Memories of Dad

I post this here as a tribute to a man to whom I gave much grief.... but a man for whom I have the utmost respect: my dad. He moved on to the Better Place last June 15th, which happened to be Father's Day. I publish this here just to share, not seeking your sympathy or concern. He was a great man and led a full life. Peace, Dad.

Memories of Dad
July 25, 1926 ~ June 15, 2008

Faithful husband, loving dad,
Grateful for all that he had,
‘specially for grandkids, Jessie and Matthew
who brought so much joy to their “Vavu.”

A proud Navy vet of World War II,
his serial number is his tattoo.
A police officer, loved and revered,
serving Fairhaven thirty-three years.

Laughter that raucously rang aloud,
a patriarch who walked so proud.
Collections — oh, he had a few,
stamps, coins… random paint cans and screws.

A smile that could overflow a room,
confiscated fireworks – we lit with a boom.
Clocks, the ones that make a bunch of noise,
a solemn commander with just a voice.
A lucky guy at cards and life
much time spent playing with his wife.
Glory and danger of deuces wild
were taught to me as just a child.

A dad who led us by his ways
teaching hard work should fill our days.
A half hour early was his way
unless his daughter caused a delay.
Not a talker by any stretch,
another trait I did not catch.

But so much of him goes on in Mike,
tinkering, bartering – so much alike.
From planting their yards to raising their kids
their similarities can’t be hid.

Dad shared wisdom we’d surely need
though not wisdom we’d always heed.
Yes, a man of few words, but much advice
like never accept the tag as the price.
Keep your gas tank at least half full;
say what you mean – no patience for bull.
Pay with cash or don’t pay at all.
Visit mom and pop shops – avoid the mall.
At Foxwoods, play some slots then hit the buffet;
you leave content and with your shirt that way.
Stay under the speed limit at all times,
even if behind you, form angry lines.
Of course, that’s simpler in a squad car;
behind Dad, West Island was doubly far.
New Englanders, he’d want you to know
in Florida, there is no snow.

So now I bid a last adieu
to a man I hope you knew,
a man who was my very own Lance
a man who lived strong and loved to dance.

~NTAS~

I'm a Barbie Girl

Don’t be concerned. I haven’t lost it . . . totally . . . yet. I am here seeking sanity, remember? One stretch of road on my journey toward sanity has brought me to this epiphany: My husband thinks I’m Action Barbie.

Yes, several weeks ago I came to that shocking realization. I, a girl who owned possibly one genuine Barbie doll, have become a Barbie girl in an outdoor Barbie world. Yes, the outdoor Barbie world. Not the one filled with little plastic Champagne bottles and frilly party dresses. Action Barbie has no time for such frivolousness.

I came to this plastic-coated realization while conversing with my loving husband by the wood stove in our little NH getaway. At the time, I was trying to process his ideas of how to spend our summer. Such words as mountain biking (no, not on the road -- really on mountains) and rock climbing were coming out of his mouth. He spoke of getting SCUBA-certified. I think he even started saying something about learning to surf. In a delusional state, when I imagined I heard the word Everest come out of his mouth, I started to giggle. (Well, laugh. Action Barbies do not giggle; we save that for the girls with the Champagne.) "You think I'm Barbie," I informed my husband.

My husband believes that if he buys me cute outfits and shiny athletic gear that I suddenly will be able to do anything. He wanted me to join him in cycling, so I now have clothes in my closet reminiscent of Cyndi Lauper -- colorful and spandex. One would think Barbie takes gingerly bike rides that include festive stops involving ice cream. NOT SO for Action Barbie. No, she rides a minimum of 20 hard miles and her yummy treats consist of sports gel packs and an occasional granola bar. When Barbie learns to ski, one might think Ken would buy her little Barbie-sized skis. B-O-R-I-N-G. Action Barbie (apparently even the getting-scarily-close-to-turning-40 model) laughs at completely controllable skis. Just ask Ken (or my sadistic version of him). Action Barbie learns to ski on planks as long as she is so that each time she points them down the mountain, she knows that her impending doom awaits. Cross-country skiing? Action Barbie says, "Black Diamond me, baby!" Yes, Action Barbie is very . . . well, active. But even Action Barbie deserves Champagne sometimes, right? I mean, she's wrapped in plastic, too. I thought the Champagne was the trade-off. . . Has anyone seen Skipper? She’ll understand.

J. Alfred Prufrock and Facebook

If you have taken an English class, you probably have read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” (If not, feel free to take a cyber trip to read it at http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html.) Anyway, I have found myself thinking of J. Alfred quite often lately as I muse about my newly found addiction to …. I hate to even say it …. Facebook. Yes, that evil pop culture leviathan has captured me and refuses to relinquish its hold.

What, you ask, does this have to do with T.S. Eliot’s speaker in his famous poem? The answer is simple -- well as simple as it is to downgrade a poetic icon to a contemporary outcast. J. Alfred comments on his social circle in the same detached (read: alienated), disinterested (read: unwelcomed), condescending (read: yearning) attitude with which I viewed Facebook. I sincerely believed Facebook was for people who had too much time on their hands, something that I NEVER can find on my hands (not even in my pockets), so I resisted. UNTIL, my friends had a Christmas party, and there I was, J. Alfred, feeling old, as though I had “seen the moment of my greatness flicker” while listening to my friends “come and go / Speaking of Michelangelo.” OK, they weren’t even remotely speaking of Michelangelo, but they were speaking of walls and pictures and even games that all are part of the Facebook realm, and I thought, “I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.” Well, no, that’s what J. Alfred thought, but it probably is more eloquent than whatever sorry state of self-imposed loneliness I was experiencing. SO, I did it. I joined. I am in the world again, at least the virtual one. I have reconnected with a multitude of people, some of whom probably even like me in the physical world.

So now I venture forth to “[measure] out my life with coffee spoons,” albeit the electronic kind. I guess at this point “Nicole is . . . finished.”

Why I'm Here

Anyone who knows me knows why I'm here, creating this blog at 3am, when I have to be on a bus with teenage track athletes before 7:30am. I have much to do. . . and it's not about nothing. I have end-of-semester grading to do so that I can finalize my grades along with the responsible, normal people on Monday during school -- and not in the wee moments of Monday night, just hours before starting a new semester with new classes. What is it that makes me want to do ANYTHING but what I need to do? I am here accidentally, rebelliously, and possibly even timidly. This is neither my realm nor my domain (though the domain name is mine now). No where does there exist a life goal list -- or even a "daffy desire" -- having anything to do with starting a blog. But I love to write. And I have been told on occasion that my writing is somewhat skillful and remotely amusing. Of course this is by the students over whose grades I have control, but I can sense their sincerity. (You can, too, right? Right?!?!) These are the same cherubs who think I should go into acting. What they don't realize is that I never could find a more captive (literally) audience than a classroom. I definitely can compete with my white board. The window, on the other hand, gives me a real run for my money when something amazing is happening . . . such as when snow is falling, or rain is falling, or leaves are falling, or children are falling (in the courtyard below my classroom), and I even think, some days, that I am one-upped by the fact that air is falling. I like to forget those days. I probably will want to forget this day as well. Debut performance done. Close the curtain. {No, really, close it. I need to go to bed. Where the heck are the tech people when you need them? Would you please shu...}