Kindness of Strangers

After leaving the site of a job MDCOM is installing in one of the most beautiful places we've ever installed an NEC phone system, I decided to take advantage of the last visetiges of a sunny winter Sunday.  The Chanler is located at the start of the Cliff Walk in Newport and is worth the drive from an hour or two away just about any time. The fact that I just had to walk down the sloping lawn and hop the chained off steps to take in the vistas and palatial 'cottages' which line the coastline.

I quietly stepped past a woman who was tightly engaged with her smartphone; I was looking to disengage from mine as I walked a half mile or so, soaking in the setting winter sun.  The cold steady breeze in my face coupled with the sounds of the subtle surf was soothing, yet in the immortal words of Robert Frost, I had "miles to go before I sleep".  

Returning to the Chanler for my car, I noticed the car keys of the woman who had walker been sitting on the steps with her phone.  I looked around, picked up the keys and walked towards the Walk entrance and asked if anyone had seen a woman in a black coat looking for her keys.  Nothing.

All the cars for the next mile are parked in a single line along Easton beach, where only a few dog walkers and paddle boarders enjoyed the waning afternoon.  The Homda logo and remote starter would help me narrow down the possible suspects, so I began to walk along the sidewalk to find the keyless Honda.  

The third hit opened the doors of a small Civic with a Danvers MA plate frame that confirmed the Danvers tag on the keys. I got a piece of paper from someone parking their car, and wrote "you left these on the steps - Kind Stranger :)"

As I walked back up the hill towards The Chanler and my car, I saw the woman.  She was with 2 other people, and looked slightly flustered.  I asked her if she was looking for her keys and she was.  "I left them in your door handle with a note".  

"Oh.. You what?  Oh my god...OK..."

And she hurredly passed me towards her car as I started up the path to mine.

And that's when it hit me:  you can help people or not.  You SHOULD help people because that should make our world a nicer place to live.  I was taking a walk, enjoying the sunset, and decided it would be nice to help my fellow human.  But how much?  Should I have just left the keys? Mentioned to a couple people where to find keys if they saw the woman?  

As she walked away I yelled "You're welcome!" from the path to my car.  "YOU'RE WELCOME!!" prompted a turn and a stuttered "oh yeah thanks", but I'm not sure she meant it.

My Blue Hea(van)

Montello St in Brockton (aka Route 28) is what local senior citizens refer to as "The Old Road".  They mean that in a time before the Southeast Expressway - that snarling zipper-laned beast that crawls with cursing commuters from the South Shore into Boston - and Route 24, the Old Road was the passageway for travelers from Boston to the Cape (for you non-locals, Cape Cod).  I rarely use Montello St for my any of my daily north-south traverses through Brockton as it is generally slow, full of traffic lights and not scenic in the least.  Today it was bad, and by necessity, I had to take it.

As it turns out this morning, upon hearing news of another "Snowmaggedon" Blizzard of the Century, Jimmy the Mechanic left a terse voicemail message - "you've gotta move the van".  For those of you uninformed the van, aka The Big Blue Van, aka Big Blue has been our family people mover for the past 10 years and 124,000+ miles, which is roughly the length of time our triplets have been on this earth.  Shortly before they were born we had just acquired a sweet little 'mini-van', and even more shortly after their arrival we realized were no longer a 'mini-family'.  This fact was confirmed by Lieutenant Crowley of the Brockton Police who - upon installing three additional car seats across the back of the minivan - stated in a uniform, police-like manner "I can get these seats in, but I don't know how you or your wife are gonna get all those babies in and out of them".  And with that I began the hastily inspired and awe-inducing task of finding a larger, safe, comfortable vehicle for our new (expanded) nuclear family which at that time also included a rather large, sweet black labrador retriever named Bronco.

Most people come up with easy answers when you tell them you need a vehicle for six.  They often begin with "Suburban" or "SUV", but fail to account for the fact that A) my wife and I are both over 6'2" tall B) we usually have at least one (now two) large dogs in addition to our four children and C) a trip with all six of us, plus animal(s), plus luggage stretches the limits of even conventional civilian automobiles.  Not so with the Big Blue Van.   I found Big Blue on the lot of one of my car dealer customers who was selling his business.  He had about six or eight 'leftovers', which in car dealer parlance meant they were new but unpurchased from a prior year.  The guy buying the dealership didn't want them and they were headed to wholesale auction.  I negotiated to add a Class 2 hitch (which we have never once used, and has the rusted patina of the Batmobile's fiery exhaust), automatic remote start (which the kids masterfully use each morning before school) and wrapped it up for $29,000.  Big Blue had a sticker price just south of $50,000 but, due to the circumstances of the sale of the dealership and the 'leftover' nature of the vehicle, they could not have been happier to get her off the lot, and I could not have been happier to drive it away.

BBV is by pedigree a 2002 Chevy Express 1500 truck chassis with a Regency package.  At the time, this meant a high end conversion consisting of leather reclining captain's chairs for driver, front passenger and two second row passengers, as well as a third row bench that opened to a bed, with cargo room behind (and below), a 20" flat square TV with DVD, rear speakers and blinds on all rear windows.  Part 'Love Ma-cheen', part party wagon, Big Blue has an extended height roof that, coupled with her brilliant blue color, would make Marge Simpson jealous.  It's small block Chevy 302 V8 engine was voted one of the best engines of the 20th century, and would whirr happily along any interstate on the Eastern seaboard at a brisk 75-80 miles per hour while chugging a gallon of gas every 15-18 miles depending on how many non-Masshole drivers you needed to power past.  And today, sadly, I may have driven her for the last time.

Big Blue had been 'resting' at Jimmy's shop since Christmas break, when her "Service Engine Soon" indicator urgently moved from a steady 'hey check me out' to a rapid 'OMG - there's something wrong'.  This coincided with a call from Kristina who was embarking on what would have been for the BBV a short 3 hour jaunt down 95 to Milford CT to visit The Cousins.  A Triple A tow later, she was sitting in Jimmy's shop with the interior motor cowling removed for - in my recollection - the first time.  "It doesn't look good.  It's gonna be hundreds of dollars in labor for me to just get a handle on it.  With the leaky intake manifold and the tranny slipping, you may want to start looking around for another vehicle".  Imagine a doctor - with your loved one hooked up to a respirator - telling you to 'start looking around'.  I was devastated.  In short, Big Blue is a rolling, air-conditioned, stereophonic time capsule of one of the best decades of my life.  The bumper is rusting through, causing the "Wilson Lake - Acton, ME" loon sticker to flap away as if it wants to join it's subject matter in the chilly North Atlantic.  A round, almost completely faded magnet still faintly proclaims that "We (heart) our triplets".  Polar Caves, Taco Boy, Hilton Head...they're all fading too as I write this, through tears.  I guess I'm afraid  that when she goes - taking Folly Beach, Niagara Falls (and our now infamous border crossing) with her - she may take those memories, and thousands of others with her too.

So as I slowly chugged up Montello St today, the unsteady clicking of her cylinders now brightly snapping with the engine cowling removed, the freezing January air blowing up from the roadway was punctuated every few seconds with a loud "POP-POP" as she warned "I can't do this much longer".  Melancholy overtook my fear of a piston angrily shooting a cylinder rod through the upper manifold in a final, lethal blast of defiance as  I tuned the Sirius radio to "Classic Hits" and caught the beginning of "Highway Star" by Deep Purple.

Nobody gonna take my car, I'm gonna race it to the ground
Nobody gonna beat my car, it's gonna break the speed of sound
Ooh it's a killing machine it's got everything
Like a driving power, big fat tires, everything

I was thankful for the slow traffic.  I didn't have to push the accelerator, as I did so many trips to Maine. Or during one memorable return from South Carolina, when despite Kristina's offers to "switch off", I drove the whole way- stopping for gas and rest rooms.  Comfortably buzzed on coffee and Monster energy drinks, satellite radio faded to the front speakers so the kids could sleep, I pulled onto our street on a sunny Sunday morning after a tidy 16 hours of Big Blue Bliss.

Nobody gonna take my head I got speed inside my brain
Nobody gonna steal my head now that I'm on the road again
Ooh I'm in heaven again I've got everything
Like a moving ground, throttle control and everything

Whew... ten years of the triplets, (plus Annika, 22 months their senior).  Grocery stores, shopping malls, animal farms, hikes...from having to put on eight little socks, buckle them all into carriers and secure the carriers into the car seats.  To "Go get in the van", when all four of them would dutifully file to their self-assigned seats.  (I distinctly remember the triplet Dad who told me I would rejoice at that milestone and like most wisdom of grizzled parents of multiple, he was correct).   Bronco's passing.  Big Blue was my Magic Bus, some life glue that held it all together during what I thought at the time was the most tempestuous time of my life.  Now looking back it could arguably be the best decade.  And now here I was, chugging her towards a (potential) final resting place, coming unglued.

Trying to replace her has already been a journey of another kind, one filled with fear (what if we have constant problems with another vehicle?  we can't afford a new one!), regret (we should have changed the oil more often), uncertainty (how will another vehicle work for us?) and doubt (do we bother trying to overhaul/repair her?).  I've been (online) to Phoenix, Houston, Pensacola, Cleveland, Craigslist, eBay, Cars.com, and physically visited the rare dealers who specialize in "conversion vans" (the name doesn't convey how awesome these vehicles really are).  I could fix her, and the $9,000 or 10,000 would be recouped, and be cheaper than any therapy I may need.  The jury is out on replacing that bumper, though.  I know the rust will soon push most of the stickers off, the way in the coming 10 years the kids will get their own licenses, and push off from the nest.  Me?  For now, I'm still holding on to Big Blue.

I love it, I need it, I seed it

Eight cylinders all mine

Alright hold tight I'm a highway star

PETS (no, not those kind of pets. Rotary PETS)

A Rotarian from North Kingston RI commenting about her most recent Rotary experience writes  "PETS, one of those ever-loving Rotary acronyms for President Elect Training Seminar, takes place around the Rotary universe roughly 4 months before the annual changing of the guard.  It is a thorough indoctrination into Rotary: how to run a club, membership, the Manual of Procedure, fundraising, activities, budgets,etc.  The only problem is that all this is crammed into the newbie's brain in a mere 48 hours.  Not really unlike water boarding."

I recently attended the same PETS, and my takeaway was that for although for 5 years I’ve attended my Club's lunches, given out happy bucks, worked fundraisers, done some projects, I've never REALLY got the spirit of what Rotary truly is and truly can be until I attended PETS.

 While there I heard stories about Rotarians who have done good throughout the world and their communities.  Of children of Rotarians, who became Rotarians themselves, and who are raising their children in the same mold – to be future Rotarians. 

 A few quick stories:

Dave Clifton from the Sharon Club in our own District told a story about how as a young child he was awakened by his father, a Rotarian, to help with a Pancake Breakfast.  “But I didn’t join Rotary, Dad, you did.  And I hate pancakes.”  “Get up, get going, and get in the car.  Today, you’re a Rotarian and you’re helping with the Pancake Breakfast.” This past year Dave was the End Polio Now coordinator, and in addition to raising thousands of dollars to eradicate this deadly disease, he also is very active with Special Olympics. i don't know if his taste in breakfast food has changed, but he sure is a Rotarian.  

Brad Howard - a founding member of the Oakland CA Sunrise Club, and currently Rotary’s North American Membership Chair - talked about some of his experiences as a Rotarian, (which have included Polio vaccination missions abroad).  He related a story about how on his honeymoon he attended a Rotary meeting, and one of the Rotarians invited him on a "behind the scenes" tour of the city.  He and his new bride later found themselves enjoying parts of the city he never would have seen as a tourist, culminating in a fireworks display from a beautiful rooftop overlooking the river.  He turned to his wife and said can you believe where we are?  (Did I mention the city was Paris? The date: Bastille Day. The river: Seine.)  Brad also related a unique concept: he asked if the business of Rotary is Service, then who are Rotary’s customers?  His answer: the members.  His mission and focus?  Providing better service to Rotary’s customers, which all neatly falls in line with next year’s Rotary theme: Engage Rotary: Change Lives.

And lastly, I met a young woman, a single mom, from Maine, who as we related our struggles as parents of young children told me of her own personal struggle with cancer.  Upon hearing her diagnosis for the first time, she collapsed, sobbing in a heap on her kitchen floor.  With no one to turn to, a job to go to hosting an important function, and a boss out of town leaving her no escape valve, she picked herself up off the floor, got dressed and went to open the hall for the function.  Moments after she did, the first person in the door identified herself as a Rotarian.  And an oncology nurse.  Sometimes things happen for a reason.  Do I need to tell you they are friends to this day, and after hearing their story of comradery and triumph, dinner and lunch with them tasted great?

I tell you these stories today because I want you all to know what great organization Rotary is and can be.  Senior members: please take a newer member aside and tell them about projects you’ve done, fun you’ve had, and the friendships you’ve made.  Newer members: Listen to these stories.  Check out Club Runner to get to know our members better.  Visit rotary.org and see what is happening in the world of Rotary.  Go to a district event, another club meeting, or an event outside the club.  Do good.  Feel good.  Be a Rotarian.  

Kids say the darndest things part...whatever

Last night we were watching Survivor, which has become the only show on TV we all watch as a family.  Kristina was lamenting her horrible existence as a mom, which was played out to her exact script moments earlier on The Middle, when the mom eats some of the teenage son's toenails, thinking they were a snack, then runs away.

As she parlayed that episode into affection for the elder stateswoman Diane on Survivor, she mentioned she could do something if it were for a million dollars, which prompted this little commentary from Niko...

Niko: What do you need a million dollars for?  Daddy has a million dollars. (clearly he doesn't see my paystubs).  And if you needed money you could always just ask BahPoo, anyway.  He's a Selectman.

Yes, Niko.  Bahpoo IS a Selectman in Acton ME, where I am sure if it isn't a volunteer position, they probably pay a few scheckles per year.

Cracks me up...

Mud , sweat and tears...

I had tears in my eyes and goosebumps in 85 degree heat loading bags of cement into the mixer, as I looked up at Rick Snelgrove smiling in the sunshine, racheting in bolts, watching over all those people from all different neighborhoods and backgrounds grind out the playground.  We took a patch of dirt behind the school and turned it into Torie's Place V.  V as in Roman numeral five, as in the Snelgrove's and Mike from UtiliPlay have done this four other times. 

The most unimaginable tragedy you can imagine as a parent is the untimely and tragic passing of one of your children.  The remarkable (and for me spiritually uplifting) thing the Snelgrove's have done is to somehow morph that into a positive LEGACY of caring, passion, understanding, and giving.  Hundreds of people showed up to dig holes, get dirty, pour cement, and assemble what can only be described in our inimitable Massachusetts way as a 'wicked cool' playground.  

As near as I can tell, the recipe is this: Gather some space, time, money, people and positive spirit.  Remove any egos, pity, sorrows, regret, roots, rocks and other 'obstacles'.  Add together and mix until done.  It works. 

Until now, the Brookfield School's biggest children's attraction was a big, white rock in the front yard, surrounded, as other rocks in that neighborhood are, by fencing.   But in the back courtyard there are trees and sunshine and - thanks to the Snelgrove's desire and ability to propagate joy, hope, togetherness, caring, remembrance and just about every other positive human emotion - an enduring symbol of love, compassion and fun.  

After the cameras, politicians, helpers, trucks, equipment and rubbish were gone the kids 'tested' it, and let me be the first to tell you...it...is ...AWESOME!

Thanks for sharing, Torie.   <3

Technology

It's a beautiful sunny day, and the kids ask if they can play Wii.  Me: No, it's too nice out. Gunnar: BUT DAD! CAN'T WE HAVE ACCESS TO ANY KIND OF TECHNOLOGY!!!!?

Worms

Last night was the first soccer practice.  Kristina is dead set against anything soccer related, and personally it is number 9 or 10 of sports I can even tolerate.  But it is easy to get kids involved, Gunnar has already had some experience with it, and Nick-Nock from down the street was enrolled, so I signed the boys up and volunteered to coach.  And with youth sports being what they are these days, I can't pull up to the curb, let my kids out, and come back an hour later, or worse, have them catch a ride home with another player or coach.  It used to happen more than you'd think when I was coaching basketball.  What are parent's thinking?  He'll be alright?  I hope the coach isn't a child molester?  I'll catch his games another day/time when I don't have so many things to do? How about we make a rule: if you aren't going to watch every practice and game possible (yes, I have a job, too), then don't sign him/her up.

So Kristina's maternal instincts (and peer pressure from Dena) outweigh her distaste for a game involving much running back and forth and, unlike her chosen sport of basketball, too little of the ball hitting the net.  She comes to the field.  Which is great because the kids don't give me nearly enough grief, so she is there to help with that, along with trying to set up Dominic's old klugey soccer nets.

Six kids can cause a small bit of chaos (hell, we know from experience that 4 can, right?) and I have a modicum of soccer chops, so practice is s bit 'furry'.  One kid called me "Gramps", which I thought was a bit uncalled for.  Although my gray is showing, my waistline isn't nearly up to my shirt pocket, I did not have black socks with my sneakers,  and not once did I call anyone "sonny", even though 2 of the players are in fact my sons.  I called him on it with a loud "whadja say?" and he backed off, although his dad heard from the sidelines, and of course knows his son is a punk.  

We have 3 Nicholas', which makes learning the names easier, but directing practice harder.  "NICHOLAS!"
"Which one?"
But all in all, I think everyone had a good time, the kids got tired, and, as an added bonus for 8 year old boys but not so great for some of their moms, Walker Playground is a hotspot for big huge slimy worms.