went well and I was asked to start a new job a week from that Monday. The timing was perfect. I had a week to decompress from my old job. I was relieved and extremely happy at this sudden turn of events. All of my positive thinking paid off.

I haven't been “the new guy” in the workplace for twenty-eight years. In fact, one of the new employees at my old company was called “the new guy” for two-and-a-half years after he started working there. Now I was that guy, and believe me, it's not a title anyone enjoys carrying.

Most of the staff in my new office is younger than I am. I always felt young for my age, but that was before I was working in a department full of twenty-somethings. The first week felt like the first day of school. Am I wearing the right clothes? Do I really look as old as this mirror is telling me? Is my hair okay? On day two, I brought in my “grandpa” sweater to hang on the coat rack because the new office feels like it's kept at 32 degrees year round. Maybe it's just my thinning blood.

My new manager is awesome, as most people newspaper workers are. She helped me with my transition from new employee to regular staff member. I'm finding it difficult to match the names and faces of my unfamiliar co-workers. The staff is large and there are multiple shifts, resulting in meeting quite a few people in a short time. There's Ashley and Alexis, Brittany and Britney, as well as two Dianes. it's impossible to keep everyone straight in my mind despite using all the memory tricks in my arsenal, but I'm trying.

Now that I've been at my new place of employment for a couple of weeks, I am starting to settle in. I may not be “the new guy” for very long. The company is expanding and with every new hire I am no longer “new” myself. A year from now I'll know everyone on a first name basis, and I'll know something about each of them. At most jobs you spend more time with people in your office than you do with your own family.

In a month or two, I'll know where all the stairways lead to so I won't look lost while walking down the hallway. Eventually I'll be able to drive to work with my eyes closed. Soon I'll recognize all the faces of the people I work with and I'll know what their job function is. Until then, I'll enjoy my time as “the new guy”. That sounds so much better than being known as “the old guy”. 

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.

The Deep End of the Carpool

     

Right lane closed, wrong lane open.

With parking rates in Boston rising astronomically and traffic increasing exponentially, it made sense to carpool to work with a fellow employee. There were a ton of advantages besides saving money and saving gas. I could access the carpool lane without fear of getting pulled over by a state trooper. I could whiz past a solid line of commuters sitting at a standstill. I could leave my house later than usual and still make it to work on time.

     It helps if you find the right person to commute with. My carpool buddy “John” (not his real name) was the ideal candidate. We shared the same work hours. Our homes were on the same route, which made commuting together relatively smooth.

     John did most of the driving while I did most of the talking. That worked out well because I’ve got so many stories to tell. We got to work faster on the days John drove. Let’s just say his repeated viewings of The Fast and The Furious have influenced his driving style. My diploma from Old Man Doherty’s Driving School has the slogan at the bottom that reads Slow And Steady Wins The Race.

     As a passenger, It was difficult for me to relinquish control. On the highway, John would remind me there is no brake pedal on the passenger side. Apparently he noticed me grinding my foot into the floor every time he pulled up within a half-inch of the vehicle in front of us. “I’m not letting anyone cut in front of me today,” he would say with a grim smile. Am I the only person who stills leaves a car-length (or three) in front of me on the highway?

     I learned some driving tips from John that have improved my own driving: You don’t need to be in your exit lane until the very last second. It’s okay to quickly cut in front of 18-wheel tractor-trailers because they can’t accelerate as fast as you. Do not let anyone into your lane, no matter if they have their blinker on or how many hand signals they use. Traffic circles and Road Warrior movies have a lot in common. And my favorite – how to punch the steering wheel to release stress.

     I kept my critiques about John's driving to a minimum. “This is the carpool lane, not Space Mountain.” “Nice two-wheel corner around that rotary, Vin Diesel.” “Speeding through this tunnel with you reminds me of Princess Diana.” Hmmm, no wonder John was punching his steering wheel.

     When you spend prolonged time in an enclosed vehicle through stressful morning and evening commutes, a close bond is formed between passenger and driver. Light is shed on a person’s idiosyncrasies wouldn’t surface in casual workplace conversations. John is an Eminem fan, who knew? (Sorry, I forgot the first rule of carpool is don't talk about carpool.)

     I’m sure some of my own “quirks” were exposed during our daily commute. My musical taste and television viewing habits are not everyone’s cup of tea. But John was a good listener, a great conversationalist and a true friend.

     This month John has moved to a new town. Our carpool arrangement has come to a screeching halt. I’m going to miss our mornings together in the fast lane as I stare at the miles of stopped traffic ahead of me with no one to talk to but myself.

     During our last ride home together my carpool buddy said, “You probably never realized we narrowly avoided major collisions on a daily basis.” Oh yes, John, I noticed. I helped us avoid them on numerous occasions by stepping on the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side.

Baby, You’re a Firework

My little firecracker

     July Fourth has always been special to me. I wasn’t exactly born on the fourth of July, but I was born on June 30th and in those days mother’s weren’t sent home from the hospital the next day because their insurance didn’t cover extended stays. So my first Fourth of July was spent in the nursery of the Whidden Memorial Hospital in Everett. At least there was a view of the fireworks from high on the hospital hill.

     Growing up, my family’s fourth of July celebrations were held at my Aunt Agnes’ house on Mount Washington street, also in Everett. She had the best backyard and the best view of fireworks from all of the surrounding towns. Mount Washington Street was aptly named because of the panoramic view. We always went to my aunt's house right after the parade that marched up Broadway. Parades in those days were real parades, with tons of floats, clowns, marching bands and waving veterans, beauty queens, politicians and celebrities. I never wanted the short termed helium balloon. I always asked for a pop-gun or, my favorite, a monkey on a stick. To each his own.

     One fourth of July parade, all of us kids got to pose for pictures with Batman and Robin. Yes, the real Batman and Robin (at least we thought so). One other year, the Wild Man of Borneo broke free from his cage by bending the bars and made a beeline toward me as I screamed in terror and tried to flee. No one told me it was my Uncle Gordon in costume. I was scarred for life and to this day I cannot be around Wild Men from Borneo.

     When I was a teenager in 1976, the country celebrated its 200 year Bicentennial celebration. Unfortunately, punk rock was all the rage with the drama club crowd so we all wore black jeans and t shirts in some form of protest against big business taking over the country. We were ahead of our time. And young and naive at the time, or maybe we were ahead of our time.

When my own children were born, I enjoyed the fourth of July celebrations immensely. Especially the year the Fred Flintstone Macy’s type balloon made it into the fourth of July parade and then proceeded to fly out of control and careen into the crowd, causing people to drop their Richie’s Slush onto the hot pavement and run for cover. Ahh, memories.

     When my children were older, celebrating the fourth of July became more low key. Parades and barbecues came and went. The Fourth of July afternoon was spent in Grandma and Grandpa’s pool, or at Aunt Susan and Uncle Bobby’s in Abington (the other side of the world). And now that time has passed too with the passing of Grandma and Grandpa.

     I’m the Grandpa now. And I have lots of new Fourth of July memories to share with my extended family and my new granddaughter Eliana. I hope there is a lifetime of parades and barbecues still to come, with just as many memories for her as there is for me. Happy Birthday America! 

Reverend Rob

   

Food for thought...

 The meeting hall is full to capacity. Reverend Rob stands at the entry way welcoming members of his flock. He greets familiar faces and newcomers with warm smiles and hardy handshakes. He knows everyone in attendance by name. He can share personal anecdotes about each person in his audience. His followers show up religiously every week, through rain, sleet or snow. The congregation wouldn't miss this weekly gathering for the world. 

     Electricity fills the air as Reverend Rob steps up to the podium at the front of the room. The crowd murmurs while they fan themselves with their tiny booklets as they wait in anticipation for the evening sermon. Everyone in the group knows tonight will be important. Reverend Rob's weekly homily is always life-changing.

     Reverend Rob paces back and forth in the front of the room, a tell-tale sign that he is about to begin the night's service. He commands attention by suddenly bellowing a shockingly loud “How’s everybody doing?” It’s not really a question. Reverend Rob already knows the answer. The fact that people have chosen to sit in the audience means they are already doing well. 

     The crowd reacts with a rush of enthusiasm that would put Oprah’s studio audience to shame. Reverend Rob responds with, “Is that all you got?” The crowd cheers even louder – Gillette Stadium loud after a Tom Brady touchdown. “That’s more like it,” Reverend Rob says, smiling because he knows he has the crowd eating out of his hand.

     That food metaphor is appropriate because this is a Weight Watchers meeting and Rob is the group leader. His work is no less important than a preacher at Sunday service. Rob offers enlightenment to everyone under his guidance. 

     Rob understands the people in his audience. He has experienced the daily struggle of losing weight and keeping weight off. He knows what it’s like to stand in the background when group photos are taken. He can relate because he's been there, done that. 

     Rob’s “sermons” expound upon the success stories of members in attendance who stick to the plan. However, he knows weight loss is a personal thing. What works for one individual doesn’t necessarily work for the next. The plan is flexible and customizable. Success depends on how much you want it. Meeting with others who have similar experiences enables you to find inspiration. Rob knows how to inspire people from within.

     My wife and I attend weekly meetings together. These meetings are more than a diet program support group thanks to Rob. Every week we experience a night of live entertainment rivaling anything at the Stoneham Theatre. Rob's weekly pep talks help keep people on track with humor and pathos. His animated personality permeates the atmosphere leaving no room for negative thoughts. 

     “You lost a pound this week. Perfect! Keep moving in that direction and you’ll be at your goal in no time!”

     “You gained weight this week but you realize where you can improve? Great! That means you’ll do better next week!”

     The plan is all about doing something positive and moving forward from week to week without beating yourself up for any small indiscretion in the kitchen that sets you back. One bad week doesn't negate the previous 12 weeks of success.

     I learn more things at these meetings than just helpful tips to maintain my weight. Most nights there is laughter – gut-wrenching belly laughter – from a story Rob is telling or a quip from a member who has a personal story to share. On a few occasions, the group has been moved to tears after hearing about other member's success or failure, and the reason it happened. Some nights raw emotions are shared. After listening, you can’t help feeling something inside because, after all, we are all human, no matter how much we weigh.

     Rob brings a lightness to your soul no matter what your struggles were during the week. After all, your weight is just a number. And a number on a scale is not the total sum of who you are. We have Rob to thank for making us realize we are so much more than that. Can I get an amen?

Let's Get Physical

     

Leg warmers and headbands?

My wife and I wanted to join a gym for the longest time but we kept finding excuses to put it off. Good excuses like “we’re too tired” or “it’s too late to go check it out” or “it’s too expensive”.
The warmer weather gave us incentive to want to do something – anything – after the horrendous winter we just survived. We spent weeks online looking at various web sites to determine which gym would best suit our needs. We factored in location, price, and services. And we still couldn't make a decision.
    

     It's so much easier not to join a gym than it is to make the commitment to join one. We weren't ready to take the final step. I was paying per month to use the “health club” where I work, but the facilities left a lot to be desired. I liked the convenience of being able to work out during my lunch break, but I was willing to change my routine if I could find something better.
One night after dinner, I ran out of excuses.

      “Do you want to take a tour of one of the gym’s we’ve been considering?” my wife asked.
     

     “I’d like to, but I thought we’d have a cup of coffee and watch TMZ,” I answered.
     

     We ended up at the gym taking the tour, a much better choice than spending another sedentary night on the sofa.
     

     Surprisingly, we liked what we saw. We signed up that night for a year’s membership. The monthly fee is less than I was paying to use the substandard facilities where I work. The new place only had one downside: I didn’t see anyone reading books while pedaling on the recumbent bicycles. I noted this fact to my wife who responded, “Who reads books at a gym?”
     

     “I do,” I said, finding myself just outside the norm once again.
    

      Later that night, my son threw a few offhand comments my way after I told him his mother and I were now officially gym members. “Why did you join that place,” he said. “It’s not even a real gym. It’s for people who don’t really want to work out.”
     

     “In that case, it’s perfect for us,” I said, “because we don’t really want to work out either!” I usually don't get the last word in conversations with my son but he had no retort for my remark.
My wife and I are slowly getting used to our new routine. We meet at the gym most nights after work. We exercise separately since we both have different goals. I have more gym experience but I don’t try to impart my workout philosophy on my wife (that much). Exercise is personal and we both learned a long time ago the secret to a happy marriage is not to try to change your spouse. Change has to come from within. We are keeping up with a five-night-a-week schedule, which is more exercise than we’ve ever done in our lives. I’m not looking for a Schwarzenegger body at my age. I just want to be able to bend my knees without tightness and pain. If we stick to the program, it won’t be long before we reap all kinds of healthy rewards from our new active lifestyle.
     

     Our workout routine has been working out for us. We made a positive choice to overcome whatever mental block was preventing us from doing this before. So far, so good, although I don’t want to give any free plugs by mentioning the name of the place until I’m sure it’s not too good to be true. After all, it’s only been a week.

Robin Dangerfield

“Beneath this snowy mantle cold and clean / The unborn grass lies waiting for its coat to turn to green / The snowbird sings the song he always sings / And speaks to me of flowers / That will bloom again in spring…” – Anne Murray

     

Ranting robin: Tweet Tweet @$%#!

When I pulled into my driveway last week and saw the first red-breasted robin of spring on my front lawn, it didn’t look like it was in the mood to sing a happy melody. No sweet chirping. Not even a peep. It just looked at me and cocked its head to the side as birds do. I could almost read its mind from its expression.
     “Seriously?” the robin thought. “It’s Spring. You know, Spring with a capital S. The season just before Summer.”
     The bird hopped down from the snow pile onto what was once my lawn. “Snow?” it asked quizzically, shaking ice off its tiny claw. It’s beak pecked the frozen grass. “What? Am I too early? I thought the early bird gets the worm. Not me. I get frostbite.”

     The robin looked up at my house. “Love your decorative flag that says Welcome Spring! Is that some kind of a joke? Maybe it’s not too late for your wife to return it to The Christmas Tree Shop and get her money back. Better yet, exchange it for one that says What Spring?”     The bird flitted onto my front porch step. “Nice Easter decorations! I’m surprised the holiday wasn’t cancelled due to the cold weather. So much for the annual Easter egg hunt.. It’s going to be hard to hide eggs under the ice, let alone find them.”

     “And another thing,” it said, “thanks for setting the clocks ahead so early this year. That really threw nature for a loop. Most of the wildlife around here thinks it’s still the middle of winter. I hear there are a couple of brown bears at the Stone Zoo who are still sleeping. They’re waiting for winter to end before they wake up – hopefully in August!”

     I grabbed my grocery bags from my car and took a step toward the bird thinking it would fly off as I approached. Instead, it hopped up a couple of more steps. It furrowed its brow at me and squinted its black beady eyes.

     “Do you know Spot Pond is still frozen?” it said. “The sign that says 'No Swimming' is going to say 'No Ice Skating' year round now” It hopped up another step and unfurled its wings. “What happened to Global Warming? I was just getting used to it. Even the Canada Geese are complaining about the cold. There are flocks of them staying in Florida permanently instead of migrating back to Massachusetts for the summer. 'Aren’t you going to miss the change of seasons?' I asked them. 'What change of seasons?' they said. Go figure.”

     The robin hopped up two more steps. “Look around. Not even a baby crocus in sight. They’re usually in full bloom by now. The tulip bulbs are locked up tighter than New England oysters. If we’re lucky they’ll be blooming by the Fourth of July, or as I like to call it Christmas in July around these parts.”

      “Great,” I said. “Not only do I have a disgruntled robin on my front porch, but it sounds like Rodney Dangerfield."

     The robin flew to the top step of my porch and continued its rant. “I know it’s been cold, but you could at least keep the bird feeder full . Oh wait, you can’t, because the birdseed is in the shed and the doors are still covered with a foot of icy snow. Thanks a lot, mister.”

     Now I was getting ruffled. “Look,” I said, “I don’t like this weather any more than you do. I was happy to see your bright red chest adding a splash of color to all this gray. You’re supposed to be a harbinger of Spring, not a disgruntled messenger of bad tidings.”

     “Ah,shaddup,” the robin said.

     I lunged forward and stamped my foot on the porch step to scare away the angry bird. It spread its wings and leaped into the sky, narrowly missing my head with its pointy black beak as it screeched by my ear.
     As it flew away, it turned its head and squawked, “You really need to paint your front porch!”

     Summer can’t come fast enough for me.