tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30503915198698154572024-03-02T09:34:48.990-08:00Thoughts and Afterthoughts...Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-23666545103462159002016-05-18T17:23:00.000-07:002016-05-18T17:23:24.785-07:00Freedom of Choice<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 138%; text-indent: 0.13in;"><span style="font-size: large;">Super
Tuesday is behind us now and the presidential campaign race is really
heating up. I’m enjoying the media coverage of Election 2016, but
something is missing. Something like a good candidate to cast a vote
for.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">I
love how I always begin political columns by saying I’m not a
political person. I just realized that’s not entirely true. I make
sure I vote in every election (the important ones anyway). I believe
a person’s right to vote is one of the most powerful rights we have
in this country. But with the choices put before us this year, it
appears many ballots are cast </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">against</span></span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">
a candidate instead of </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">for</span></span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">
one. For a lot of voters, November’s election is going to be an
exercise in choosing between the lesser of two evils.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">Front
runner Donald Trump can do no wrong. His blustery rhetoric forces
people to listen. But is he saying anything of substance? He’s
entertaining to watch, that’s for sure. Is he all surface glitter
with no framework underneath? He’s an outsider and some people are
attracted to that alone.<br />Trump seems to be saying all the right
things and even when he says the wrong things, it seems to work to
his advantage. </span></span></span>
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;">Marco
Rubio and Ted Cruz seem to be cut from the same cloth. Watching them
struggle to get their voices heard over Trump's bombastic style makes
for interesting television. I’m not a debate watcher, but I've
tuned in a few times this year to see the fireworks. I wasn’t
disappointed. There was a fine line between the Republican debates
and the WWE’s professional wrestling broadcasts. The over-the-top
antics of the candidates would be comical if there wasn’t so much
at stake (like the future of our country).</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;">Kasich
is trailing so far behind I’m surprised he's still in the mix. I
did see a speech he made on television that made me want him to be a
pastor at St. Patrick’s church. I’d never miss a Sunday homily if
he were at the podium. His heartfelt vision for America touched my
soul. Too bad he doesn’t stand a chance of winning. Dr. Ben Carson
was smart enough to take himself out of the running. (Of course he's
smart, he's a doctor.)</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;">Which
brings us to Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton. Oy vey. Bernie’s
sincerety is the polar opposite of Hillary Clinton’s smarmy
entitlement. Bernie’s populist message strikes a chord with the
infamous 99% (last seen nowhere). However, “When you have nothing,
you have nothing to lose” is not the greatest campaign slogan. For
years there has been talk of the inevitability of a Hillary Clinton
presidency. Who didn’t love the Clinton years the last time around?
Hillary is determined to have her voice heard, but her shrieking,
shrill tone is a turn off for many. Imagine the debates between
Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. The decibels will be off the scale.
Keep your remote in hand to adjust your television volume before your
speakers blow out.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 138%; text-indent: 0.13in;"><span style="font-size: large;">America
needs a candidate to emerge to unify our country instead of dividing
it. We need someone to offer hope and change – for real this time.
I don’t like the choices I’m presented with this year. I don’t
want to waste my vote by voting against someone. I’m not about to
write-in “Mickey Mouse” to protest the election. I can only weigh
all sides of the issues and pick the candidate I feel will do the
best job representing my views. I just wish the pickings weren’t so
slim. Where is Ross Perot when we need him?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
</div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-49739361531154897242016-02-26T16:29:00.001-08:002016-02-26T17:11:32.871-08:00Make A Wish<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWKNzxlyWEN1seMmQchmyafXIz3yjlO0PeLHQji_ThwBfvZ1_9ArEel_0u9OGYlh8Oc02YA3okp19PbiTXoRA0mZCKqn2zwbzsWt3pXpVarlXksvmuK1WAaq47h2oVjPhFstwh59GKH0/s1600/cake-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeWKNzxlyWEN1seMmQchmyafXIz3yjlO0PeLHQji_ThwBfvZ1_9ArEel_0u9OGYlh8Oc02YA3okp19PbiTXoRA0mZCKqn2zwbzsWt3pXpVarlXksvmuK1WAaq47h2oVjPhFstwh59GKH0/s200/cake-2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Happy Birthday To Max, Ellie & Matt</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.13in;">February
2016 is a month of significant birthdays in my world. No offense to
Washington and Lincoln, their days are important too, but the
birthdays in my family take precedence over presidents.</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">On
February 20th, my youngest son Max turned twenty-one years old. He’s
come a long way from his tumultuous arrival into this world 21 years
ago on a snowy February morning in the emergency room of the New
England Memorial Hospital in Stoneham. He was born on a Monday
President’s Day holiday making the day even more special. He was
also born one month earlier than expected. He’s always been ahead
of his time. As a baby, he barely crawled. One day he just stood up
and started walking. A short time later he was riding a two-wheeler.
There were no training wheels on Max’s bike; he never needed them.
His difficult middle-school experiences turned to triumph by the time
he reached high-school. He excelled in the Stoneham Jazz Ensemble
under the guidance of Mr. Grammer. Max will be a senior at Berklee
College of Music in September, where his love for improvisational
jazz has become his focus. His dream of becoming a music instructor
has already been realized. In March he will begin teaching jazz
courses for Brookline’s Adult Education Program. Max claims he
doesn’t like to celebrate his birthday but that’s fine . His
mother and I will always celebrate for him. We are thankful for every
moment we share with this incredibly talented young man.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">This
weekend also marked the 30th birthday of my godchild Matthew Scott.
Thirty years ago my wife and I were blessed to become godparents of
this amazing child. Matthew is from a close-knit Portuguese family.
It was quite an honor to be welcomed into their world. Welcomed is an
understatement. I was sincerely touched when I learned my godchild's
middle name was Scott. It took me a long time to believe he was
actually named after me. Matthew entertained my wife and I every
visited his hometown of New Bedford. Our godchild has always been
special to us. We were stunned when we heard news of a horrific car
accident almost took his life when he was just sixteen. He fought
hard to come back and thanks to his positive attitude, he made it.
Today he works as a counselor for troubled youths helping them
overcome problems of their own. I'm very proud of Matthew Scott and
the man he has become. If we could only keep him away from
motorcycles we’d all rest a little easier.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">On
Tuesday, my granddaughter Eliana Rose celebrated her first birthday.
She was born one year ago on Academy Award Sunday, at the stroke of
midnight just as the Oscar was presented to Birdman for Best Picture.
I was at the hospital for her birth. When I held her in my arms, I
looked down at her and forgot all about award shows. I realized a
star was born right before my eyes. I’ve been watching her ever
since, amazed at her first steps, her first words, her singing, her
dancing. This tiny little soul has filled my heart with so much love
it is immeasurable, even though she’s only been a member of my
family for a short time. Her beauty leaves me at a loss for words,
and that’s something that never happens to me. Ever.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.13in;">These
three people are all the proof I need that miracles do</span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.13in;">happen. To a
small extent, I feel I have helped shape their lives. They have no
idea of the profound influence they’ve had on mine. May all their
birthday wishes come true.</span></span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-63002877381782430512015-12-21T14:18:00.000-08:002015-12-21T14:18:41.239-08:00Seasonal Affective Disorder<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2x2n428V6MXPzMTZCaa1Nn-h1y6XAdNtQ8bScaWJPrhE3bf44RwWdlA76uYgZxENLvRXHG4FpJhcxMrTTX0hjaM_lxtbid7f-qNEB9FUkFDzJseuTtR3JAgrZGZwsK-qDpkvlF-KDnO4/s1600/stone-lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2x2n428V6MXPzMTZCaa1Nn-h1y6XAdNtQ8bScaWJPrhE3bf44RwWdlA76uYgZxENLvRXHG4FpJhcxMrTTX0hjaM_lxtbid7f-qNEB9FUkFDzJseuTtR3JAgrZGZwsK-qDpkvlF-KDnO4/s320/stone-lights.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Go into the light: Stoneham does Christmas.</span></b></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 138%; text-indent: 0.13in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">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 </span></span><span style="color: black; line-height: 138%; text-indent: 0.13in;">Garrett
Swasey</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 138%; text-indent: 0.13in;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">
</span></span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 138%; text-indent: 0.13in;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"></span></span></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I
started to get the holiday blues thinking about all the things I'll
never have. And then I looked around and saw the things I do have. My
tears were happy ones, glistening like snowflakes falling to the
ground, disappearing because of the warmth within my heart. Right now
Johnny Mathis is on the radio singing, “...we need a little
Christmas…”. I think I just found mine. It’s been right in
front of me all along.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>
<br /></h2>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-10153198603802820902015-12-12T15:03:00.003-08:002015-12-12T19:43:40.190-08:00Table Talk<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YCfgo6c7m-l1BrfdnyTgvL-csdxwm6Fwwn4KLXjAx7cM4sw-nDubHWY9QKildxDthw6f-M6o7iY7KRd303pWKbLavQ2ygP45apX73aZO0wYR9Y0jxwCsqFJ8BNL7ri58_3q6Nrsa-N4/s1600/dining-room-2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YCfgo6c7m-l1BrfdnyTgvL-csdxwm6Fwwn4KLXjAx7cM4sw-nDubHWY9QKildxDthw6f-M6o7iY7KRd303pWKbLavQ2ygP45apX73aZO0wYR9Y0jxwCsqFJ8BNL7ri58_3q6Nrsa-N4/s320/dining-room-2015.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Room for dessert.</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Why do you have
such a big table in that room?” one of the children asked. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">To eat our meals
on.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">You eat at a
table? Wow!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">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.)</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">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).</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">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.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">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!</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; text-indent: 0.13in; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 100%; text-indent: 0.13in;">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.</span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-2591100508940947762015-11-21T05:58:00.001-08:002015-11-21T05:58:47.258-08:00The New Guy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_iaskRb5iq6qR3kGTWG6TNiYbW27Cnffo1BBayz2-6fkTsEj-8765M_s4Cf2UydVgCryPJl2UtvzMMg2u8o0uA4NQlz-PiWuY18CXxmf_3V2vmE1mVOlRJtnbvx_vZLQ89T26zMSKK1o/s1600/NewGuy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 12.48px;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_iaskRb5iq6qR3kGTWG6TNiYbW27Cnffo1BBayz2-6fkTsEj-8765M_s4Cf2UydVgCryPJl2UtvzMMg2u8o0uA4NQlz-PiWuY18CXxmf_3V2vmE1mVOlRJtnbvx_vZLQ89T26zMSKK1o/s320/NewGuy.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And my manager is 23 years old.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.13in;">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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
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>I</i>
was that guy, and believe me, it's not a title anyone enjoys
carrying.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
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.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.13in;">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”. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_iaskRb5iq6qR3kGTWG6TNiYbW27Cnffo1BBayz2-6fkTsEj-8765M_s4Cf2UydVgCryPJl2UtvzMMg2u8o0uA4NQlz-PiWuY18CXxmf_3V2vmE1mVOlRJtnbvx_vZLQ89T26zMSKK1o/s1600/NewGuy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-48703491516444883252015-10-23T19:17:00.002-07:002015-10-23T19:17:41.059-07:00Tales from Kushala Sip<b> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDfOz0O4kU-fr-B1yE69tfUG-M5BjhPAAo3OLjHjkfBYtsN6ewWc9HBBRiA2KSgfqCmKVCIGI9qW8oT4XWGZYPln5GO7kH5aHZpSSrK68UB8kHOJC9pIako4kEh42hT9xLmXFsJIH1Nk/s1600/kushala-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDfOz0O4kU-fr-B1yE69tfUG-M5BjhPAAo3OLjHjkfBYtsN6ewWc9HBBRiA2KSgfqCmKVCIGI9qW8oT4XWGZYPln5GO7kH5aHZpSSrK68UB8kHOJC9pIako4kEh42hT9xLmXFsJIH1Nk/s320/kushala-1.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Clouds in my coffee...</b></span></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b>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.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>and</i> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-58159045419320503142015-10-18T16:29:00.000-07:002015-10-18T16:29:26.142-07:00The Rise of Fall<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXm8nh2UdFv7d53dGqRDMUyDUadJXSOZ6sEp0YhRCPqAXfiwI3H2JEmOlOJa-NjVgCUZcT7WHYHgczWCvnHUvwmP5zffhSrteG5T1bBw7r_ZNj6anpFwUj7vka5vbVdPGyumuakrl98SA/s1600/ellie-pumpkin-march.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXm8nh2UdFv7d53dGqRDMUyDUadJXSOZ6sEp0YhRCPqAXfiwI3H2JEmOlOJa-NjVgCUZcT7WHYHgczWCvnHUvwmP5zffhSrteG5T1bBw7r_ZNj6anpFwUj7vka5vbVdPGyumuakrl98SA/s320/ellie-pumpkin-march.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Ellie in the pumpkin patch. </b></span></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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).</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-87914156861377966332015-10-11T15:13:00.000-07:002015-10-11T15:13:05.492-07:00Goodbye Yellow Brick Road<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmr0U1X19uLLOF3eQYd4H87iEJDmUmz_hKkfquv0enFgtDavlVQTS3DCUJ3908XVuELjo8xizQC8gl72v3E9AQnT3IvD7jmQH37M21IIVAaOzTGXEw46o75E9B9vy4F6s7ih2rW06EOo/s1600/yellow-brick-road-300x282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmr0U1X19uLLOF3eQYd4H87iEJDmUmz_hKkfquv0enFgtDavlVQTS3DCUJ3908XVuELjo8xizQC8gl72v3E9AQnT3IvD7jmQH37M21IIVAaOzTGXEw46o75E9B9vy4F6s7ih2rW06EOo/s1600/yellow-brick-road-300x282.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the road again...</span></b></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> </b>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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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. </span></span>
</span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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 </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">ever</span></span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">
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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Coworkers
rallied together to get me to change my mind. “You can’t go.”
“You have to stay.” </span></span>“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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">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.”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-22370787897572091742015-09-21T19:09:00.000-07:002015-09-21T19:09:17.097-07:00What I Did On My Summer Vacation<div style="font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL_q7usB7oE0eGs6ofl2cDAcb_ovoYeTt-1i-TP7I1IiJJ9r7jbOr1Ad2cC4n5PoHgPmTn4nYnPMibGOPZvdMSSjCdbSOf5UlscEDjAoGjIKSCz57pmpWlLMghEhZXzL1kxN8pATjkrA/s1600/mountain+men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL_q7usB7oE0eGs6ofl2cDAcb_ovoYeTt-1i-TP7I1IiJJ9r7jbOr1Ad2cC4n5PoHgPmTn4nYnPMibGOPZvdMSSjCdbSOf5UlscEDjAoGjIKSCz57pmpWlLMghEhZXzL1kxN8pATjkrA/s320/mountain+men.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Kings of the Mountain</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-88954078727567902822015-09-13T18:07:00.001-07:002015-09-13T18:07:49.795-07:00Live Shot<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Station to Station: The Joe Mullowney story</b></span></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b>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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> 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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span>“</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Do
the news stories you cover affect you?” I asked my son.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span>“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
see these stories through the filter of my camera lens, Dad. It’s
just me doing my job.” he responded.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Good
answer, I thought. But it’s a different story when he puts his
camera down.</span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-7004348204049938142015-09-07T06:36:00.001-07:002015-09-07T06:37:00.197-07:00Heroes For Hire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b></b></div>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First family: Marvel Comic's Fantastic Four</span></h4>
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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.<br />
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).<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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).<br />
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.Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-51764559500138208392015-08-24T19:14:00.000-07:002015-08-24T19:14:28.628-07:00A Midsummer's Daydream<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Time and tide wait for no man.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I'm </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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?”</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> “<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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.</span></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-9306260222444305022015-07-16T04:06:00.000-07:002015-07-16T04:06:01.101-07:00The Deep End of the Carpool<div style="font-style: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-weight: normal;"> </span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-weight: normal; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbTQQyOb-Xh2Lmoh_eIemjy-g-_Xw9hQBxPPSdykxptdVwvfI3HcQoiaskA5skOW4AcWilBZ1Smt6HF6YcN7oms5JppFQ6P8aUVuaiYaOde4yXP7JViCL0gVJgGrrswDrch52unxM8ms/s1600/traffic-boston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbTQQyOb-Xh2Lmoh_eIemjy-g-_Xw9hQBxPPSdykxptdVwvfI3HcQoiaskA5skOW4AcWilBZ1Smt6HF6YcN7oms5JppFQ6P8aUVuaiYaOde4yXP7JViCL0gVJgGrrswDrch52unxM8ms/s1600/traffic-boston.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Right lane closed, wrong lane open.</b></span></h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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?</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.)</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> During
our last ride home together my carpool buddy said, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">“</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">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.</span></span></span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-7589545376933597492015-07-03T05:54:00.000-07:002015-07-04T06:30:08.018-07:00Baby, You’re a Firework<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7CHlQlU5pX1k1ORv1Fz060mQsF9GZOiruJPcavb3dLFHf1WbXzO736EAKcRtd56SwHjE3_xAQbW4m1ftEsTG_5Cp0ggjhQ7Qe8bdoVHwqNONlmbjdYMiUlG5Vgf7GvCxLHWfR_MKh_Y/s1600/EllieFace.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7CHlQlU5pX1k1ORv1Fz060mQsF9GZOiruJPcavb3dLFHf1WbXzO736EAKcRtd56SwHjE3_xAQbW4m1ftEsTG_5Cp0ggjhQ7Qe8bdoVHwqNONlmbjdYMiUlG5Vgf7GvCxLHWfR_MKh_Y/s200/EllieFace.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>My little firecracker</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>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.<br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;"> 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! </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-53380661813882112912015-05-13T19:47:00.000-07:002015-05-13T19:47:14.764-07:00Reverend Rob<div class="p1">
<b> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFRq1av9-RFG-5-86FgdUyQ-in3wvYsi14pjpBjF4pDoYsGouYo0Ywz_J8FOrTUo-WB1QEB-ioenBdihmCfKYDXIUc-8hDyZvEUli6jBH08MWdb_WEdIDBDwzJK3bjIp4q8M91jUgGeQ/s1600/rob.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFRq1av9-RFG-5-86FgdUyQ-in3wvYsi14pjpBjF4pDoYsGouYo0Ywz_J8FOrTUo-WB1QEB-ioenBdihmCfKYDXIUc-8hDyZvEUli6jBH08MWdb_WEdIDBDwzJK3bjIp4q8M91jUgGeQ/s200/rob.gif" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Food for thought...</span></b></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b>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. </div>
<div class="p1">
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.</div>
<div class="p1">
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. </div>
<div class="p1">
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.</div>
<div class="p1">
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. </div>
<div class="p1">
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. </div>
<div class="p1">
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.</div>
<div class="p1">
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. </div>
<div class="p1">
“You lost a pound this week. Perfect! Keep moving in that direction and you’ll be at your goal in no time!”</div>
<div class="p1">
“You gained weight this week but you realize where you can improve? Great! That means you’ll do better next week!”</div>
<div class="p1">
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.</div>
<div class="p1">
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.</div>
<div class="p1">
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?</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-36042552619725167162015-05-06T17:52:00.004-07:002015-05-06T17:52:33.934-07:00Let's Get Physical
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXz51HItMZI8AvUYV2tFcx8Nnz4MbEGaa-nfc0hVtkjMCbZin9dO2dSIN5QbbvkEWCZbvIo9Z24moXXG5pmXO27tEvhQlM_TI4ygQm_NFTzfcNyIn1YsBXg1nwF3YzsfaE86nkl4ISooQ/s1600/olivia.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXz51HItMZI8AvUYV2tFcx8Nnz4MbEGaa-nfc0hVtkjMCbZin9dO2dSIN5QbbvkEWCZbvIo9Z24moXXG5pmXO27tEvhQlM_TI4ygQm_NFTzfcNyIn1YsBXg1nwF3YzsfaE86nkl4ISooQ/s1600/olivia.gif" height="158" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Leg warmers and headbands?</span></h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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. </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Do you want to take a tour of one of the gym’s we’ve been considering?” my wife asked. </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I’d like to, but I thought we’d have a cup of coffee and watch TMZ,” I answered. </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> We ended up at the gym taking the tour, a much better choice than spending another sedentary night on the sofa. </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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?” </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I do,” I said, finding myself just outside the norm once again. </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.” </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> “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. </span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 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.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-34741726824902253442015-04-26T18:04:00.000-07:002015-04-26T18:04:49.108-07:00Robin Dangerfield<span style="font-size: large;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>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</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9n3DenvDQj-Guq136lJVZUF7NhO4CWSQTuwu7-dr4VPDQph3ZT2OXsiLyEoMx6FgmchEQ45ImvXLru8q1kpz0bQSImnWULMsZAzlbMiS-hvvAle0Tq3YVFcQOz2g4NAOPE2vntYKeeas/s1600/robin-2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9n3DenvDQj-Guq136lJVZUF7NhO4CWSQTuwu7-dr4VPDQph3ZT2OXsiLyEoMx6FgmchEQ45ImvXLru8q1kpz0bQSImnWULMsZAzlbMiS-hvvAle0Tq3YVFcQOz2g4NAOPE2vntYKeeas/s1600/robin-2.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ranting robin: Tweet Tweet @$%#!</span></h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;"> “</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">Seriously?”
the robin thought. “It’s Spring. You know, Spring with a capital
S. The season just before Summer.”<br /> </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;"> The
bird hopped down from the snow pile onto what was once my lawn.
</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;">“</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">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.”</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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 <i>What
Spring</i>?”</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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.”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> “<span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">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!”</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> “</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">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. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">“</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">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.”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 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.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> “</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Great,”
I said. “Not only do I have a disgruntled robin on my front porch,
but it sounds like Rodney Dangerfield."</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> 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 </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">can’t</span></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">,
because the birdseed is in the shed and the doors are still covered
with a foot of icy s</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">now</span></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">.
Thanks a lot, </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">mister</span></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">.”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Now
I was getting ruffled. “</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">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.”</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> “Ah,shaddup,”
the robin said.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> 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.<br />
</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"> As
it flew away, it turned its head and squawked, “You really need to
paint your front porch!”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Summer
can’t come fast enough for me.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> </span></span></span></span></span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-21102215807683373352015-04-02T08:36:00.000-07:002015-04-02T08:36:26.469-07:00Waiting for Eliana<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglL0idkH_iQOi4EFVJNXFI1BbKTmBrk-KwLbruS2L4256QtWFG3bnBFhnl31EiHsz1XkLMiDcUmXPA_5DOranNpeslcPgMC7mJ2aoVdhIxcMSwOJzdEMoIhQDa4Oo9GmAS971xTNWZoIo/s1600/grampy-ellie.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglL0idkH_iQOi4EFVJNXFI1BbKTmBrk-KwLbruS2L4256QtWFG3bnBFhnl31EiHsz1XkLMiDcUmXPA_5DOranNpeslcPgMC7mJ2aoVdhIxcMSwOJzdEMoIhQDa4Oo9GmAS971xTNWZoIo/s1600/grampy-ellie.png" height="254" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby?</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
I’m too young to be a grandfather, but I was ecstatic when I heard the news my son and his wife were expecting their first child. Finding out the baby was a girl added another level of excitement. I grew up with three brothers, no sisters. I have two sons, no daughters. So the news of a new Mullowney girl caused quite a buzz within the family.</div>
<div class="p1">
A projected due date of February 14th fueled more family excitement. A baby on Valentine’s Day! How romantic! And that birthday date is shared by two close members of my family so it was extra special. However, Valentine’s Day 2015 came and went with no baby in sight. I had brunch with the parents-to-be on the morning of the due date. </div>
<div class="p1">
“How are you feeling,” I asked.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Fine.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Not <i>you</i> son, your <i>wife</i>,” I said.</div>
<div class="p1">
“I’m fine too,” she answered.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Hmmm,” I thought. Not even the slightest hint that a baby might arrive any time soon.</div>
<div class="p1">
The week dragged on. No baby. My daughter-in-law continued to work at her job in Natick, driving through blizzards, ice-storms and sub-zero temperatures. She wanted to work right up until she delivered the baby. Both sides of her concerned family listened to the traffic reports every morning to see if any babies were being delivered by State Police on the Mass Pike. </div>
<div class="p1">
Each day after the due date, I was sure I was going to get a call from my son telling me the baby was coming. The anticipation was taking its toll on the grandparents-to-be. According to the doctors, everything was fine, it just wasn’t time yet. </div>
<div class="p1">
As the next weekend approached, the doctors said they would admit my daughter-in-law into the Winchester Hospital to induce labor. The only problem was there were no beds available in the maternity ward. We were just going to have to wait. And wait. And wait.</div>
<div class="p1">
I got a call Thursday night from my son who was on his way to the hospital with his wife. This must be it, I thought. No such luck. Go home. Not tonight. </div>
<div class="p1">
Saturday arrived, along with a phone call from my son telling me his wife was admitted to the hospital. Everything looked good, now we just had to wait. And wait. And wait. I didn’t sleep Saturday night waiting for a phone call from the hospital. The telephone never rang. </div>
<div class="p1">
Finally on Sunday night, we drove to the hospital to await the arrival of our new granddaughter. My wife and I haven’t had any baby experience since 1995. Times have changed. Extended families are now part of the birth experience. In the hospital room, my wife and I visited my son and daughter-in-law, along with her mother. We settled into our chairs and chatted in the hospital room, listening to the soothing sound of the baby’s heartbeat on the beeping monitor. This must be what it was like in days gone by, sitting around a straw hut, waiting for the birth of a new member of the tribe. After the harrowing experiences my wife had with her pregnancies, this peaceful night was a stress-free relief – the complete opposite of what we experienced when our children were born. If it takes a village to raise a child, maybe it takes a village to birth a child too. I was happy to be part of the experience.</div>
<div class="p1">
At 11:30 pm, the delivery nurse entered the room and matter-of-factly stated, “Can the family please move to the waiting room. The baby will be arriving shortly.” After waiting nine months, plus the additional agonizing last week, a few more minutes didn’t seem to matter. </div>
<div class="p1">
At 11:45 pm, my daughter-in-law’s mother was summoned to the delivery room to offer her support. This is it, I thought nervously. It won’t be long now.</div>
<div class="p1">
At 12:10 am my cellphone buzzed and I looked at the screen to see the first snapshot of my granddaughter. It was love at first sight. I showed the photo to my wife and said, “Congratulations, you’re a grandmother.” We headed back to the delivery room to meet our granddaughter in person.</div>
<div class="p1">
Eliana Rose Mullowney was born at exactly 12:00 am midnight Sunday night/Monday morning. Perfect and alert, eyes wide open, dark hair, blue eyes and a hint of a smile above her tiny dimpled chin. Holding her in my arms and gazing down at her beautiful face made it so worth the wait. Welcome to the world, Eliana Rose, who by any other name, would still be as sweet. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p2">
<br />
</div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-56204721882569047822015-03-01T17:48:00.002-08:002015-03-01T17:48:48.234-08:00Ice Station Zebra<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiTT4lDlg1rFxTvtkSqp6LKTYf6jcyEBO-weelpBIMQ8iD97vteKan4fp6QmuXMGh5ljWPkJ8gaUtuZODuYgKTL-kyPnpzHH8N-48RCAfPYZre3k8hvJC1tXGULxdr12FFeSOPRGUTwr0/s1600/self-portrat-2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiTT4lDlg1rFxTvtkSqp6LKTYf6jcyEBO-weelpBIMQ8iD97vteKan4fp6QmuXMGh5ljWPkJ8gaUtuZODuYgKTL-kyPnpzHH8N-48RCAfPYZre3k8hvJC1tXGULxdr12FFeSOPRGUTwr0/s1600/self-portrat-2015.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></b></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>"I tried to smile but my lips were frozen."</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b> </b>As
I began my morning commute last Friday, I thought to myself, “I
can’t take much more of this.” Of course I was referring to the
never-ending winter weather. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">As
I write this, a fifth-in-a-row weekend storm approaches. I should be
used to it by now, but I’m not. I’m amazed how the snow has
complicated everyday life.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Inside
my home nothing has changed. I take for granted that I am in the same
warm safe place I’ve always been. But every time I open my front
door I'm shocked because I don't recognize my surroundings. Once my
eyes adjust to the blinding whiteness of the outside world, the
unfamiliar landscape comes into focus.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> I
can't make sense of what I’m seeing. Have I suddenly been
transported to the moon? There are high jagged mountains and deep
craters replacing what was once my driveway and front yard. The
sub-zero temperature reinforces my deep space theory. This is
certainly not the Gorham Avenue I remember from photographs of days
gone by.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> I
look around and realize I’m not on the moon. I’m on an iceberg
somewhere in the Arctic Ocean. Am I a survivor of the sunken Titanic?
Maybe I'm a stranded whaler trying to find the rest of my lost crew.
Then I remember. I’m just a Stoneham commuter trying to get to work
to earn a living. I remember my 12-mile three hour commute to Boston
that used to take 30 minutes on an average day.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Each
day is a life and death adventure making the treacherous journey
through ice and snow, dodging falling icicles, narrowly missing
avalanches, and wading through hip-deep snow. And that’s just the
trip from my front door to my car in the driveway. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> At
least my car starts up each day in this deep freeze, although there
are some odd noises upon ignition. Strange lights appear on my
dashboard. One light is my tire pressure indicator. Keeping an exact
amount of 32 lbs. of air per tire is the least of my worries. I have
heat and windshield-washer fluid, that’s all that matters for now.
Everything else will have to wait.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Driving
on side streets is a challenge. Entering main streets from behind
walls of snow becomes less frightening the more I do it. The
adrenaline rush of not knowing if I'm going to be hit by another
vehicle really gets my blood pumping. Sweating nervously produces
body heat as an added bonus.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">I’m
quite adept at pot-hole dodging on the highway. I’ve memorized the
position of the ones in the road I can drive over without a problem.
I know how to swerve just enough to miss the larger craters without
smashing into the vehicle in the next lane. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> I’ve
accepted the increased volume of traffic due to commuters who used to
take mass transit and are now forced to become road warriors like the
rest of us. I can't believe the number of driver’s looking at their
phones instead of the road. I’ve got my gloved hands locked on my
steering wheel in the 10:00 and 2:00 o'clock position. I focus
straight ahead as I barrel along at 10 miles an hour, 15 on a good
day.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="page-break-inside: avoid;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;"> I
arrive at work, where it takes ten minutes to remove my extra layers
of clothing and step out of my winter boots into the dry shoes I
store under my desk.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">After
a mind-numbing day of work with my fellow Iditarod travelers, it’s
time to make the treacherous trek back home to Stoneham. The days are
getting longer so it’s easier to see the ice ruts and pot-holes
now, so that’s a plus.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Everyday
errands are just going to have to wait until the spring. Snow covered
roads and biting wind make even the shortest trips more difficult.
Just checking my mailbox is a chore. Forget about banking, the post
office, haircuts, dining out or visiting family. They are a thing of
the past in this post-modern ice age. There will be time for those
things when the weather warms up – IF the weather warms up.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm
not a complainer. I’m the most positive person you will ever meet.
But even my uplifting attitude is cracking like a tin roof under the
weight of the falling snow. I know this winter is not the end of the
world, but it’s pretty darn close. My advice: tough it out and keep
your chin up. Just keep it covered so you don’t get frostbite.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-72344000188410073702015-02-12T18:44:00.000-08:002015-02-12T18:44:15.512-08:00Frozen<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvSb7vTaPodFTOxkSJ6Jc2Qx4ea_KfQ_dh2vL4fC7WosbRCsCiAGT-ujf3jXOaU8bGhMBbiTGy4IZhRnDzP3ancV5XhQuoe_WIMIDsqvuNZmxrJw3zSjNMz0PXl1M42ccNMQYmVtY4PU/s1600/winter-window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvSb7vTaPodFTOxkSJ6Jc2Qx4ea_KfQ_dh2vL4fC7WosbRCsCiAGT-ujf3jXOaU8bGhMBbiTGy4IZhRnDzP3ancV5XhQuoe_WIMIDsqvuNZmxrJw3zSjNMz0PXl1M42ccNMQYmVtY4PU/s1600/winter-window.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">STAINED GLASS: Looking out my front door</span></div>
</h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">I
never have to worry about writer’s block while living in New
England. People love talking about the weather in our little neck of
the global woods. And this winter there’s so much to talk about.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> January
2015 was cold, but that's to be expected. Nothing unusual happened on
the weather front other than we almost made it through the entire
month without any significant snowfall. At the end of the month, the
snow finally arrived. Boy did it ever. And now there is no end in
sight.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> The
January 27th blizzard dumped around 25 inches of snow on Stoneham. At
work, I was already on the schedule for vacation days on Monday and
Tuesday. My timing couldn't have been better. With the
state-of-emergency travel ban in place, I wasn’t going anywhere
anyway. Like everyone else that day, I spent most of my free time
shoveling and clearing snow. It was hard work but by Wednesday life
was more or less back to normal. Okay, less. But somehow we survived.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> One
week later, another storm struck and another foot of snow blanketed
our area. When added to the previous accumulation, the amount was
staggering. I took a rare spontaneous vacation day to enjoy more
shovel-time with my wife. I wish I could say we had fun. Not even
close. The pressure may have been dropping in the atmosphere but it
was skyrocketing in my driveway. Just ask the neighbors.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> Snow
removal is an enormously difficult challenge, for homeowners as well
as the DPW. Driving through town feels like training for an olympic
luge event. Nosing my car out of a corner side street is a complete
game of chance. I call it Extreme Whack-A-Mole. The record breaking,
back breaking snowfall has taken its toll on everyone. People are
exhausted before they arrive at work. Everyone looks strung out and
defeated. At least the Patriot’s Super Bowl victory gave us
something positive to focus on for a few moments.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background: transparent;"> I
just heard the extended forecast and there's more snow coming. It is
winter, so I’m not surprised. I have a few choice words for Mother
Nature 2015, besides “relentless” and “vicious”, but I’ll
keep them to myself so as not to disturb the weather gods. I don't
want to make them any more angry than they already are. I’ve gotten
used to trudging through the snowdrifts, tiptoeing on black ice, and
layering my clothes to combat the arctic wind chill. Hearty New
Englander? More like Apocalypse Survivor. That which doesn’t kill
you makes you stronger, so call me Superman. Maybe that’s just my
white-out delirium talking.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> Winter
2015 continues to stomp its way toward the ever elusive spring
season. Spring is under a lot of pressure this year to be
extra-spectacular – </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">or
else</span></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">.
For now, I'm living in the moment. I’m happy my home has a full
tank of heating oil, some Duraflame logs, and electricity to make the
harsh winter days and nights comfortable (or at least bearable). Give
me a hot cup of tea and a computer keyboard and I’m a happy camper.
The temperature may be sub-zero outside, but it's warm inside sitting
by the glow of my laptop fueled by the fire of my imagination.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br /></span></span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-31798658341460620182015-02-03T17:52:00.002-08:002015-02-03T17:52:47.374-08:00It's a Tie<div style="line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAxQMKJqfeJD6aeQa6PFuyOPg0zgp-7d2i0tjxxyXWgFqCNf51Zsruna0tnfVbwOY7KjHTR4k6UBe728pzLDr4sLdyQBS5kHPZteZ2VEE21xwnCmwI_MybYizDHJ2wTxLK1ZbYFSa3QE/s1600/tie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAxQMKJqfeJD6aeQa6PFuyOPg0zgp-7d2i0tjxxyXWgFqCNf51Zsruna0tnfVbwOY7KjHTR4k6UBe728pzLDr4sLdyQBS5kHPZteZ2VEE21xwnCmwI_MybYizDHJ2wTxLK1ZbYFSa3QE/s1600/tie.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Knot's Landing...</span></b></h3>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 114%; text-indent: 0.13in;">Last
month when I opened my Christmas gift from my sister-in-law and her
husband, I was expecting a wallet. I’m a good gift-guesser, which
infuriates my family. Inside the box, instead of a wallet, I found
something unique that forever changed my life. A r</span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 114%; text-indent: 0.13in;">eal</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 114%; text-indent: 0.13in;"> bow tie!</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">I
was last seen wearing a bow tie in my kindergarten graduation photo,
and that one was a clip on. The bow tie I received this year is the
real deal. It was love at first sight. Black and white, reversible
patterns, – a perfect match for most of my wardrobe. There was only
one problem. I never tied a bow tie in my life.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">How
hard could it be? My father taught me the proper way to tie a neck
tie when I was a youngster. And not just a regular knot, a majestic
<i>Windsor</i> knot. The kind of knot that sends a message. Thanks,
Dad!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">Without
my father here to share any bow tie knowledge he may have had, I
consulted the next best thing – the Internet. Google has the answer
to everything. I searched “how to tie a bow tie” and eagerly
awaited the results. The search found more information than I could
ever use. There were charts and graphs galore, but I thought a
YouTube video would be the best place to start.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">I
sat at my computer, bow tie in hand, and watched the first video. I
rewound the instructions several times, but I couldn’t get past
step two. Twenty minutes later, I Googled “<i>easy</i>-way-to-tie-a-bow
tie”. The videos that surfaced were similar to the first ones,
equally confusing and frustrating. One demonstrator suggested, “It’s
like tying your shoe.” (It's not). Another instructor shared a tip:
practice tying the bow tie around your leg until you get the hang of
it. That’s fine if you like the 1982 Joanie-Loves-Chachi “leg
bandana” look. After spending forty nonproductive minutes in front
of the mirror, I gave up for the night. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">I
took my bow tie with me to work the next day, determined to wear it.
I consulted a bow tied co-worker who moonlights as a cellist for the
Cambridge Symphony Orchestra. I knew he’d have some helpful hints.
He shed some light on the mystery of tying the knot. I headed to the
rest room hoping it was empty so I could have the mirror to myself.
In the privacy of the fluorescent lit bathroom, I tried to remember
all the steps I learned to appropriately tie this accoutrement around
my neck. I tied and re-tied without success. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">On
my last attempt, something clicked. Instead of looping right, I
looped left. I found success by overlapping and underlapping in the
opposite direction. Tying the bow backwards in the mirror was a real
brain teaser. Just when the bow looked almost perfect, I pulled the
wrong end and all my hard work unravelled. I was running out of time
and patience. I headed back to my desk with the tie hanging around my
neck like a wet noodle. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">At
the entrance to my department, I ran into two co-workers, Shirley and
Natalie, who were leaving for a sales call. They commented on my
unstrung tie. I couldn’t hide the frustration on my face.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;">“</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">I
almost had it. I can’t get past the last step. Watch this,” I
said as I proceeded to demonstrate how to tie the tie. I flipped the
fabric around, up, over and down, back up and...oh so close. I held
the pieces in place as the two women tried to analyze the knot
situation. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">T</span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">his
end needs to go to point A and this end needs to go to point B,” I
said. </span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;">“</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">It’s
like tying a ribbon,” Shirley said as she took one end and tucked
it through the loop in the back of the tie. Natalie pulled the end
through and looped it behind the other end to form a bow.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background: transparent;">“</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">It
almost looks like a bow tie now,” Natalie said. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">Almost</span></span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: transparent;">
being the key word.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">I
thanked them and did a u-turn back to the rest room to do some
fine-tuning. My bow tie was complete and it only took three people! </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">My
tie received a few compliments as the day progressed. I like the
look, although it seems too high-maintenance for everyday wear. I
suppose the more I practice, the better and faster I’ll get at it.
I need to buy a few more so I can introduce them into my everyday
wardrobe. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background: transparent;">I’d
love to adopt the bow tie as my signature look although I’m afraid
of the separated at birth comparisons that might pop up between me
and Orville Redenbacher. And the Pee Wee Herman references I could do
without.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 114%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0.13in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: 0.13in;">For
now, I’ll occasionally tie one on to mix things up in the wardrobe
department. Who says men’s fashion can’t be fun? Not us risk
takers. Once I get good at constructing the perfect bow tie, they’ll
be no stopping me. It’s just knot going to happen any time soon.</span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-8402148642608889532015-01-30T18:27:00.000-08:002015-01-30T18:27:08.428-08:00Je Suis Charlie<div class="p1">
<b> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmP6AH-kiKqMu4JbD4Df43LlFY8Aw69lTOTIUokrUL3V82YFFWsnpQO7LqQJXg79zb4D8rqwYQogSMr9IQB3aCvsCvDlV6Ax6uu2iFFtJvg421gYS0YC57xq1gvi6lVMz78LU6xG5TtY/s1600/wolinski.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmP6AH-kiKqMu4JbD4Df43LlFY8Aw69lTOTIUokrUL3V82YFFWsnpQO7LqQJXg79zb4D8rqwYQogSMr9IQB3aCvsCvDlV6Ax6uu2iFFtJvg421gYS0YC57xq1gvi6lVMz78LU6xG5TtY/s1600/wolinski.png" height="320" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: start;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Papa est parti pas Wolinski</span></b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b>Terrorism can happen so far away and yet hit so close to home. I was shocked when I learned of the slaughter of twelve innocent journalists on the staff of the French political satire cartoon magazine called “Charlie Hebso”. </div>
<div class="p1">
A band of militant extremists assassinated twelve people on the magazine’s staff because their religious beliefs differed with a cartoon the periodical ran on it’s cover. The terrorists exposed their true colors by striking at personal freedom, thus showing the rest of the world what will happen to freedom everywhere if these savages are allowed to come into power. In targeting a small band of cartoonists, these terrorists have managed to spotlight the horror and intolerance behind their agenda.</div>
<div class="p1">
Watching the news, I was outraged along with the rest of the world. As a cartoonist, I was saddened on a deeper level. A close bond exists between the brotherhood and sisterhood of cartoonists in the world. Only a small number of us are chosen by this unique vocation, so the loss seems even more compelling. </div>
<div class="p1">
Cartooning is a strange and lonely profession. It is done solitarily, by one person with one pencil and one sheet of paper, but its simplicity brings joy to many. Cartoons are an ephemeral art form with a short life span. They are meant to be looked at, read and absorbed in an instant, offering a brief chuckle or a perplexed smirk, depending on their content (and depending on the reader's state of mind at the time). Then the page is turned and they evaporate into the ether. A good cartoon strikes a familiar nerve with the reader and finds a home on a cubicle wall or a refrigerator door, where its shelf life lingers a little longer. Most cartoons are disposable, making a quick point and moving on its way with the rest of the day’s information, usually never to be heard from again. And certainly not cause for a reaction extreme enough to warrant the murder of the artist who creates it. Although cartoonists work alone, we share a common bond that can’t be defined, and can’t be broken.</div>
<div class="p1">
The terror attack in Paris only makes the need for free speech stronger. As an artist, I never underestimate the power a cartoon can have. Cartoons may look like a few quick strokes of ink on paper, but the simple combination of words and pictures can cut deep into the reader’s soul, eliciting a response from the inside out, as the warmth of humor or the cutting edge of satire spread from the brain to the heart, causing an instant flood of endorphins to wash over a person’s psyche. Good cartoons are powerful things. Just for an instant, they make the reader feel something. Humor. Laughter. Enlightenment. Not only do cartoons make us feel, they make us think. They make us reflect on the human condition and make us realize we are not alone on our journey through life.</div>
<div class="p1">
Attacks on freedom of speech will never be tolerated by the masses. Cartoons, like freedom, can’t be contained. At least not while people can still think for themselves. Hopefully the majority of people will feel that way for a long, long time. This tragedy brings new meaning to the old saying “the pen is mightier than the sword”. </div>
<div class="p1">
I will continue to fight for personal freedom as long as I can scribble words and pictures on paper that make people smile, and once in awhile, make people stop and think. Je Suis Charlie.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p3">
<br /></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-46585294890450604372015-01-04T06:48:00.000-08:002015-01-04T06:48:58.294-08:00Tabula Rasa<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b> </b></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyl01kDvz2FWz-fHPOeR95vY9qlvhHxCStFgB2isn_i-FSOmj7SqlOgIioD0vJdbsoJW44DGg4Fk8-VNQRZo7ev9961Gx1shbxil1H7CDTd8XC2rnSp7xocPdwjSoRKVOWlevZW9bnBEA/s1600/slate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyl01kDvz2FWz-fHPOeR95vY9qlvhHxCStFgB2isn_i-FSOmj7SqlOgIioD0vJdbsoJW44DGg4Fk8-VNQRZo7ev9961Gx1shbxil1H7CDTd8XC2rnSp7xocPdwjSoRKVOWlevZW9bnBEA/s1600/slate.jpg" height="209" width="320" /></a></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-weight: normal;"> Dictionary.com
defines the term “Tabula Rasa” as anything existing undisturbed
in its original pure state. It’s origin is from the Latin words
meaning scraped table, or more commonly translated as “clean
slate”. I learned this phrase from a high school writing assignment
my son brought home from his English class a few years ago. I liked
the sound of the phrase, and more importantly, I liked the meaning
behind it.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"> With
a new year upon us, I’m adopting Tabula Rasa as my catch-phrase for
2015. Imagine the year stretched out in front of you, a virtual blank
slate for you to shape into anything you want. New beginnings. A
fresh start. Unlimited possibilities. A white canvas, full of
nothing, waiting for me to paint it with colors I choose. The
possibilities are endless.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Tumultuous
2014 was a trying time for the entire world. Disease, terrorism,
civil unrest – it was hard to find a glimmer of positivity as the
year wore on. On a personal level, my year was eventful as well. My
roller coaster ride through life continued at break-neck speed. The
high point was my son’s wedding last January; the low point was
biting my fingernails while waiting approval for student loans so my
youngest son could continue his education at Berklee College of
Music. Sandwiched in between were the usual medical dramas and days
full of life’s little surprises that always catch me off guard no
matter how prepared I think I am.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> 2015
feels different already. I’m approaching the calendar as a year of
opportunity and change. My own personal philosophy is that each one
of us creates our own reality. Make sure you create a reality to your
liking. Combine these thoughts with my “tabula rasa” mentality,
and I am not intimidated by the year to come. I am looking forward to
shaping my life the way I want it to be.</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; page-break-inside: avoid; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Easier
said than done. I’m taking small steps, one day at a time, to make
things happen the way I want them to. There will always be things
beyond my control, but the way a person handles situations that arise
is a true test of inner resolve. We can’t control adversity, but we
can control our reaction to it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"> I
see big changes on the horizon. My son is expecting his first child,
expanding our family tree into the future. I'm happily moving up a
notch to make room for the next generation.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"> I'm
ready to open myself up to the waiting arms of the universe and let
it take me headlong into infinity. And I’m ready to explore each
and every experience my universe has to offer. Bring on the blank
canvas of 2015 and let me paint the best and brightest picture I can
with what I have to work with. Let me mold my experiences to make
things better for everyone I come in contact with. This year, if I’m
the only person I encounter who has a positive attitude, that’s
enough for me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-60117778151322038782014-12-26T13:07:00.000-08:002014-12-26T13:27:10.399-08:00Deck the Hallmark Channel<div style="height: 0px;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ug6DefF11EwEnB9GfmH1iB3OHB6MDwcaliCaVR3PybIp0bCKWDuAcTuxz6YeMeIbQK22oVrukzfntIRmNlq_cor771tgI0cZYEAfmQHHAkxALJSe7QWkWqgW-tLzYXj9Svvn2cCwviQ/s1600/grumpy-cat_1224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ug6DefF11EwEnB9GfmH1iB3OHB6MDwcaliCaVR3PybIp0bCKWDuAcTuxz6YeMeIbQK22oVrukzfntIRmNlq_cor771tgI0cZYEAfmQHHAkxALJSe7QWkWqgW-tLzYXj9Svvn2cCwviQ/s1600/grumpy-cat_1224.jpg" height="198" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><b>Fa la la la la, la la la, blah.</b></span></td></tr>
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I’m all about festive movie viewing for the holiday season. Classics like It’s A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol are a holiday staple in my home, as well as new classics like Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation and Bill Murray’s Scrooged. They should be watched in small doses, sprinkled sparingly throughout the holiday viewing season like treasured sweets. Instead, the Hallmark Channel's force fed film feast has me running for the Pepto Bismol. Every movie my wife watches on the Hallmark Channel's 30 Days of Christmas Marathon is driving me out of my mind (and out of my living room). There’s only so much Christmas magic I can take.</div>
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These uplifting holiday made-for-TV movies are overflowing with 1980’s celebrities hoping to recapture some of their lost limelight (or at least pick up a paycheck). Over the past few weeks I’ve seen Crystal Bernard from the TV series Wings, Dean Cain from Lois & Clark and the omnipresent Candace Cameron of Full House fame. These long lost souls have been welcomed back into my living room for the holidays like homeless people with no place to go.The movie plots are another story. The titles say it all: The Christmas Secret, An Old-Fashioned Christmas, A Christmas Visitor, Merry Ex-Mas, A Royal Christmas, A Boyfriend For Christmas – and the list goes on.I’ve been inspired by these films to submit an original movie script of my own for next season entitled “Happy Holly Days”. Here’s a synopsis:</div>
<div class="p2">
<i>Los Angeles advertising executive Holly Davis, who never experienced Christmas as a child, takes a job in Alaska to take her mind off the depressing holiday season. Thanks to a magical encounter with a Christmas angel while she’s picking out her Christmas Tree, she meets her second grade boyfriend, Brent, who is now the owner of a small company on the brink of collapse because an off-shore oil drilling contract is forcing his business to close. Holly rallies the quirky Alaskan townsfolk to band together to stop the pipeline and save her boyfriend’s business. During the victory celebration, Holly's boyfriend Brent is revealed to be the son of Saint Nicholas. He will become the next Santa Claus only if he marries his one true love, who just happens to be Holly. Fade to a white wedding winter wonderland in the North Pole where Holly and Brent live happily ever after, and Holly now has the kind of Christmas she’s always wanted. Fade into a long shot of Brent and Holly flying in a magical sleigh lifted up to the sky by magical reindeer. Zoom in as they kiss in silhouette against the bright full moon in the dark winter sky. Fade to black.</i></div>
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<i> </i>Unfortunately, after reading my outline, my wife noted this movie has already been made. The plots of these cookie-cutter movies all blend into one another. I can’t keep the stories straight.</div>
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<b>Me:</b> “Why is Candice Cameron in an ice-fishing hut with a lumberjack? I thought she was engaged to the singing cowboy.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<b>My Wife:</b> “That's a different movie. This is Christmas Under Wraps.”</div>
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<b>Me:</b> “Does Alan Thicke play her rich father?”</div>
<div class="p2">
<b> My Wife:</b> “No, that was Let It Snow. Stop asking questions.”</div>
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<b>Me:</b> “I need more spiked egg nog.”</div>
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<div class="p1">
In the midst of all this artificial holiday cheer, one blatantly bad movie shines through the darkness like the North Star – “Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever.” It even has “Worst” in the title. Talk about truth in advertising. In the words of Ebenezer Scrooge, “Bah, Hallmark!”</div>
Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3050391519869815457.post-59034042877454776512014-12-02T18:00:00.000-08:002014-12-02T18:03:07.078-08:00Age before beauty<div style="text-align: right;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h3>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>That Seventies Sho</b>w</span></h3>
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<div class="p1">
<b> </b>The tell-tale signs of aging are making themselves known to me, but I choose to ignore them (or maybe I just can’t see them through my tri-focal glasses. Now, where did I put them?).</div>
<div class="p1">
For a long time, I was the guy who looked eternally young. A virtual Portrait of Dorian Gray. Maybe it was my red hair or my youthful exuberance. “You’re how old? No way. You can’t be. You look so young.” Yeah, I used to get that a lot. </div>
<div class="p1">
In my younger days when I ordered something in a drinking establishment I was routinely asked for my ID by waiters and waitresses young enough to be my children. I remember celebrating my sixth wedding anniversary with friends at the Spinnaker Lounge in Cambridge. The waitress singled me out saying, “I only need to see <i>your</i> driver’s license. Everyone else is obviously of age.” I was equally embarrassed and flattered. Yeah, that hasn’t happened to me in a long time. A very long time.</div>
<div class="p1">
Recently, I was in the passenger seat as my wife bought coffee for us at a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru window. My wife noticed the total on the cash register was different than the amount the cashier asked for when she handed us our coffee. </div>
<div class="p1">
“Oh, that’s because of the senior citizen discount for the gentlemen,” the cashier said cheerfully. </div>
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My wife gave me a sideways smile. I was equally embarrassed and perturbed. I didn’t dare ask what the age is for that particular discount. I wanted to toss a quarter inside the drive up window and say, “Keep your discount, you young whippersnapper!” I kept my hurt feelings in check as the sudden realization of my escalating age sunk in.</div>
<div class="p1">
This year my wife and I celebrated our 34th wedding anniversary. We were out for dinner with the same couple we’ve celebrated with every year, who share the same anniversary date with us. I wasn’t carded at the table when we ordered drinks. I felt my age as the young waitress enunciated the nightly dinner specials to us as if everyone at our table was hard of hearing. The four of us craned our necks as we strained to hear what the waitress was saying. We tried to read her lips as we looked at her quizzically. We declined ordering any of the specials because A.) we couldn’t understand what she said, and B.) we couldn’t remember what she said. To be fair, the background noise in the restaurant was fairly loud. And there was a draft coming in from the front door And none of us brought our shawls. </div>
<div class="p1">
I’m going to ignore the signs of aging as long as I can. You’re as young as you feel. I think of that every time my knee joint pops and I pop and an Advil to numb the pain. I still identify with being a redhead even though my hair is gray (white? silver? I don't recognize the color anymore. Chalk it up to failing vision).</div>
<div class="p1">
I got some advice on aging from my mother who turned 89 years old this year. She’s still going strong – cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and shopping. She keeps up on current events, reads lots of newspapers and is a superfan of The Big Bang Theory sit-com. She told me age is part of the evolution of life. It creeps up on you slowly when you're not looking. I’m starting to realize how true this is as I gulp down another handful of Ibuprofen, secretly wishing to return to the days when I had red hair and I was being asked to show my driver's license when ordering an alcoholic beverage. I’ll take that embarrassment over the senior citizen discount any day.</div>
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Scott Mullowneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14486742704439059005noreply@blogger.com2