Shopping with Bukowski

I'm up early. The coffee is on and I'm reading some of Bukowski's short stories. If you're not familiar with Bukowski, he was a writer and poet that is associated with the Beats, but to me he doesn't really fit into that association. He possesses far less of the hippyness and more of the drunken, gambling, lecherous loser category that would seem to ridicule the Dharma Bums sooner than he would embrace them.

I like his stuff because there's a rawness and honesty to it. He puts it all out there and he tells it like it is; boils, warts, shit, puke, and all. He's a controversial figure in the writing world and probably more so, from a poetic standpoint. He's misogynistic, rude, crude, dirty and incredibly funny.

I, myself have to be careful as I'm an easy mark. I have a tendency to be influenced by the influences around me. Just because Chuckie boy got away with speaking his mind, doesn't give me license to do the same.

Yesterday was a good case in point. I stopped at a corner store, as if there is such a thing anymore. I bought a paper and as the cashier rang it up, asked me if I had my rewards card handy. My mind immediately raced with flurry of one liners and rude responses, one of which being, "Does Big Brother really need to know that I do the crossword in USA Today?" But I smiled, said "no" and kept my comments to myself.

I have to remember that I'm not Bukowski...but I'm slipping.

Christmas Morning Bed In

We stayed up later than usual this Christmas Eve. Deb and I finally decided to turn in around 2:30 am, but we didn't stress because our kids, now 17 and 16 would not be up at the crack of dawn begging us to go downstairs to see what Santa had left. Those days are over.

I clearly remember long past Christmas Eves where Deb and I, like many other parents would be up until the weary hours of the night, wrapping, and assembling the kids booty. My most favorite and equally horrifying memory is that of opening a Fischer Price remote control car and track we had bought for Zach. I was relieved and elated when I opened the huge four foot long box to find that there were only a small number of pieces to assemble. My happiness turned into horror when the four foot long sheet of stickers slipped out of the box. Every flag, every wheel cover, and even the white lines on the road had to be affixed with the corresponding sticker. It was like some evil half assed sobriety check, but I digress.

Our kids now would more likely have to be woken up around 10:00 or even later, so we slept soundly with no need to arise and no need to travel. It was Vanessa who stood over our kig size bed at 7:20. Not too early, but I was certainly not ready to step out. I asked her to wake Zach and have him come in to our bedroom. Zach came in and joined Vanessa, Deb, myself, not to mention dogs Bean and George.

The six of us laid in the king size bed under the covers and talked. No television, no phone, no texts and no distractions were present as the four of us shared stories of Christmas days' past. We smiled, giggled and laughed for the next 40 minutes or so, then we sprang into Christmas action. There were presents to open and a house to prepare for the throngs of friends and neighbors that would share our day, and a great day it was, but it couldn't and wouldn't equal those first minutes where we hung out together under the covers.

It was an unplanned magical little moment that has earned a place in the Calabrese Christmas Memory Hall of Fame and I think it was the coolest thing ever.

"Ms. Calabrese, Please Come Claim Your Lost Child"

I'm lost. Well, I'm not really lost, I'm just separated from my wife. Not relationship wise. I'm not living in some crappy apartment with pizza boxes and dirty underwear strewn about the place, I just can't seem to physically find her. I'm somewhere in Target and so is she, but I haven't seen her in what seems to be hours. I search up and down the aisles, partially blinded by the bright fluorescent lights that illuminate the vast "Made in China" sea of merchandise. Every time I think I see her, I rush over to find that it's some other shopper. She's dragged me along shopping again.

This is all my fault of course. I have the attention span of a gnat, and I wandered off early in our trek. Actually early inaccurately indicates that I was actually on track at some point. The reality is, as soon as we entered the store and found ourselves in the women's apparel section, I was gone. At least in my head. Oh, I offered my usual comments when we passed by the woman's undergarments section, but immediately after I drifted. Just a little bit at first, but then just a tad further, much like a new swimmer drifts just a little bit further into the deep end of the pool, but at some point can't see the rope that keeps we kiddies safe and accounted for.

Maybe this is her fault. I didn't want to come shopping and I didn't buy her comment that it would be a great way for us to spend some time together. We're not together. I didn't want to come here. This doesn't make me happy, and what's worse, I haven't seen her. I'm still wandering and I'm frustrated that I can't find her. There's a good chance that she's pissed that I've deserted her and I'm anticipating the scolding that I'm about to receive, "No wonder you got lost. I told you to stay by my side!"

Eventually, I have a flash of brilliance and reach for my cell phone. I call her, but much like the deep dark depths of the South American Rainforest there's no service. I keep moving up and down the aisles with no success and I eventually end up in the far reaches of the store where the damaged, discounted and out of season items are displayed. There are no women in this part of the store, just damaged lawn furniture and unsold gas grill replacement parts. I'm scared, cold and lonely. The only source of comfort is that there's a handful of other lost husbands, each of us sporting glazed over eyes, trembling and fearing the scolding that awaits us. Each of us awkwardly look at each other, but eventually I build up the courage to speak. I talk about us banding together and forming our own society of Lost Boys where we'll run across the country side causing havoc, eating pizza and drinking beer. Then our conversation abruptly comes to an end. Deb's standing at the end of the aisle. Her arms are crossed and she's tapping her foot. I bid my comrades farewell, "Uh, guys my wife's here...I have to go."

Deb has a handful of stuff that she's balancing because all this time I've been walking around with an empty shopping carriage. She smiles, pats me on the head and promises me a cookie if I stay with her. Finally we shop together. I start out strong but it's not long that I begin yawning. My feet start to drag and eventually, I assume the husband position of resting my weight on the handle bar of the carriage, dragging my feet. At some point I realize that the bottom panel of the carriage make a cool noise so I start to kick it with each step. I develop what I hear as a cool little rhythm until Deb stops and say, "Will you please stop doing that?"

Deb tries to enlist my help by asking my opinion on grab items for her co workers, this despite the fact that both of us know that she doesn't need my input. "What do you think about this for Ms. O'Neill? I offer a quick, "Yeah, that's great, but in my head I'm saying, "I don't really give a sh*#."

To Deb's credit, she keeps her composure and does her best to keep me engaged and entertained. Then she has her revenge. We still have other shopping to do including groceries, and I offer to stay in the car while she finishes her holiday shopping, then we can do the groceries together. She says, "I have a better idea. I'll go to TJMAXX alone, but I'll drop you off so you can do the food shopping, then I'll meet you there. It'll save us time." I sigh, but I agree and she bets me to see who will finish first. We part, and I rush around the store with my list filling my carriage as fast as I can. I proudly proclaim to myself, "I'll show her how to shop!" I weave in and out of the other shoppers like a man on a mission and I quickly empty my list as my carriage becomes full. When I get to the last aisle, I see Deb walking toward me. She's smiling and says, "I beat you. I win." I correct her and proudly state, "Uh, uh. I'm finished. I win!" Or did I?

Just Another Day in New York City

We met Jen and Geoff at the Cascade Diner after a long night of holiday overindulgence and dancing. George and Denise's dance mix kept a good portion of the Brooklyn revelers moving throughout their spacious brownstone and we were all feeling the effects our moves and the various concoctions that lubricated, not so much our joints but our inhibitions. This morning we were moving a little slowly, but our pace was assisted by the anticipation and excitement of spending the day running around Greenwich Village and Midtown Manhattan.

After a bright and brisk walk over the Brooklyn Bridge where I continually fell behind the rest of the group. I, like the other hundreds of digital camera toting tourists, aspired to capture an image of the great bridge that would probably pale in comparison to the many photos and postcards sold at the many souvenir stands around the bridge. My friend Eric's comments rang in my ears, "Oh yeah, your picture will be different."

It was Eric who sent a text to sister Jen and suggested Walker's Bar where we could get a much needed Bloody Mary, a sort of Hair of the dog thing. The bar was small and busy, but Eric's recommendation was spot on, in that it met the quaint, almost seedy, but not too seedy atmosphere we desired.

The Bloody Marys were spicy and immediately hit the spot. We made small talk with the gentleman that sat to Deb's right. The same man who offered to move to accommodate our little group. Jen was lured into a strange conversation with a young man who stated he was working, yet was drinking at the bar and went on to tell her an unsolicited tale of how his friend was "date raped" the prior evening. Typical small talk between strangers, right?

The coughing came from our fellow patron in the corner. It wasn't a productive cold type of cough and it initially sounded like the man had taken water down the wrong pipe, but it was immediately clear that his wind pipe was blocked by something more substantial. The man was in trouble and we all knew it. I jumped out of my chair and worked my way toward him, first by telling, or I should say yelling at Deb to get out of the way. As his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness, I got behind the man, picked him up and pulled my clenched fists up into his abdomen. Quite honestly I didn't know what I was doing and it occurred to me that he may die in my arms. This thought scared me and made me pull even harder. Then he slid off of the chair and I was now carrying his full dead weight. I called to Geoff to help me lift him, and after another a few more forceful squeezes the guy regained consciousness. Like a light switch he went from limp, pale and rolled back eyes to the animated life he was just a minute or two before. He asked if he had fainted. He was confused and embarrassed, but he was alive.

The once interested restaurant crowd saw that the man was breathing and back on his bar stool. None of the folks offered assistance or called 911. When it was over no one clapped, validated or acknowledged what had just transpired. The event had happened and now it was over. They returned to their eggs, mimosas and conversations. It was as if this type of thing happened often and it was only our little group that found the experience beyond the routine routine.

After Debbie's numerous requests, the bartender finally came over with a glass of water. He placed the glass on the bar and used the same hand to pull the guy's plate away from him with a snide, "I assume you're done with this." The man didn't resist. We spent a little more time in the bar and finished our drinks. We declined the man's kind request to the bartender, "Get my medical team another round." We made sure the guy was okay, said our farewells and went off to seek out new adventures.

So, You Want to Make Meatballs?

So you want the recipe for meatballs? Just the recipe? Sorry, you don't get off that easy. Oh, you'll get the recipe but you'll have to endure the mindless rabble that comes out of this meatball. Maybe you should just make sausage.

My grandmother made the best meatballs in the world. Actually, we didn't call her grandma. We called her Margaret, which wasn't really her name. Her name was Cosima or something like that, but she disliked that name. I'd like to tell you that there is some story behind our calling her Margaret, but to be honest, I haven't got a clue.

Margaret's recipe for meatballs are deceiving simple, and I've made them a number of times, but I've never been able to make them like her. Like I said, her recipe is simple. Mine is not.

Off to the market you go, and make sure you go early. There's a few reasons for this, but the biggest is that in years to come your kids will fondly remember waking up to the delectable aromas of Italian cooking and hopefully will forget all of the goofy stupid things you did as a parent.

When you get to the market bee line it to the bakery department and grab some day old bread. Country bread works great. Cinnamon and raisin does not. If there isn't any out on display, ask the nice lady behind the counter if she has any. Make sure you're polite and ask her how she's doing. Maybe she'll give you a cookie.

Next, head over to the deli counter. Grab a number and wait with all of the other folks in line. If you're bored ask people what kind of cold cuts they're going to order. No matter what they say, respond by saying, "You're not going to really eat that are you? Do you know how they make that? "

When your number is called, ask the person behind the counter how their day is going. This is a nice thing to do, and it's really disappointing to see their stunned face as most people just shout their order at them. We need to make the world a better place. Why not start at the deli counter?

Tell the person behind the counter that you have bad news and good news for them. The bad news is that you need a half pound of Prosciutto (they hate having to cut the paper thin slices) but the good news is that they only need to cut into two thick slices.

Proceed to the meat counter and grab equal portions of ground pork, ground veal and ground beef. I usually use chuck. a lot of the time there isn't ground chuck out in the cooler so I select a chuck roast and summon one of the meat cutters. As always, say hello and ask how they are doing and maybe you'll get a few bones for your dog or for making stock. Ask if they have any ground chuck. When they say that all of their ground beef is chuck, ask if they'll grind the roast for you. They'll happily oblige.

the reason for using chuck is that it has the best lean to fat ratio for making meatballs. Don't substitute with turkey. If you feel that you don't want the red meat or the fat, make something else.

Proceed through the aisles of the market and make sure you say hello to your fellow shoppers each time you pass them especially if you see the same person over and over again. While going through the aisles, select the following items:

eggs

whole milk

fennel seeds

chili flakes

precorino romano cheese

flat leaf parsley (Don't grab the cilantro by mistake)

dried oregano ( I have fresh in our herb garden but oregano is one of those rare exceptions where the dried version is better)

salt

pepper

One other key ingredient is ricotta cheese. Ricotta cheese is something that most people don't use in meatballs, but adding ricotta brings additional richness and keeps the heavenly spheres light and moist.

When you get back home pre heat the oven to 400 degrees, pour yourself a glass of wine and select some music that is suitable for your task. Pearl Jam works nicely.

Cut the prosciutto into small cubes and do the same to the day old bread. Avoid using the crust if it is too, well, uh...crusty, I guess. Add about a cup of milk and the rest of the ingredients of which I can't offer the precise amounts, ratios or proportions. I know this may be frustrating to you, but I really don't know. If it's any consolation I couldn't get Margaret to tell me proportions either as she did everything by taste or feel. The one thing she did offer is that you should use one egg per pound of meat.

Mix all of your ingredients together with your hands, but don't over work it or the meatballs will be a little tough.

Take a break from mixing to tell your spouse that you love them and want a hug. then chase them around the house with your disgusting meat caked hands. Deb loves this!

Roll the meatballs and place on a lightly greased pan (I use olive oil.) Cook for about 10 minutes or until they brown. Then drop them into the gravy (are you a gravy or sauce person?) and let them braise (braise? Guess who's been watching the Food Network?)

Let the sauce and meatballs simmer at a low heat so your kids can come by and pick at them throughout the day.

So there you have it. People seem

to really like these things and I generally receive praise for the flavor and texture, but still, they're nothing like hers.

Thanks, Margaret.

Fencing with Deb

Deb has been asking me to have a fence installed in our back yard for 11 years, and for 11 years I avoided it, as I found the whole idea offensive (Speaking of offensive, how about that pun?) I use orate to Deb about our migration from the cold hard city to enjoy the open rolling spaces and the natural God given gifts that the Granite State offers. "Shouldn't our dogs be like the people of our state who proclaim to Live Free or Die? Why would we want to deny our children the Walden like wilderness, unencumbered by the urban trappings from which we came? What about the freedom that our forefathers fought so hard to secure? Remember the Donner Party!" "You're an idiot," she would say. "We live in Downtown Dover and our house is surrounded by a neighborhood that are as close to the other houses when we were in Somerville or Winthrop.

After months and months of debate, tap dancing and utilizing all of my skills or persuasion, I finally convinced Deb, and we bought a fence. You see Deb's desire has been to protect our two dogs from the neighborhood traffic. Not that we have a lot of it, but like all of you New Englanders who need to reeducate yourselves on how to drive in the snow, our dogs have to reacclimate themselves to the dangers of the street each spring. There's always a few close calls and Deb loses her...well, let's say she becomes, animated. The reality is our older dog Bean hasn't been on a leash in our neighborhood since we arrived some eleven years ago. She's had a few brushes with the K9 Grim Reaper, but the fact of the matter is that she's more proficient at crossing the street than most of the goofy kids on our street. Deb has always had this dream of letting the dogs out to the backyard where they could roam free and she'd be free from the anxiety of them wandering off.

Last week I was looking out our kitchen window and saw Bean attempting to escape by gnawing on one of the wooden pickets. I just smiled and continued looking out at our dog's new $3,000 chew toy. Also, during the same week, I was working in the yard and our Chihuahua escaped through the gate a neighbor neglected to close. When realizing that George was missing, Deb, let's say again became animated and blamed me for being an accomplice in the escape. Zach hasn't quite learned how to mow in and around the fence and can't seem to do the edging.

As I contemplate spending the summer weather proofing the fence, I sit back and smile. It's a beautiful little picket fence and it really seems to be working out well. Not sure why I avoided it all these years.

Travelling Through Time

It’s a very early morning in Belfast and I’m up early with it. As I awake I try to figure out where I am. There is no clock in my room and I struggle to read the hands on my wristwatch. Is it twenty five or six to four? Am I in Chicago? Does anybody really know what time it is? I As I lay here, I’m thinking about the trip over. It was an unremarkable flight with no issues, so I have no complaints with the exception of the Nazi flight attendant who kept waking me up for the meal I told her I didn’t want. I do however, smile and chuckle at one of my favorite aspects, not so much about travel, but of life in general. That is the absolute fun in meeting new people.

One such person is an old gentleman known to me only as Mr. Schaeffer. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Schaffer while I was connecting through the Newark Airport. The interesting thing about Mr. Schaeffer is that he is currently One hundred and six years old. “Actually, closer to one hundred and seven” he said. Mr. Schaeffer was born in 1903 and emigrated to the states after surviving the holocaust. The remarkable thing about the man is that he walked without the assistance of a cane and he was sharp, very sharp. He was heading over to Israel for the 10th time. He began to list the dates he had visited in the past, “My first visit was in 1967. Then I was back over in ’73, then again in ’76, then in the summer of 78. He told me that he had travelled everywhere because of the import export business he was in.

I couldn't help but tease him about his Members Only jacket and I almost made mention that he was probably the last member, but I realized that there was real truth to that statement. As you would expect, I had a number of questions for him. “What products did he import and export?” “Feathers,” he said. “I filled every pillow in the U.S. Army for forty years.” I asked him where he liked to travel best, and I was not surprised to hear that he liked to visit his beloved Israel. Then of course I asked him what was his secret to a long life? He told me that as a child he was blessed by a Rabbi who told him that he would enjoy a very long life. This was a bit of a disappointment to me, this because I am not of Jewish faith and the only Rabbi I know is me, but that’s another story.

We talked for a short while and my travelling companions were entertained, not so much by Mr. Schaeffer , but by my face which was glistening as I was listening because the old coot was spitting all over me.
The other group of people I had the pleasure of meeting were the finalists in the Miss Northern Ireland Pageant. They were staying at the same hotel as I and I had the pleasure of speaking to a few of them. It was an interesting exchange. They were very young and very beautiful and I asked them questions about the pageant, life in Ireland, and what interesting places I should visit. In turn they seemed interested in me and asked me questions as well. “What are the States like? Have you ever been to New York and…What’s the secret to a long life?”

Getting in Shape - Garrison Hill

Balance. That's the one thing that I strive for. Work and home life, friends and family, debits and credits, Beatles and Stones. Life is best when there's balance. So how does one follow a month long celebration complete with dinners, nightly libations and assorted treats? Balance. Balance that comes with sensible eating a dramatic reduction in all things alcohol and increased activity. My next adventures are going to be those that involve different types of physical activity. Some will be formal and some not. I've set goals for myself as suffice it to say that I'm in need of a tune up. I won't bore you with the details, but when I got on my electronic scale this morning it blurted out, "One at a time, please!"

I was suppose to start on April first, but the fact of the matter is that I had to delay my start due to illness. I was travelling back from Calgary and a sinus infection reared its ugly head the morning was to head back. I ended up being the sneezy, drippy, leaky, watery eyed Ebola infected passenger huddled against the window filling tissue after tissue while coughing, grunting and snorting my way across the country. I tried my best to contain myself on the filled to capacity plane. Early on I tried to covertly pull a tissue out of its pack, but the sun shining through the window of the darkened plane illuminated the "tissue lint" and created a huge swarm of tiny fireflies. the woman next to me was horrified. When the plane finally descended into Boston, the depressurizing of the plane caused ear pain that was reminiscent of the ice pick scene in Basic Instinct. Ultimately my hearing was completely blocked and I found myself in a silent movie for the next few days.

So it was only this morning that I was able to get my start and begin my quest toward whatever it is I'm shooting for. I figured I'd start out simple. There is a hill near my house that has a fairly immediate and significant incline. I brought my old dog Bean along for the trek. My goal was to scale the incline three times at a brisk pace. The first time up was not pretty. Halfway up my breathing became labored and my steps inconsistent. I let Bean off of her leash and she trotted around investigating the mysteries of the woods. Bean seemed to look over at me and she seemed to be snickering, stating "Holy crap, you're pathetic. Heal, heal!"

I finally got to the top of the hill and started to scale Garrison Tower. I took in the panoramic view of the immediate area while enjoying the colorful graffiti that lined stairway. Apparently, if you're looking for a good time, you need to call Janie Hebert or be at the Tower at precisely 9:00 PM and she'll "Rock your world." Jimmy Schoenfeld is a big giant scumbag and depending upon who you believe Weezer either rocks, or sucks ass.

I started back down and Bean followed. I got to the bottom of the hill and turned around. Bean looked confused. "Hey, bald guy. We were just up there. Where the hell are you going?" She loyally walked along side me but her expression was clearly indicating her displeasure. She seemed to be saying, "You know, I've peed all over this city and there are a ton of places I haven't marked. We don't need to go up there again." But up the hill we went.

The second trip actually seemed much easier than the first trip, and as I started my third, Bean just sat there in disbelief. "Really? After a cold and wet winter, this is the walk you take me on? I can't wait to get home and sh*t in your shoes." Part of the way up Bean jumped up and grabbed her leash out of my hands, ran into the woods and dropped it in a pile of leaves, much like a loyal friend who takes the car keys from an inebriated buddy, saying "You can't be trusted with these right now." When Bean and I finally descended for the third time, she kept going, not wanting to risk a fourth climb.

When we got back to the house she walked just ahead of me and stopped at the door. She looked at me as if to say, "Hey mountain boy, how about opening the damned door?" When I let her in she ran up toward my bedroom I think to fetch my dress shoes. What a good dog!

Bad Parent Story #36

With all of the "Jack History Month" crap I've been writing, I've been thinking back at all of the goofy stuff I've said or done and the people around me have been doing the same. My wife Deborah reminded me of this story, so I thought I would share it.

My two kids were born a year and nine days apart. I like to joke with my wife saying that I had two good years and then nothing! I pretend that she thinks it pretty funny but I'm sure she really doesn't, and it doesn't really have anything to do with this story anyway.

As you would imagine, when you have two kids that were born toward the end of October, their birthdays would naturally have a Halloween theme; and so they did. During their first years we use to have a party right in the middle of the dates, combining Vanessa's October 18th birthday friends and Zachary's October 27th birthday friends. One year when Vanessa was going to turn seven and Zachary six, they requested, or should I say, demanded separate parties. Although I saw no logic in separate parties, Debbie having grown up with a sister whose birthday was only days from her own, empathized, sympathized and agreed to hold separate celebrations, and of course, each of them would still stay true to the Halloween tradition.



Vanessa's party was first and held all of the trappings of a seventh birthday. A crowd of kids, mostly girls with ages ranging from two to seven ran through the house screaming and laughing and having a great time. We played the usual party games including musical chairs and pin the tail on the donkey, and at one point gathered all of the girls in our living room, lowered the lights and let them tell spooky and scary tales. Now, I'm no writer nor do I possess any skills as a literary critic, but these stories were horrible. There was no character development, the plots were weak, and they possessed no redeeming themes. What was worse is that every story ended with them being at some horseshit ball wearing a white gown and a tiara. The party eventually ended and was deemed a tremendous success and a highlight of the Florence Street Social season.



When the next Saturday arrived it was Zachary's turn to party. Much to my surprise, Debbie informed me that since this would be a testosterone filled macho goon fest, I would be in charge of overseeing the event, and she was right. Zach's friends tore through our house like a Texas Twister. there seemed to be an ever moving mass of arms and legs moving in every direction that left a wake of destruction worthy of a call to our local FEMA office. There was one point where I looked out the window and I'm certain that despite them being too young to know about it, they seemed to be recreating the Rodney King video, beating one unfortunate kid as he cried, "Can't we all just get along?"



I tried the pin the tail on the donkey game as well as bobbing for apples, but they kept sticking each other, throwing apples and spitting in the water. In an attempt to calm them down I brought them into our living room, turned off the lights and began the ghost story time. I said "It's scary story time, and to get you started I'll tell the first tale." Now, before I move on I should tell you that I prepared a prop for my story. I grabbed a small white cardboard jewelry box and cut a hole in the bottom of it just large enough to fit my middle finger. Then I lined it with cotton and put some fake blood in it. Then I put my finger though the hole and covered the box. Then I proceeded to tell them this story:



You know we live in a very old house and we were not the first to live in it. Prior to us living here there was an old man, Old man Johnston who lived here for many years. Now Mr. Johnston was a mean old guy and he hated anyone near his property, especially kids. He hated children, and the kids in the neighborhood didn't like him. They would taunt and tease him.

Now Mr. Johnston not only hate kids, but he use to go out of his way to hurt them. He had a workshop in his basement where he would create and invent devices meant to keep kids off of his property and hurt them.

One day when he was in his workshop he was using his table saw to create his latest kid hurting device, when some neighborhood kids banged on his basement window to scare him. Mr. Johnston was startled. He jumped, jerked back, and in the process he cut his finger off. What's worse, he couldn't find it. He spent the rest of his life in the basement looking for his finger. and the finger...was looking for him.

Eventually, Mr. Johnston died, and we bought the house. On our first day here I was moving some boxes into the basement, and guess what I found?

A this stage the kids are completely wide eyed and engaged.

"Do you really want to see?"

Now, I pull the box out and hold it in front of them.

"Are you sure you want to see?"

The kids all move even closer calling out, "Yes. We want to see! We want to see!"

I slowly tilted the box toward them and slowly lifted the cover to reveal my bloodied finger laying still in the stained cotton. The kids are completely wide eyed with mouths open but there's not a sound in the room. Then I flip my finger up and scream...First the kids freak, then it's my turn.

I'm not sure if you've ever seen 12 kids ranging from four to six uncontrollably crying sobbing and freaking out, but it's not pretty. I panicked pulling my finger out of the box and showing the kids, "look, it was my finger, it's only a hole in the box!" I looked toward the doorway at Debbie for some assistance, but she's just standing there with her thumbs up, mouthing the words, "good job."

The kids eventually calmed down and I even had to come up with a game to decide who would get to keep the "trick box." Throughout the past number of years, the kids would occasionally bring up the story which means that in my own way made an impression on them. Maybe someday they'll tell their own kids about the time when they were young and old man Calabrese gave them the finger.

I Take a Shot at the Electrical Field

I've been writing different memories throughout the month of March for Jack History Month. My friend Timmy reminded me of this story. Not sure if it's one of those, you had to be there stories, but it entertains the Hell out of me.

I was hanging out with friends in front of the Pizza Center in my hometown of Winthrop Mass. contemplating the evening’s entertainment when I was asked by by Michael “Tiny” Christopher if I had any interest in making a little money working for a company called Ideal Electric. I told Tiny that I had not a clue about anything electric beyond wiring speakers or plugging in my hairdryer, (neither of which I do anymore.) I had concerns that I'd kill either myself, a co worker or some unsuspecting family by incorrectly wiring something. But with no other serious prospects, I agreed.

Tiny told me to report to the shop on Bates avenues no later than 7:00 the next morning. Now, a smarter man would have gone home to rest and prepare, but this was not to be the case as I stayed out for the better part of the evening and just a tad bit of the early morning doing whatever it was we did back then.

The next morning, I awoke, showered and groggily stumbled to Bates Ave. When I arrived at Ideal, I was relieved to see my best friend Johnny Gillis, his brother's, Owen and Jimmy as well as Bobby I. and a guy appropriately named, "Nick the Prick." Bobby I turned to me and said, "Are you Jack?" Then he looked me over and asked, "Is that what you're going to wear today? You know you're going to get dirty on this job. " Then he said, Okay, whatever, here's your first job. I have an "effin" squirrel that is living in my attic. See that hole up by the roof? We're going to flush him out, when he comes through that hole, you shoot the f*cker!" Then he dropped a nickel plated .38 caliber pistol in my hand. Needless to say, this was not the new experience I expected, but like I said, I had no other serious prospects and at least I couldn't electrocute or hurt myself.

So there I am on my first day of the job with high hopes of learning to use new cool and visions of wearing one of those cool tool belts and the potential of a new career, but instead I'm standing in a driveway pointing a gun at a house. To make matters worse, kids began to walk by on their way to school many of them staring in disbelief at my appearance. To a few of them I smiled and said, "It's okay, I'm an electrician."

Just then I saw something stir in the opening. I nervously cocked the hammer, raised the weapon and aimed, but I immediately halted when I realized it was not Rocket Jay Squirrel, but Owen Gillis' furry head popping out while yelling, "Don't Shoot, don't shoot!" I thought about popping off one round in the air, just to see his reaction, but I didn't think anyone aside form myself would be amused. Fortunately, the furry rodent, The Ideal crew were better at wiring than hunting, and I didn't get to prove myself during this unintentional hazing ritual or bizarre initiation. There were a lot of people back then that liked to play Mafia wise guy, including Bobby I. too bad for me that I didn't get to prove myself on my first "hit." I would have to do it with my work ethic (it was nil back then.)

You know, as time goes by, the details of old memories begin to fade and the specifics are lost or embellished. I ran into Johnny Gillis at our 25th high school reunion and after a few drinks and a bunch of stories, he asked, "Remember your first day at Ideal Electric?" Then he told the story to Deb and I from his perspective. I was tickled to know that it had actually happened the way I remembered.

As for my career as an electrician, it never materialized. I didn't have the knack for handy work so I was relegated to bull work with "Nick the Prick" partly because he liked me but it probably had more to do with the fact that no one else could stand him. Occasionally, Bobby I. would pull me to work with him, but most of the time we would just cruise the beach where I would point out different the women that I knew and that he wanted to meet. I've heard that he has found religion and knowing him back then, I can tell you that he needed it. I think my staying power at Ideal was largely attributed to my ability to keep them entertained.

So that's what happened on this or some other day in Jack History Month, March 14th 1984. If you'd like to know more about Jack History Month, please ask your teacher or visit your local library.

Happy New Year

Despite the discussion and confusion of who was doing what for New Years Eve, it was yet again a great evening of friends and family. There was much debate over who's house would be destroyed by the neighborhood revelers, but in the end we "ended" up outside for the end of the old decade and the dawn of the new one which we all hope will bring continued health and happiness.

The fire rings burned until the wee hours and there was much banter and laughter. The smell of the burning poplar still remains on my coat, clothes and body lingering like the good memories of a classic evening.

One of my favorite parts of yesterday was a brief discussion that took place in the kitchen of Mark and Michelle. Tim and Maggie were there as well and we were talking about what constitutes art, the conversation prompted by a visit to the MFA in Boston. Mark pulled up a few short poems from the Internet, (The Red Wheelbarrow) that illustrated the simplicity in which art can be created and appreciated.

Inspired, I'll pass along my Ode to the Neighborhood.


Choose any one of the open doors

Lift a pint, spirits, or even a fridge

I like it here.