THE SPOOFER

'The Spoofer' (left); 'The Spoofee' (right) and their brother
2007

   First, some definitions:  SPOOFER:  noun.  One who spoofs;
  TO  SPOOF: verb.  A gentle, satirical, light-hearted imitation (with emphasis on gentle, at least in my intention); a light parody;  a good-humored deception.
   [And, I would add, not to be equated with a newer usage that I have just learned:'an act or instance of impersonating another person on Internet or via e-mail.'  Somehow that does not seem 'good-humored'.]

    This past week-end I saw a friend who commented on an earlier post about nicknames.  He said that he was surprised by an omission. . .  'The Spoofer'.  Well, that is I, though I have never thought of it as a nickname so much as it has become an acknowledgement of having wounded my 'baby brother's feelings' when he was about 8 or 9 years old.  This same 'baby brother' is about to join the ranks of the certifiably old.  At least Gerontologists decree that at 65 a person becomes 'old'.

   A few years ago, our  recycling center ran an ad in the local newspaper.  It pictured an empty box and the caption; "Not everyone appreciates an empty box.  We do."  Well,  on Christmas morning somewhere around 1957-1958, my brother categorically DID NOT appreciate an empty "Gift wrapped" box and let it be known by a great  outpouring of tears.

   This is how it happened.  Any other versions have been altered.
I needed a part-time job over the Christmas college break.  The local Belk's department store needed gift wrappers.  So, two former high school classmates (also guys !!) and I were hired.  {For any classmates who may read this, my co-workers were "Speedy" Brewer and "Chubby" Neighbors, both now deceased.}In retrospect, I shudder to think of some of the monstrosity wrappings that must have exited there that Christmas season.  There were, however, several beautifully wrapped boxes in the window display.  At closing time on Christmas Eve, I asked the manager if I might have one. Sure. I had a plan.

   By the time I arrived at home, my brother already had 'visions of sugar plums' dancing in his head.  Perfect.  I slipped the box under the tree and put his name on the "TO:  "  part of the tag and noted that it was "FROM: THE SPOOFER".  When he came into the room early the next morning, guess which gift caught his eye!!  Straight to it, removing the ribbon and wrapping paper with great gusto . . . only to discover . . .AN EMPTY BOX.  I didn't know that his vocabulary did not include the noun: Spoofer.  To this day, I am uncertain as to which of us was the more traumatized.

    With the passing of years, I had assumed that the episode was forgotten (and perhaps forgiven).  But at some point (and I honestly do not remember how or when or by whom...though I have my hunches on the latter), the story was resurrected with a definite "You have some making up to do, Big Brother."  Thus The Spoofer was dusted off to make his subsequent annual visit to my 'wronged' sibling.  

   There are uncodified stipulations that require adherence for these to be true to the spirit of the gift:  i) they must be outrageously, gaudily wrapped; ii) they can have no conceivable utilitarian value.  Did you know that the Sunday newspaper's comic section affords some very colorful and inexpensive gift wrap ? Or, even tackier, regular old week-day newsprint will do.  And, on a few occasions when my by-then-grown-brother edited the local weekly, I used that paper for wrapping. 

    As for the contents, they have included: an assortment of toys purchased from a nearby 'Dime Store' just before it closed permanently. [If you do not know  what a 'Dime Store' was, go ask Grandma.  Kind of the pre-inflation forerunner of Dollar General, I suppose.]; themed garments (don't ask); copies of The New York Times and area newspapers dated November 23, 1963... perhaps the most 'serious' ; assorted 'literature' ; but the one that backfired in terms of utility was the wooden toilet seat.  That beauty would have been worth much more than the asking price of a couple of dollars had one of the bolts for attachment not been missing.  The recipient had the audacity to locate an appropriate size bolt and to provide a 'home' for the gift for several years.  And, occasionally just to add the appropriate sentimentality, Spoofer includes an original Ode extolling the virtues of his sibling and the great care and attention that have been exercised in choosing 'just the right gift'.

     Have you hugged your brother (or sister, if you have one; I regret that I do not) today?

1948

                  Satchel   (aka, The Spoofer)

"GETTING OUT OF 'DODGE'"

"Every now and then, go away, have a little relaxation, for when you come back to your work your judgment will be surer.  Go some distance away because then the work appears smaller and more of it can be taken in at a glance and a lack of harmony and proportion is more readily seen."
    Leonardo da Vinci

        By the time this is published, we will have indulged in that glorious respite called a 'vacation'.  (Some of this post is being written at the outset; some later.  So, a switching between verb  tenses is inevitable.  And, it is a tad disjointed.  But, then, vacations work that kind of magic sometimes.)

  Being able to work hard with sense of purpose and fulfillment is a source of great satisfaction, especially at an age well past society's presumed retirement age.  While I have had 'rewarding careers' along the way (college alumni director, public school teacher, college professor, self-employed entrepreneur, parish minister), it was when I became a full-time therapist that I knew that I had found 'the right fit'.  This occurred when I had reached 62+ birthdays. Yep, it's called 'knowing what I want to be when I grow up'.

    The Leonardo quote has long been an influential favorite.  Even when we 'love our work', as I do, the potential for fatigue is often 'just around the corner.'  Frequently,  I urge my clients towards healthy modes of 'self care'.  I.e., if we don't take care of ourselves, our abilities and capacities to provide care for others diminish.  This is not the same as self-absorbed narcissism.

    My wife and I approach 'vacation' from different angles.  She is a do-er, a go-er, a see-er.  I derive renewed energy from reading, writing, snoozing, hiking, etc.  So, we have developed a compromise that gives us each what we need:  After breakfast at our time-share, we head out for pre-selected activities that include a substantial lunch. Mid to late afternoon, we head back 'home' for nap, hike, reading, tv, and dinner.  It works for us.

   I often tell her that her taste buds are much better educated than are mine, so much so that though she 'dines', I merely 'eat'.  Wherever we travel, her ability to locate 'fine dining' is always a marvel, and that often at prices that can make 'a dollar holler'.  I.e., she knows how to find a bargain. 

   This week we have been joined by our son (I loathe the designation 'step-son') who lives as a 'refugee' in Los Angeles.  She and I regularly vacation in this area and this being his first visit to this destination, we are planning to see places 'again for the first time'.

      At home this past week, temp's had been hovering around 80*.  After what was seeming like an interminable Winter, Spring appeared finally to have arrived.  At Sunday Morning sunrise in the mountains of Virginia, there were still places where the vegetation did not seem to have 'gotten the message'.  The 36* thermometer reading may have offered a clue.  

      Funny, how "little things" bring "big happiness".   Weeks of being confined largely to two undamaged rooms of our house  (see earlier post: What a Mess !) and endless paper plates and styrofoam cups, as well as no refrigerator, stove nor television, along with several trips to the laundromat, and we were ready for a change of scenery.  When we return, little will have been repaired
 . . .the tile was still on backorder when we left.  But for a week, the opportunity to experience normal digs feels luxurious.  

    Above:  The Den

     Below:  Laundry Room

     Right: This was the kitchen
     


    









    
    We have enjoyed some of the hiking trails in the area.  But yesterday, we were a bit 'closer to nature' than I care to be.  Did you know that rattlesnakes can spend time in the water?  I didn't either until 'Google' told us so.  Our son saw this one slither off the trail and into the creek:  (Look for the "S")
   

    On our last day of vacation, they (wife and son) decided to hike one of the 'moderately difficult' trails. I opted for a four-mile walk down the road from the summit.  Somehow they missed the early sign posts and  managed instead to hike the 'DIFFICULT' trail.  But their sense of satisfaction in the accomplishment was immense.  (There is one little sidebar:  this morning at 5:50 California time, he called to say that he had just detected a 'hitchhiker' from Virginia.  Took me a second to realize that he had found a tick.)

                                    More fun than cleaning up a flooded house


      Tomorrow it's back to work . . .and that's a good thing.  But in the background, I hear my dad's sometimes musing that he 'needed a vacation to recover from vacation.' 

      Satchel

"SOLVITUR AMBILANDO"

....Or, St. Augustine supposedly wrote.  Translation: "It's solved by walking."

    Over the years, I have never been 'obese'.  Plump, occasionally; Paunchy, sometimes 'guilty, as charged'; 'out of shape', well, round tummy is a shape.  Then, a few years ago, a cardiologist noted that I was experiencing PVC's (premature ventrical contractions) at a greater than normal rate.  [You have them, so I'm told. Everyone apparently has the occasional 'skipped heart beat'.] Medication has reliably brought the matter under control.  And, I dropped a few pounds.  Then, gradually, ever so gradually, I began 'packing on a few'.

     Came the inevitable day when the cardiologist reprimanded, no, outright scolded me for the girth.  Furthermore, he did it in the presence of my wife and enlisted her as part of the 'team' that would help me trim down. (In her defense, we ate no fried foods and other 'unhealthy stuff'.)  Well, I took offense at his audacity and delayed the 'suggestion' for a time.  Then, in September of 2011, I earnestly launched into 'the program'.  And, over the next year and few months, I 'lost' 30 pounds. . .Nothing Spartan, just being attentive to portion size, sweets, etc. and walking for a half-hour to an hour  for three or  four times weekly.  Beginning around last Christmas, I have 're-located' several of those pounds. Nothing huge, just enough that I can feel the difference.  And, there are several good 'reasons', 'rationalizations', 'excuses' . . .'it's been a cold Winter'; 'chocolate is good'; 'I am too tired to walk after a long work day' . . .

  After avoiding the scales for a few weeks, I 'stepped up' last Friday.  OUCH !  Being away from work for a few days this week,  I decided that the time has come to 'get back on the wagon'.  To wit, for the past three days, I have walked 5, 4, and  4 miles and restricted desserts and 'second helpings'.  My goal is to retrieve the 185 # mark that I had earlier achieved.

     In earlier posts, I noted that once I was a long-distance runner.  My personal bests were three 15 mile runs when I was 50-52.  The marathon remained beyond my commitment , except in fantasy.  One of my brothers did qualify for and run the Boston Marathon in his youthful forties.  Running has been largely replaced by walking for both of us.

    Writing this, I recalled a doggerel from those days that this brother passed on.  Replace run and its forms with walk and its derivatives:
     Why do I run? Ain't no mystery.
      Wanna have a good medical history.
     Doctor told me, 'running is great',
     Helps those blood cells circulate.
     Great for the legs, great for the ticker.
    Can't nothing get you in better shape quicker.

     Yesterday, I had , you name it...a brainstorm, an inspiration, a 'challenge' for my contemporaries.  Already there is a plethora of information about the health and other benefits of walking, so I will go no further with that approach.  Instead, the invitation is for  those of you (family and friends ) in the 65 and beyond cohort to join me in training for and walking either a 5k [3.1miles], a 10k [6.2 miles],  a half-marathon of 13.1 miles,  (or, if you prefer, a full 26.2 miler) by Labor Day, 2013.  If 'youthful' readers will be part of the fun, that would be great.

   So, it can go like this: If you are officially 'old age' according to gerontological labels (65 or soon to be), 'take the pledge' and begin walking regularly and then by Labor Day, 'walk' your event, whether alone or with others. When you have accomplished your goal, post that fact on 'comments' section of blog.  Now, you know who you are, so I will not name names . . .though the temptation was strong to post your initials !

     The usual warnings apply.  Check with your health care provider before initiating any program of physical activity. TRAIN SENSIBLY.  Few of us are on a par with a college fraternity brother, an All-American, who told us in 2010 at our 50th Class Reunion that he still played Senior League Basketball (full court). And, I know that some of you have health situations that preclude participation and I do not mean this brainstorm to be insensitive to you. 

      Several titles for this post occurred to me: Step Right Up; 
Step this way; One Step at a time; Fit as a Fiddle; Take a hike; Happy Trails; WALK, Forrest, WALK !;  [No doubt there will also be some pejorative suggestions , like, Have You Lost Your Mind !]

     One of my 'heroes' was Dr. John Pianfetti who died at age 97.  Four years before his death, a newspaper feature about him carried the title, "The Fact that I Run is Why I am 93" .  Maybe walking can be a close second.  

    The original Satchel famously inquired, 'How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?'

    Satchel



   

NEED THREE LIFETIMES. .

       I wrote my History MA thesis on Samuel Wait, the first President of Wake Forest College (now University).  In many ways the choice was 'ready made': I needed a topic, one that did not require lots of travel (my budget was limited), the school needed his manuscripts catalogued, they paid for that work, and he was reasonably interesting.

    Working against huge obstacles, Dr. Wait and his associates succeeded in establishing in the 1830's what was then called a 'manual labor institute' in the forest of Wake County, N.C.  During the pre-Civil War economic crises,  the school survived (barely) primarily because of the President's "begging" journeys across the state.  

    In the years leading up to the War, sectional tensions  within
the country strained relationships with family members in Vermont (from which he had migrated years earlier).  Afterwards,  as an elderly man, he resumed an affectionate correspondence with a cousin.  As he approached eighty, he commented that he needed several lifetimes to accomplish all the aspirations that still held his interests.  I was 29 at the time I was doing this research and writing but that comment caught (and still holds) my attention.

    In a similar vein, I recall reading the story of North Carolina author, Thomas Wolfe,  being seen at a large municipal library, pulling books from the shelves, frantically leafing through them, replacing that volume with yet another, all the while muttering and swearing.  When asked what was bothering him, he replied to the effect that there is so much to know and so little time in which to know it. (He died in 1938 at 38 years of age !)

     In an earlier post, I noted my long-standing affection for books.
Well, I bought another one (three, actually) last Saturday.  One was Christopher Buckley's Losing Mum and Pup, about the deaths of his parents, Patricia and William F. Buckley.  Early on, he cited his father's frequently repeated admonition that "industry is the enemy of melancholy."  While too much busy-ness can also be the 'enemy' of healthy reflection, awareness and life-balance, there is merit in his observation. 

    While I am neither a Buckley, Wait nor a Wolfe, at 75 years of age, I am increasingly understanding their ...what (?)...'lament', 'complaint', 'marvel'.  There are simply too many things that I want to do, see, be, accomplish; people to spend time with; places to go; ideas to explore; and, I do not have another 75 years.  Maybe William James's observation was correct: "I am just now getting fit to live."

     Or, as the original Satchel observed: "Don't look back; they might be gaining on you."

      Satchel

WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

        Likely you know the 'old saying' that a picture is 'worth a thousand words'.  It seems that I spend a wee bit more time these days looking at photographs of family and friends...usually these are pictures that are at least 50+ years old.  Maybe it is as someone has said, a kind of 'life review'.  Nostalgia has been defined as "Homesickness of the Soul". But somehow that does not seem to be on target for me.  Certainly, I miss people like parents, grand-parents, aunts, uncles, classmates, etc., who 'populated' my life.  Regret, sadness, and similar emotions are not usually what is evoked, however.  Rather, words like gratitude, fondness, happiness and words of that ilk come to mind.  (Nor do I believe this  is Pollyanna-ish.)  My extended family came along during some 'hard times' and were generally not what today would be termed 'middle class' by measures either of capital wealth, formal education, land, housing, or travel.  What did abound for the most part (every family has 'black sheep', right?) were traits like dignity, integrity, honesty, kindness, etc.
    
     Consequently, many of us in the next generation often heard sentiments like, 'we want you to have opportunities we did not have' ...; 'WHEN (not IF) you go to college . . .';  'an honest day's work for an honest day's pay'; 'your word is your bond'; etc. Such sentiments have often been called part of the 'American Dream'.

    My maternal grand-father was born in  1884; my grand-mother in   1888.  (Except they were never  'grand-father' nor 'grand-mother'.  They were 'grand-pa' and 'grand-ma' and this was pretty much what my contemporaries called their own grand's.)  Both died in 1951, within a few weeks of each other.  Though just 13 at the time, I had spent a lot of time in their presence and knew (I thought) a lot about them.  Over the years, I have discovered just how much I did not know and now wish that I had.

    Such as...their childhood memories, did their  parents ever talk of their experiences during the Civil War (his father was a Confederate veteran), what kind of formal  educations were they able to receive, how did they meet, how did they 'make a living' (he was at one time the postmaster in the mill village), what was it like having 12 children (ten of whom grew to adulthood), how did they 'survive' having a son killed in World War II, on it goes.  Parenthetically, I did get some glimpses of parts of these in reading Like a Family, a book about the cotton mill towns in the Southern United States in late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Stories about them and other family members abound in the book.

   

                                                  Soon after their wedding

                                                       Presumably late adolescence  or  early adulthood

 

         The farmer and his wife with nine of their twelve children.  Two had died as infants and the last           child was not yet born.  Bob, the son killed in the war, is on grand-pa's right knee.  My mother is on far right of picture.

                                                 Around 1945, at gravesite of their son.
            I was six and a half years old at the time of his death in 1944 and still have vivid
         memory of the Rifle salute, Taps, and their weeping upon the presentation of the flag.

     This one 'goes back aways'.  My maternal great-grand-father and his wife.
      He was Confederate veteran who apparently never took post-war loyalty oath.


      A definition of 'maturity' is to maintain one's own autonomous functioning while simultaneously being able and willing to stay relationally connected with others.  As a counselor, I have seen and heard many instances of demanded 'loyalty to family' literally taking the life from persons. Parents, grand-parents, etc, sometimes 'let us down' in huge ways. Consequently, others have found 'family' among those with whom they could share respect, encouragement, and delight in each others' lives, whether there is a 'blood-line' connection or not.  While there have been 'bumps' along the way, I am increasingly grateful that my brothers and I have been the beneficiaries of having loving kin who have provided both stability and  encouragement as we ventured out on our own paths.

    I have noticed that a frequent 'theme' in these blog posts has been an  awareness of the multiplicity of 'shoulders' upon which I have been privileged to 'stand' throughout life.  Then, an important question becomes how to provide 'shoulders' for others without restricting their life choices.

    "Worth a thousand words ?"  Indeed.

           Satchel



                                                                 

  

BOSTON HORROR .. .

       I fell in love with the City of Boston many years ago when a seminary student there.  Many life-long friendships have  their origins in those times.  On Patriots' Day in 1961, several of us walked a few blocks over to watch the runners approach the finish line of the famed Boston Marathon.  The Kingston Trio had their hit song about the "M.T.A.", the Boston subway, that has been a long-time nostalgic favorite.  In the aftermath of the horror that happened there today, I remembered the opening lines to that song...albeit in a totally different mindset than the Trio used it:
   "These are the times that try men's souls.  In the course of our nation's history, the people of Boston have rallied bravely whenever the rights of men have been threatened.  Today a new crisis has arisen . . ."

    President Obama echoed those sentiments in his televised response to today's events.  "Reason" struggles to comprehend this horror.  Words fail; emotions flail; and misery is everywhere.  For those physically impacted by the explosions and those emotionally wounded, our spirits grieve. And, this goes beyond Boston.  It is against all that is human and humane that someone or someone(s) has levied this assault.  Fear must not have the last say.  In the aftermath, we are all "Bostonians".  May we "rally bravely" in the face of  this threat.

     Satchel

O, BROTHER(S), WHERE ART THOU ?

(With due apologies to a movie by that almost-name)

            An undated photo of my paternal grand-father, Sam Wachs,
                                with two of his brothers.

I donot know:
   a) Did he have other brothers
   b) Whatever happened to Abe and Jack

I do know:
    He named one of his sons Jack, presumably for the brother.

 
  My grand-father was born in Warsaw, Poland, on October 25, 1883 (or eighty-thlee ...one of the few vestiges of having had another primary language other than English).  His Jewish father had come to NYC and established himself, then returned to fetch his family.  In the meantime, his wife had died. After re-marrying, the entourage came to Ellis Island around 1890.  

   Somewhere in the recesses of family lore and tradition, I remember hearing that at least one of his brothers migrated to California.  A former city councilman of Los Angeles as well as a young movie starlet had (have) the same family surname. Are they 'long lost cousins' or just a coincidence of having an atypical surname?

   Someone in the family became the 'black sheep' and had to flee to Philadelphia.  In 1962, while in the army, I met another private at the post library (the one place where our sergeants were unlikely to frequent) with the same last name. He was from Philadelphia. Unaware of the 'black sheep' story, I told my grand-dad of the meeting. He gently chided me for not getting details on a likely kinsperson.

    When 'Grand-pa' converted to Christianity (he briefly studied for the priesthood before meeting a girl studying to be a nun), there followed a family rift of unknown (to me) duration.  They eloped and in time had two children, including my dad. After their divorce, he became a Presbyterian. . .a one-man ecumenical movement.

   Somewhere there are old family photos of him, his second wife and children visiting New York and presumably his kinspeople.  I have never known any of that extended family, including dad's now-presumed-deceased sister. 

   Through a long, convoluted process, most of dad's 'growing up' was in North Carolina with a foster family who were 'like blood'.
An unfortunate consequence of that has been limited contact with his half-sibs who primarily live (and lived) in Alabama.  They are warm, kind-hearted people whose company I have enjoyed but miles have seemed an obstacle.

   I have two younger brothers, children, grand-children, two great-grand-sons, several nieces and nephews and yet another generation from that.  We 'gather' every couple of years. Again, geography poses difficulties.  At some point, however, I suppose that it is inevitable that some of those down their branches will be unaware of the names or even existence of distant cousins. 

    Some might say, 'well, so what ?' ...it has always been such.  Every couple of years, my wife and I are guests of a local African-American family at their bi-annual 'Reunion'.  Folks come from as far away as Hawaii and greet each other with great energy and affection. In a world increasingly marked with isolation, loneliness  and estrangement, I find a sense of connectivity important in helping establish and sustain a large part of our identity.

                     With my two younger brothers at Thanksgiving
                          a few years ago. (I'm not the one with gray hair 
                              beard !)
                                     Satchel

MAKING THINGS 'NEW'

   Last week, we went to the  wedding of an old friend, or rather, a 'long time friend'.  He's no 'spring chicken' but hardly 'old' in the eyes of gerontologists. . . More like on the high side of middle age.
(Adhering to my mother's admonition never to ask a lady's age, I did not inquire of the bride as to her number of birthdays.)  He has known a number of the 'tough licks' that life can render.  And, she has, likewise, experienced some difficult times.

   Theirs was a wedding within the context of a Christian worship service, complete with sermon and Eucharist...an altogether moving experience.  In his sermon, the Presiding Minister noted that  both of them had had their difficult places along the way.  He further cited Yahweh's promise to make 'all things new',  despite the broken places of life. (He humorously noted that the promise was not to make things 'young' again, despite our culture's desperate longing for that.)  And, 'broken places' abound; hardly just within marriage.

     It is an often-quoted cliche that we  'have only one life to live'.
From that the inference can be drawn, I suppose, of a kind of fatalism that says 'there is nothing new under the sun'. . .what happened yesterday has  happened again today and will repeat on the morrow.  Then the cumulative tasks, "mess up's", missed opportunities, and regrets will eventually crush out all hope and vitality and 'Resignation' is the best that can be expected.

   While there are many 'constants' that help provide some sense of stability, nonetheless 'life' for many persons is a kind of series of new beginnings.  In my seventies, I have different perspectives on many topics that vary greatly from how I understood matters in my twenties, thirties, etc.  For example, the days of the 'gold watch' after forty years service in the same job are pretty much over.  Still, this is a somewhat different matter than just "Age appropriate Passages".  Dislocations, losses, hurts, wounds ...these and other 'bad things' can and do occur all across the chronological spectrum.
In the face of such profound pain, it was a good thing to hear again the assertion, "Look, I am making a new thing."  And, maybe as the Preacher said, "It takes a wedding" to remind us of that rebirth.

    Satchel

RED SOX BEAT THE YANKEES

        A favorite quip:  Question"Do you pull for a professional baseball team?"  Answer: "No. I'm a Red Sox fan."

      My dad was a huge St. Louis Cardinals fan and 'indoctrinated' his sons to be the same.  My earliest World Series memory was hearing the radio broadcast of Enos Slaughter's bolt from first to home in the deciding game of the Cardinals'1946 match against the Red Sox.  Only years later did I learn of the Sox's misfortune in having had the regular center-fielder, Dom DiMaggio, out of the game because of injury in the previous inning; nor, of Johnny Pesky's getting a bum rap for not relaying the throw.

     'Once upon a time' ...in the early twentieth century, the Red Sox were a powerful baseball force, winning the World Series five times between1903 and 1918. Then, someone made the huge mistake of trading to the Yankees a promising pitcher who could also hit, and so was created the 'Curse of the Babe' [Ruth].  MANY years of heartbreak, might-have-been's, close calls (poor Bill Buckner) followed.

   All that St. Louis Cardinals loyalty changed when I lived in Boston for the 1960-1961 academic year.  My dorm room was in sight of Fenway and we often  went over for late-inning free admission.  Seeing Ted Williams in his next to last game in 1960 and Carl Yaz's first home game  in 1961 converted me. I still have a program book from early game in 1961. (Being a tekky novice, I am still having difficulty in adding photographs to the blog. Hence, this one is 'backwards'.)  In that year of 1961, there was another Schilling playing for Boston, this one at Second Base.  Other names from long ago (do you recognize any of them?) include Wertz, Jensen, Malzone, Geiger, and Nixon.  Ticket prices ? Box Seats cost $3.00; Reserved Seats went for $2.25; General Admission was $1.50 and Bleachers just $1.00.

    Then, came 2004 with the 'Bloody Sock' of Curt Schilling and a  thousand other miracles and they won the Series ...against, of all teams, the Cardinals. (There had been other years when the outcome had been the opposite.)  And, the sweep of the Rockies in 2007 seemed to point to a 'glowing future'.  However, as a poet has remarked, "Alas, alak and anon" (or something like that), it all went down the drain so that last season was misery for the faithful.

     And, now it is opening of 2013 season, and the Sox have just taken two from the 'hated Yankees' who will probably want to note that several of their 'stars' have been injured.  There are only 160 more games to go before the season's over.  But, what a wonderful way to get started.  How seriously do I take all this?  Well, with a stretch, I perhaps could name two or three players from the roster.  That's not the point.  Everywhere I go, there are persons wearing either a cap or a garment with the Red Sox logo.  That makes it easy for even an introvert such as I to begin a conversation about 'much ado about nothing' that is going to have an impact on the BIG issues of life.  There is a lot to be said for innocent diversion !

   Satchel