Today is the first time I looked up who St. Vincent was. Considering his legacy has been involved in Pam’s life for 50 years it seems a glaring oversight on my part.
So who was he and why does he have so many hospitals named for him?
St. Vincent was a 17th-century French priest dedicated to serving the poor and sick; the patron saint of charitable works and the namesake for numerous hospitals and healthcare organizations around the world. That connection stems from his founding of the Daughters of Charity, a religious order known for their work in hospitals, orphanages, and schools.
Leave it to a man to get credit for the work of women.
For 50 years Pam has been one of those women – not any part of a religious order – but known for her work at St Vincent Hospital in Worcester.
Pam attended Burncoat High School and wanted to be a Home Ec teacher. She loves baking and sewing. Her mother said no – be a nurse – and off to the St Vincent Hospital School of Nursing she went, beginning her longest relationship.
I met Pam in her last year there – helped her escape Winthrop St during the Blizzard of ‘78 and nearly made her miss graduation after weekend camping on the Cape. We were married on a spectacular August day in 1980. If she keeps at her charitable work with me for a few more years I’ll take over the long term relationship title from St. Vincent.
You – her co-workers – are her friends. We’ve shared your Christmas parties, BBQs, tree burnings, flight time. We’ve been there for the weddings, funerals, awards, retirements… and the babies – your children and, can you believe it, your grandchildren.
In Pam’s time here at St. Vincent hospital nearly 100,000 babies were born, including two of our own and (hopefully) our first grandchild this Fall adding to the count.
Shortly we are off to France, where Pam’s first love, St. Vincent, got his start… I’ve gotta play it cool.
Above, a view up the steps of the old Worcester County Courthouse, which will be converted into mixed-use housing by Boston-based developer Trinity Financial/Walter Bird Jr. photo
“Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” – Winston Churchill
Some time back a school sent out an email to parents that ended with their Respect Quote of the Day: ‘“My honor is my loyalty.” Clearly, they hadn’t paid attention in History class because the quote is from the Waffen SS expressing loyalty to Adolf Hitler – an apology letter soon followed.
Walter, a friend of mine, commented on the news blurb and took it a little further:
They shouldn’t just apologize for sharing a quote that refers to loyalty to Hitler. They should apologize for sharing a really stupid quotation that demeans the meaning of “honor.”
Blind loyalty, except in dogs, is no part of honor. Honor requires doing the right thing on important occasions, even when it means parting with loyalty. This is similar to the horrific statement on the old Worcester County Courthouse: “Obedience to law is liberty.” There is an authoritarian streak in traditional education, and obedience to it has little to do with liberty.
Walter and I are birds of a feather on most things. I was good with his take down of blind loyalty, including the doggo exception – I was good right up to where he lumped in the “Obedience” quote.
This quote took up residence in my head back in the 70s – Being obedient automatons is liberty? Knuckling under to the man makes you free? What kind of 1984 doublespeak is carved into the frieze over the courthouse columns? I was just too busy letting my freak flag fly to examine that idea further.
Fast forward three careers later and I’m preparing Civics lessons for my eighth graders. To help the kids make concrete connections to Montesquieu’s model government, where the political authority of the state is divided into legislative, executive and judicial powers, I searched “Worcester courthouse.” Google came back with the old courthouse and the “Obedience” quote was centered in every photo.
Memories revived, I dug a little deeper to find it originated with the Roman philosopher and politician Boethius who was born into the Roman Empire as it fell to the invading Ostrogoths. Theodoric, the Ostrogoths’ leader, had declared himself king and remained king throughout the rest of Beothius’ lifetime, a fact facilitated by Theodoric as he had Beothius executed.
Boethius, son of a Roman consul and senator and consul himself, became an advisor to this new king. The empire was divided politically and religiously between east and west then. Beothius was trying to negotiate a new relationship with Constantinople, the more successful eastern empire’s center. He called out corrupt members of the new king’s court to demonstrate to the Eastern Empire they were dealing with a legitimate, law-abiding government in Rome.
Theodoric took this discussion as a personal swipe, a lack of loyalty, and used it to have Boethius and his father in law jailed as traitors. Boethius wrote The Consolation of Philosophy, his most famous work and source of the quote while jailed. In time the king found three ambitious citizens willing to testify to treason in court and now guilty, Beothius was beheaded.
This reminds me of another quote, this one from Peru’s fascist leader Óscar Benavides – “To my friends, anything; to my enemies, the law.”
Boethius was executed after a show trial that included witnesses whose testimony was based on loyalties and alternative facts. Boethius’ obedience to the law resulted in the ultimate loss of liberty. Irony? Maybe. Lady Justice was strangled with her own blindfold, not looking past the testimony to question the motives of the witnesses or the veracity of their statements. The issue is not Boethius’ obedience, but how the law was wielded.
Our republic is based on the lofty ideal that we are all equal under the law. As Teddy Roosevelt stated, “No man is above the law and no man is below it: nor do we ask any man’s permission when we ask him to obey it.” This also has a bit of an authoritarian streak, but at least Teddy was asking. The power of the law was equally divided across our three branches to preserve their spirit and prevent the hollow application based on the letter alone.
Boethius lived during the fall of a civilisation. The spirit of the law had been exhausted in the five hundred years since the republic was replaced; first by a dictatorship and then by an invader who crowned himself king. Modern dictators wrap themselves in the law, but their law is as hollow as that that brought an end to Boethius. They apply the law capriciously, disregarding any pretext of even handedness or consistency.
Without the consistency of the laws of gravity and motion the world would be chaos, if it could even exist at all. Because of them, we know down from up and can pour milk on our morning cereal with a degree of success. Humans love predictability; it’s the key to franchises. Knowing things work a certain way allows us to make plans, raise our families, and do our business.
The same is true of our laws. Created through a deliberative process by a legislature, signed by an executive, and interpreted by a judiciary; the working assumption in our democracy is the application will be equal – that bad actors and bad actions will be punished regardless – and we follow through on our agreements. This is the liberty that Boethius spoke of, a predictable foundation on which we plan our futures.
We lose our liberty when the government is ruled by executive fiat. When the executive destroys departments created by the legislature; when the executive abrogates trade agreements they themselves previously made; when the executive refuses to support defense agreements and then allies with our enemies; when the executive institutes policies only to withdraw them the next day, only to reinstate them the next takes away all predictability.
We become second class citizens left only to react to the executive who crowns himself king and above the law. Remember Boethius said, “Obedience to the law is liberty” as the Roman world dissolved into the chaos of competing warlords. Will we let that happen to ours?
I’d like to share a poem my wife sent me after Peter died. It’s by Billy Collins – Holy Cross class of ‘63. Peter took me to see him at an alumni event a few years ago. He knew I liked him.
The dead are always looking down on us, they say. While we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich they are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven as they row themselves slowly through eternity.
They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth, and when we lie down in a field or on a couch, drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon, they think we are looking back at them, which makes them lift their oars and fall silent and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.
Thank you all for coming. Peter would have appreciated the turn out. I’m Michael, Peter’s younger brother.
When Peter told me he didn’t think he could live through another Trump administration, I really didn’t think he would take it this far…
Actually what Peter said when he called me on March 15, 2023 was, “You know the phrase ‘beware the Ides of March, right?”
“Yeah – Shakespeare…”
He went on to explain his diagnosis, inoperable pancreatic cancer, and then asked me to write a eulogy. I started to write, the daffodils bloomed, Peter started his treatments, and we planned to visit at least once a month. Cancer takes time.
Peter was a husband, a father, a grandfather, both a big and little brother, a friend. He was a banker, a selectman, a member of the board of this magnificent building; an avid boater, cyclist, collector of WWII posters and vintage hifi, a proud alum of the College of the Holy Cross – Class of ‘73 and half as he would say – a master of French and a hopeless romantic.
He was someone who read infinitely and retained everything. Peter’s capacity to discuss any aspect of American history was never without valid references.
Peter was happiest with a granddaughter on his lap, but a cat could suffice.
Growing up, our dad had a record player in the den. Above it was his collection of big band records, broadway musicals, and the occasional comedy recording. Reg could be a volatile man, but when the music was playing it was a good day.
When Peter got his diagnosis one of the first things he began to work on was a playlist for the inevitable memorial. He wanted this to be a good day, a day when we share our memories; when we tell our stories. Peter wanted to tell his with the music.
Peter showed me his playlist during one of our visits after sharing some cider donuts that I always brought. He had songs clearly intended for Judy, songs for Kelley and Quinn, but mostly there are songs for us – from blues to rockers – to enjoy, to reminisce, maybe even to dance.
To listen to the complete playlist we would be here for days, but Peter heard it all at least once, playing in the background from the time he entered the McCarthy Center until his passing.
Here’s another bit of Shakespeare: “…one man in his time plays many parts…”
Peter, the Eagle Scout, blazed a trail I would follow. He did plays in high school and in college – I did plays in high school and college. He was a summer camp counselor – I was a summer camp counselor. He waited table at a German restaurant in Brewster – I worked in the kitchen – Peter looked better in lederhosen.
When we were little we had shared a bedroom and that restaurant job made us roommates again for one last time. That summer Peter had begun his deep and enduring relationship with Jeep and I had just graduated high school.
With the restaurant closed on Mondays Peter would meet his friend David for a day of sailing. If David wasn’t available I got to hop in Peter’s new CJ6 to join him on Bass River. On the way we would stop at Quaker Donuts for honeydips and a cartoon of OJ. With breakfast snarfed we would then prepare the Hobie for the day’s sail.
Peter would declare the importance of starting the day with a good breakfast and snicker to himself as he lashed a battery box filled with ice and beer to the boat. It’s important to not drink on an empty stomach.
That was the summer the Allman Brothers released “Brothers and Sisters.” Peter had already introduced me to them with the “Live at the Fillmore East” and songs from both are on this playlist.
Peter knew the best of the British invasion and American R&B scene. I grew up to a soundtrack he curated – Paul Butterfield, the Yardbirds, the Stones. Those were good days.
I was in awe of the shows he saw, like Jimi Hendrix playing in Alden Hall at Clark University, or Jeff Beck at the Boston Tea Party with some guy named Rod Stewart doing vocals. Or Boz Scaggs gigging in a club in San Francisco after he left the Steve Miller band.
One of our last visits, while Peter rested, Kelley and Quinn told me how, when they were little, he would sit them on the couch and play them the greats. In my head I imagine Janis Joplin or Led Zeppelin blasting at eleven while two kids watch their dad bite his lip doing the dance of the white man.
That same day Judy told me about her morning with Peter. She said they quietly listened to music together. She said they hadn’t done that in a while and it felt good.
The last text I sent Peter was a link to a video of the J. Geils Band playing in the fieldhouse at Holy Cross in ‘72. The video was in black and white, but I imagine Peter there in color.
You learn a lot from a person when their bed is next to yours. Peter taught me how to tie a tie, the true meaning of fiduciary, and when the words just aren’t there – the music is.
How was I to know that back in the summer of ‘73 on that same “Brothers and Sisters” album Dicky Betts would channel some words for today from Peter:
Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man Tryin’ to make a livin’ and doin’ the best I can And when it’s time for leavin’ I hope you’ll understand…
A year ago Pam and I were in Boston to see Hamilton and its multicultural cast sing and dance the story of that founding father. We stayed overnight near the common and in the morning we took the short walk over to see The Embrace: A Monument to Love. This was a new statue memorializing Martin Luther King, Jr. and his bride, Coretta Scott King.
The 20’ tall, 40’ wide bronze by sculptor Hank Willis Thomas was inspired by a photo of them in each others arms after Dr. King received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964. It’s not a statue of the couple; instead it focuses on the hug they shared that day, depicting just their intertwined arms and hands. Visitors can walk into the arms and share that moment. We saw families taking selfies with the statue and telling stories to their kids and grandkids about back in the day. We took our own pictures and helped others with theirs – sometimes your arm isn’t long enough to get everybody in.
Like much public art, this installation rubbed some people the wrong way. Many think the memorial should have been a more traditional depiction of the couple, or just not built at all because, well… the money, or maybe it should have been sited in a black neighborhood, or another city altogether.
But it’s in Boston. Why? Because that’s where couple met and fell in love as students; he at B. U. and she at the New England Conservatory.
A year after receiving the Nobel prize and a month after the march in Selma, Dr. and Mrs. King came back to the city where they met to lead another march protesting the horrific racial imbalance in Boston’s schools and housing. This was the largest protest in the North about what most thought were problems of the South.
News photos of the march show the many groups supporting the cause. Everything from printed union signs to hand written civil rights missives were carried by the 22,000 people who flowed out of Roxbury toward Boston Common. In this blur of people and signs there is one that can clearly be read, a sign with single word crafted to fill the placard. It says LOVE.
That sign was made and carried by my sister, Susie, then a student at Boston School of Art. The light pencil lines carefully positioning each letter were still visible if you got close enough to it. As the march went on she and her sign got moved closer and closer to Dr. King. The next day the Boston Globe ran the story of the march above the fold with a photo of the crowd. They put a circle around Dr. King. My sister’s sign needed no such help.
Susie had been arrested the month before at a sit-in in Washington on her way to Selma. Bruised from being dragged down the Capitol steps and a night in jail had her returning to Boston instead of crossing the Edmund Pettus bridge to be clubbed and gassed with Dr. King.
Our dad hated that his girl put herself at risk like this. He hated that she showed up to the Boston march alone with her sign; yet he proudly carried a copy of the Globe in his briefcase in case anyone asked what his family was up to.
Fast forward to 2024. America has had a black president, many states including my home state of Massachusetts have had black governors and congressmen. Martin Luther King, Jr. famously mention his dream of his children not being “judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”
My sister and her daughter, Amy, now run a small gift shop in postcard perfect Wickford village, on Narraganset Bay in the town of North Kingstown, Rhode Island. It is so picturesque that Yankee Magazine mentions both the village and their shop, A Different Drummer, often. Quintessential New England with a well preserved, historic village center with lots of locally owned shops and restaurants; perfect for relaxing over meal with friends or picking up a unique gift or two.
Wander into other parts of North Kingstown you might pick up something different – perhaps a recruitment flyer from a nearby neo Nazi group, NSC131. Last year they littered the town like some lawn service – ziplock bags with a few stones and a pamphlet tossed onto driveways. The difference being they were pitching hate instead of curb appeal. The litter was followed up by an email sent to one the local school committee members containing a picture of a noose and the words “It’s coming.” The recipient happens to be a white woman married to a black man. They have children. Race mixing is something Nazi’s hate.
On the mall in Washington, Dr. King spoke of a time when freedom would ring from every village, with “black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics” holding hands. Obviously, we aren’t there yet. In his last speech he proclaimed he had been to the mountaintop and saw the promised land. It is still uncertain if we will reach the top, but we certainly have climbed.
When I was four there was a black maid who worked for my grandmother’s neighbor. She was the only adult I was allowed to address by her first name. She addressed me as “Master Michael.” I was four! My sister was “Miss Susan” – not “Susie.” We have scrambled part way up, occasionally sliding backwards before finding a better path.
During his short lifetime, Dr. King delivered over 2,500 speeches. His words were both of the moment, specific to a time and a cause, and for the ages, to remind us our power is in our unity. In that last Montgomery speech, hours before his assassination, he told his audience about the Pharaoh’s formula to maintain slavery. It was to “…keep the slaves fighting among themselves.”
This is still true today. Sow hate and division among us and we fight each other while the new phoraohs hoard the world’s riches for themselves. Hate is their weapon keeping us from the mountaintop Dr. King saw. He told us how counter this in thousands of speeches and ten of thousands of words. My sister condensed all of it onto her sign with one word – LOVE – and that’s what I see in the statue.
2023 – the number just doesn’t have a great ring to it – it’s not even prime – and, like the number, the year was a composite of some memorable moments and some I’ve already forgotten. To make sure I missed nothing I have thoroughly researched the year by looking through the pictures on my phone. Here are the highlights listed by the month:
January – Pam and I had a post New Year’s Day road trip to western Mass, looping around the Quabbin and later in the month a delayed second Christmas with our adult kids, Zach and Addy. A tree snapping snow storm and other day trips (including a very forgettable chocolate festival) rounded out the month. In chatting with my brother, Peter, he mentioned he was eating too much holiday food – kept feeling nauseous… An ulcer? Going to the doctor…
February – We saw Hamilton in Boston and visited the new MLK monument. As a couple of old folks playing tourist we visited the old State House, the old South Meeting House, and walked through Boston’s Holocaust memorial. It was incredibly cold.
March – At Mountview, we “pied a teacher” as a fundraiser for the Herren Project (addiction recovery) and the school staged Alice in Wonderland. On the Ides of March Peter called to say he didn’t have an ulcer. He had inoperable pancreatic cancer and invited me to write his eulogy.
April – A month of progressively worse pictures – First, for the school yearbook having been voted teacher most likely to break out in dance; next, for new passports – Pam and I were hiking the Lakes District in the UK this summer; and last, for myself – my first visit to the Cape to see Peter since his diagnosis. He had the gaunt, hollow look of a concentration camp prisoner.
May – May means Memorial Day and the annual clean up and planting at my parents grave site in Paxton. I tidy up the neighbors a bit, too. This is prime time for visiting the deceased, so it’s important everybody looks good. I take a quick trip back to the Cape to check in with Peter. He either looks better or my expectations were set lower. I’m not sure which and that was OK.
June – After an unexpectedly uneventful Field Day, we graduated one of the toughest classes I have ever had. The school year ended with the kids arguing mock trials, displaying their robotics creations, and meeting a student emissary from Israel with few of the bad behaviors that had all of us questioning our career choices. I put a “Love wins” sign on my lawn for pride month. Someone else put an upside down American flag next to it – a neighbor who lost love I assume. Makes me think about the old slapstick routine where you close one drawer and a different one pops open…
July – As always it starts with Pam’s birthday celebration – this year a Tanglewood extravaganza: Robert Plant and Alison Krauss followed by two nights with James Taylor, one with lawn seats in the rain and one with shed seats and Fourth of July fireworks. On the 7th I joined Zach and his buds who came out to Worcester to take in a WooSox game. During the game Pam texted me she was taking her mother to the ER. She was admitted to the hospital. Zach came back out on the 17th to visit and she died July 18th. She wanted no service, no memorial, nothing…
We were on a plane to the UK July 23rd. We hiked through gardens, fields, and drizzle the rest of July into August. Pam’s workmates bought dinner for two at a Michelin star restaurant in Ambleside in honor of Pam’s mom. We have never eaten anything so wonderful and we both cried between courses. Luckily we were in a dark corner or we would have dampened the mood for the rest of the dinners.
August – We completed our UK adventure by finding the limit of our pain tolerance. For me it was my knees and for Pam, her ankles, as we hiked the fells. Recuperating back in the States with a few last road trips for the summer: to Portland, to the Berkshires, and to Boston to see John Oliver courtesy of Addy and Josh who joined us for a dose of laughter, the best medicine.
The summer rains continued so I began scanning all of my mother’s photo albums that have been stored at my house since she died a little over ten years ago. Pictures of her growing up on the Cape, dating my dad, us as little kids, her adventures after my dad died, her visits with me and my siblings and her grandkids… I still have more to scan.
September – My new class of 8th graders are getting acclimated to my classroom and Pam and I attend a rainy Red Sox loss with Zach and Sandrine. I got tickets for the family and SOs to enjoy the BSO performing Star Wars at Symphony Hall. I didn’t plan for a parking fiasco so I was less than pleasant company as we arrived late. Peter and Judy came up to Polar Park for the Holy Cross / Harvard game. Holy Cross lost, but Peter looked much better, though he left early.
October – Trick or Treat? Not just for Halloween this month – both kids close on houses (!) – Addy and Josh in Plainfield, CT and Zach and Sandrine in Medford, MA and both homes have some trick surprises for their new owners. The real treat for us was being able to have breakfast on the screen porch through most of the month and talking with Peter. He had a lot more energy in his voice and had put on a few more pounds.
November – My classes got to observe this month’s special election. By the looks on their faces it wasn’t so special to them… At least they will be familiar with the process in four years when they can vote. We had Thanksgiving with the kids, partners, dogs, and bonus guests – San’s mom and step-dad! Of special note it was generally agreed the best turkey ever – and grocery store Butterball, not the fancy local farm bird ($20 vs $100 too!) and Peter became a Grampy again (Welcome Lily!).
December – I was pretty much done with 2023 back in March, but here we are. Not feeling the holiday spirit much, but I had this student wear a Santa hat one day and followed by a complete Christmas outfit the next. I asked if she was a big fan of Christmas. This quiet girl surprised me with a smile and a yes delivered with the energy of Santa’s helper on Christmas Eve. Everyday she dressed for Christmas; sometimes subtle holiday earrings, others a “you can’t miss it” garland fringed dress. She had enough spirit to bless us all, each and every one. Thank you, Alyssa, and Merry Christmas!
As to my constant mood helper and companion for life, Pam; she continued her exceptional holiday decorating of our home, somehow finding the time to make it feel a lot like Christmas, even when the hospital demands her attention 24-7 and my bah-humbugging. I remind myself how lucky I am as I put the outside lights and decorations up for the season. We have the kids over for brunch and presents on Christmas Day.
We finish the year with a few days on the Cape visiting Peter and meeting his newest grandchild. He is in the middle of radiation treatments in addition to the chemo and it has exhausted him. He has lost most of the weight he had put back on and the pain he is in is evident. We head home via Addy’s new house, now sporting a sectional from Pam’s mom and a chair from my mom’s. Addy calls that chair the Santa’s throne. Neither mom needs them any more. We have traditional New Year’s Eve Chinese take out together.
Tomorrow – Pam and her sisters will start packing up Marne’s condo now that it sold and I’m going to go over some lessons for the new year…
I’m in a mall near Quebec with a group of 8th graders trying out their French skills and I’m following my son’s progress in the Boston Marathon on my phone. I get a text from my daughter – two bombs went off near the finish line – many casualties and cell phone coverage weak at best.
Another text: At least two dead, limbs blown off, perhaps hundreds of casualties…
I had been waiting for the BAA website to update when the first text came in. Zach was nearing the end it and was taking forever to update. Forever just got longer.
I run a checklist in my head:
– Family? My daughter isn’t there, my wife is working, I’m in Canada. OK. – Zach injured or worse? …How can I find out? …How will I get back? …Who will chaperone my students because I will need to go?
We are back on the bus and I no longer have Internet access. I ask the tour guide to Google it for me – he says two dead, many injured, no names. No help…
This was Zach’s third marathon. He passed the 30K marker significantly slower than his prior marks and I had wondered if this was “Heartbreak Hill.” When I finally got his 35K time I saw he picked up the pace. “Go Bud!” was my silent cheer back at the mall, now I was rethinking that.
My daughter texts me she got Zach on the phone. He answered, “I’m running” and he hung up. What a complete asshole, but my alive complete asshole son. He has no idea.
Relief makes my chin knot up to catch the tears while I compose myself to get back to the job of posing for a class picture in front of the Chateau Frontenac.
Everyday families who have children in combat must go on this roller coaster of terror and relief with every news report. I don’t know how or when you sleep.
This same day the news reported fifty-five killed by a car bomb in Iraq. Fifty-five who have mothers and fathers, who are someone’s daughters and sons, were killed. Their families will feel the terror, but not the relief. I don’t know how they can sleep.
When my children were little and got tired they became unruly hellions, lashing out at everything. I think this is universal human trait. Since I can remember we have had wars and bombings and terror – perhaps another universal human trait. Maybe we are just too tired; maybe we all need a nap.
Yesterday, I had a glimpse into the abyss of uncertainty. My heart goes out to those whose loss I can never understand, to those who have family stationed in harm’s way, to those who have family torn apart while going about the business of life and becoming tally marks on someone’s terrorism balance sheet. Newtown, Fallujah, Boston or Abuja; it makes no difference. I wish we would just give it all a rest and life goes on. Sing ob la di bla da…
PS – Turns out it wasn’t “Heartbreak Hill” that slowed Zach down – he needed to use one of the route portapotties. I am proud my son gives a shit. And thanks to all well wishes on Facebook.
I wrote that ten years ago. What’s happened in those years?
We did the Quebec trip a few more times until COVID, but now there aren’t enough kids to book the trip. Terrorism continues and school shootings have increased to the point that they barely the national news. The Middle East is still a quagmire and now there’s a war in Ukraine.
I have a student whose home in Karkhiv, Ukraine has been destroyed by the Russians (this city is the starting point of “You Don’t Know What War Is: The Diary of a Young Girl from Ukraine.” if you want to imagine the experience). She sits in my classroom of mostly comfortable suburban kids. I can’t imagine how she sees us. She writes in beautiful cursive in an alphabet that is not her first. I’m in awe of her. She doesn’t like when airplanes fly over.
And still everyone is tired; my students from gaming and all night Tik Tok, me from being old and unable to sleep, Zach from his work.
Zach did finally finish – in 2014. The BAA allowed those who did not finish because of the bombing to run again. Zach fractured a bone in his foot a few days before the 2014 marathon, but still insisted on running. He finished with a slight detour into a CVS to buy a cane. He needed help to keep going. His time for the marathon was 365 days, 10 hours and some odd minutes.
So maybe that’s it – we all need a little support to keep going as well as more sleep. I could really use some sleep.
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah La-la-la-la-la, life goes on.
Dick was my neighbor for the past 26 years. We mostly talked between chores, be it feeding the neighborhood wildlife or shoveling or raking or mowing… mostly after mowing. Dick was a Marine who liked his lawn like his haircut – high and tight – mine was more child of the 60s – long and shaggy.
When we moved into the neighborhood Dick asked if we minded loud music. I said no. Loud was an understatement. One of his boys, Matt, had a thrash metal band that rehearsed on Sundays while he and Kathy were out at church and – well now I’m guessing – lunch or possibly just a long drive. He was very proud of his boys and if supporting them meant being out of the house for a few hours with his bride, so be it.
As we settled into the neighborhood my wife and I decided we needed a couple of trees removed. I asked Dick who to call and he came right over with a chainsaw. We fell the offending trees and, proudly, only partially blocked the street. Dick thought we were pretty good at this and named us the Sawbucks and our wives, the Buckettes. As a group maybe we were OK, but as a solo act with chainsaw and ladder, Dick was something else.
After work one day I stepped out on our deck to take in what remained of the day and saw Dick sitting in a chair in his yard. He waved me over. I’m thinking – great, chores are done and we’ll relax with an adult beverage. I should have known better. Dick always had something to do.
He had been sawing a limb from an oak on the hill behind his house. When the limb snapped the tree lurched one way, the extension ladder the other, leaving Dick to fall about 20’. He had fractured his hip and maybe a rib or two. Kathy wasn’t home so the Marine in him decided he should drag himself up into a lawn chair and wait. That’s when I arrived. This Marine also decided he was probably just a little bruised and he agreed to just sit until my wife, a nurse, got home from work to check him over.
Pam arrived and triaged the patient. She instantly knew Dick’s injuries were outside her expertise – she works in obstetrics – but she did recognize a damaged pelvis. Don’t call 911 he said. He didn’t want to end up in the police log section of the Landmark – this story needed more than one line to do it justice. Somehow the two of us assisted Dick over to Pam’s SUV where we stuffed his broken 6’ 5” frame across the backseat and got him to the ER.
And I’m sure you all know that that was just the first time Dick fell from a tree he was trimming. Kathy said you can’t tell him anything, but he learned. The next time he allowed the postman who found him to call 911.
The injuries from that second fall were much more serious, but by the time Spring rolled around I was again finding golf balls in my yard. Come winter Dick returned to snowblowing the sidewalk between our houses and taking big divots out of my lawn. He would also clear a path through the plowed snow across the end of my driveway easing Pam’s morning commute and my driveway clearing. It was a more than fair trade.
Dick was not one to let health concerns get in his way. Diabetes be damned he’d still enjoy some of Pam’s brownies. Even when he got his pacemaker and was told to keep at least a foot from sources of electromagnetic pulses – like those from the engine on a leaf blower – he figured by hanging the blower from one shoulder he met the minimums and returned to his hobby of leaf blowing at dinner time. Dick had more lives than a cat and was determined to use all of them.
I always thought he would find a few more though. The day Dick passed I was at the Holy Cross homecoming game with my brother. A week earlier Dick had come home from the hospital after having had last rites. He called and said come on over. And there he was, sitting out on his deck with a big smile, happy to be home. The neighborhood chipmunks were happy, too, because they had gone well over a week without peanuts and their guy was back.
I was happy, too. I didn’t expect to get back the neighbor who was always ready to help whether you wanted it or not. As much as it would drive me crazy when Dick would “help” by occasionally mowing my lawn, I am also thankful for the stone walls Dick helped build in my yard, his landscaping ideas we implemented, and his general enthusiasm for cutting or trimming most anything.
As Dick got less steady on his feet he adapted. I’m told this is key to being a Marine – to adapt. His riding mower became his all terrain mobility assistance device. I always knew when Dick was home and feeling OK. His riding mower squealed and dispatched rocks about the yard as he climbed the hill out back to dispose of clippings in the woods or when he would just to ride over to say hi and turn around in my driveway. I never thought of that squeal as a sweet sound – but now I do. I’m going to miss it. It was the sound of a guy who always had something to do.
It struck me with the recent passing of the Queen Elizabeth that she and Dick had a lot in common. Clearly not height, gender, age or lineage – but they both had things to do right up to the end. They both valued duty, honor and service above all else, but if I had to choose, Dick would still be my neighbor.
I have been thinking a lot about Uncle Bill and Glo. Mostly how our respective tribes would meet at Grandma Anne’s in the summer. We were kids. You Sargents would screw things up for us Smiths for two weeks each summer. The Smiths no longer had free reign in the Outback or any shot at hot water from the hose to rinse off with after coming back from the beach, but the benefits of getting together were well worth the trade off.
Dairy Queen and trampolines come to mind – two things that Reg would never take us to, but Uncle Bill would let us cram into the VW bus and join you for summer fun.
I remember Uncle Bill telling me you could do anything if you found the right book. He spoke with the certainty of an engineer. He knew things – lots of things – actually pretty much everything to my young self. And his deep voice coming from on high spoke volumes to me. I was in awe of your dad.
He loved sharing fun facts and I loved being his rapt audience – unless we were sailing. Bill’s inner Bly would come out if we crewed the beetlecat with him at the helm. Ask Glo who the better sailor was and it was her. Ask Bill and it was him.
Back in the day most of the goings on between our respective tribes would pass through the filter of Grandma Anne, our precursor to Facebook. She would only relay the various triumphs of the Sargents making us Smiths feel inferior and, as I understood through Uncle Bill, the Smith info landed with the same mixed feelings.
But ask Aunt Gloria about Bill and she would make clear the pecking order, he was her little brother first (all 6 foot whatever of him), and then with a great deal of pride recount whatever her brother accomplished leavened with just enough criticism so she wouldn’t come off sentimental. She would come back from visits to Virginia with awful pictures and great stories of all of you and your triumphs, too.
My recollections involve invading your space in Annadale for one Thanksgiving and being in awe of all the people that Uncle Bill and MJ hosted at a party there. And you had Walter the pigeon and ponies!
Much later, Uncle Bill opened his door to our son, Zach, as he began his working life in DC. Zach lived with Uncle Bill and MJ for over a month, being driven to the Metro each morning, getting welcomed into another side of the family and putting his parents’ heart at ease.
Uncle Bill was always a most gracious host. Once he even drove to Alexandria with Obi during a middle school DC tour that I was chaperoning just to say hi.
Zach couldn’t make it today, but he works for a synthetic biology company now and Pam made a comment on our way down here noting how different our two families are, considering we come from the pretty much same gene pool. She was talking about our respective politics.
Grandma Anne used to talk about the Sargent genes coming through in all of us, too. She liked to point out cheekbones or intelligence or complexion. She saw the Sargent in all of us.
Uncle Bill taught me a lot and one thing I learned was never to touch the picture settings on Grandma Anne’s TV. Once, after he adjusted Lawrence Welk’s glowing green complexion into a more natural hue, the battle of the Titans was triggered.
Maybe that’s the real Sargent gene – willing – no, wanting – to help each other out while holding outrageously conflicting opinions at the same time. This is a precarious internal balancing act to pull off so it seems fitting that we meet here today to have Glo and Bill finish their journeys in a virtual tie. Ashes to ashes… No more team of rivals – just a brother and sister sharing some time on the Cape.
I’m NOT going to name my new country band The Delta Variants, though it seems to be tracking well with a certain audience. I want COVID to go away, I’m exhausted from being pandemic strong. The only way the effects of this virus go away and life returns to normal is for as many of us as possible to get vaccinated, denying the virus the breeding ground of our bodies. And this is just not happening.
After the initial surge, powerful enough to crash state vaccine sites, vaccinations have slowed to a crawl with vaccines expiring unused for reasons that make little sense to me (Yes – I’m vaccinated. No, I didn’t get sick). I don’t know how to convince those who are vaccine hesitant other than these two ideas and they both hold equal sway with me so maybe you should choose.
Idea #1 Just the facts…
I understand you have questions. They deserve to be answered thoughtfully and respectfully.
It’s new and they don’t really know if it’s safe. Yes, it’s a new vaccine, but it has gone through the standard safety trials all vaccines go through. The vast majority of safety issues will show within two months of the vaccine being administered and all three vaccines have gone through that trial before they were offered to the public. People with earliest access to the vaccine (first responders like my nurse wife and daughter) were also asked to call in to the CDC to report any symptoms or adverse effects to further gather data. There are some reactions reported but the numbers are extraordinarily small and we now have 343 million doses given in the US so we do have a broad basis to say it is safe.
I’m of childbearing age and concerned that the vaccine will affect my fertility or my unborn child. Though not intended, the first group in the vaccine trial ended up with a few pregnancies with no adverse effects. A vaccinated mother may even pass her immunity on to her baby during breastfeeding. This also occurs with some flu shots. The vaccine does not pass the placental barrier. To date, there is no evidence of fertility loss or harm to the fetus.
It’s gene therapy and it will alter my DNA. Though the mRNA based vaccines are a product of synthetic biology, they have no mechanism to enter or alter your DNA. They produce a structure that looks just like the virus to your immune system, teaching it how to fight off the virus. In fact, the mRNA vaccines break down so fast there is no trace left of it in your body after just a few days. What does remain is the immune response.
My chances of getting COVID are low, so I don’t get the point. It is true. Not everyone who gets COVID dies, in fact many don’t even get sick. But if you do and end up sick you may recover completely or you might become a COVID long hauler with permanent lung damage, nerve damage or neurological damage. The vaccine mitigates this. Since nothing in life is 100% it isn’t a guarantee by being vaccinated that none of this could happen, but if you look at the recent COVID deaths 99.5% were unvaccinated and 0.5 were vaccinated. Those are good odds for the vaccinated crowd.
More importantly, your body fights the virus if you are vaccinated so the virus has less of a chance to mutate and grow. Without the growth you have less chance of shedding the virus and infecting others. With lessened infection and spread comes a reduction in new mutations that could bypass the defenses provided by current vaccines.
Idea #2 The Rant…
What are you? A fucking moron? Go ahead – let Darwin do its work, cull humanity of stupid. Your freedom? What makes your freedom more important than mine? You selfish bastard I’d like to walk around without a mask. I’d like to come home not wondering if I’ve brought an invisible plague to my family which includes people who are immuno-compromised. Read some history. Science has shielded you from the deaths and disabilities from smallpox, typhus, yellow fever – common scourges of the past and now this relatively disease free world is how you think it has always been. If you don’t like reading take a walk through an old cemetery – maybe then you’ll get the picture.
In Massachusetts children are required to have vaccinations against diphtheria, tetanus, whooping cough, polio, hepatitis B, measles, mumps, rubella and chickenpox before they enter public school. Your kids (and probably you as well) have been protected from getting or spreading these, keeping many out of the hospital or those cemeteries. Any outbreaks that have occurred have happened in enclaves of the unvaccinated. Vaccines work. I haven’t had a kid in class that has had or knows somebody that’s had chicken pox. Nine vaccines are required and now you’re getting your panties in a bunch because you’re asked to get one more?
What? Nobody’s going to tell you what to do? Your freedom again? Christ – Have you ever heard of “no shirt, no shoes, no service”? Are you a five year old having a Libertarian tantrum? Sorry, bro – life’s full of rules. You don’t want to see me walking around naked. You don’t want my sewerage discharged onto your land. And I don’t want the virus you have allowed to breed inside you discharged into the world my family lives in. So put on your big boy pants, get the vaccine, and crawl your way out of the shallow end of the gene pool.
One from my head, one from my heart – Pick one if it helps you get the jab – or pick none just to screw me and get the jab out of spite. Go to your doctor or a pharmacy, they’ll take care of you. Either way you’ll make the world a better, safer place, but in the meantime wear an effing mask.
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