From those wonderful folks at Guinness:

“Last year, Guinness® started Proposition 3-17, the campaign to make St. Patrick’s Day an official holiday in the US. While we gained a lot of your support, we still need one million signatures.
When you and your friends support Proposition 3-17, you have the opportunity to make a difference. To make history. To make official what we already know is the greatest holiday of the year.”

This is something that is near and dear
to me Irish heart.
Click on the Guinness banner above and cast your vote!
My dear daughter Sarah sent this link to me but failed to buy me a pint.
Oh, sweet Mother McCree, kids these days . . .
If you feel so inclined to purchase me a pint, click on the Guinness glass below.
All will be explained.
(michael@badsneaker.net)
But at least sign the petition!
btw- I’m making “Steak & Guinness Pie” this year for the Irish holiday. (thanks, J0j0!)
Stay tuned for the review.

“No man ever wore a scarf as warm as his daughter’s arm around his neck.”
~Old Irish saying

Pour yourself a pint!!!!!!!!

The above is what Google images gave me with ‘sexy cupcakes’ as a search word.
Jeez . . . I was thinking of something completely different.
With nipples.
Alright, there are two near and dear friends celebrating birthdays over the next few days and
I had to make mention of it here
(and move that hideous picture from my prior post further down the blog so as to prevent nightmares)

My dear friend Deg turns 50 tomorrow (2.18) and I must say he doesn’t look a day over 49.
(insert laugh track here)
Michael, I wish only good things for you on this momentous occasion and pray you will
see at least 50 more birthdays.
Lord knows you deserve even more than that.
You are and will always be one of the closest friends I have.
I am truly blessed.
Peace my brother and all of His blessings in the next year.

Secondly, and definitely not least, my new friend Mark (from Australia) who turns 39
(isn’t that right, Mark?)  
on Thursday (2.19)
I talk with Mark almost every Saturday night when his wife (Moe) lets me.  
Even she doesn’t want to give him up.
He makes me laugh to the point where I forget all the trivial shit happening in my life and for that I am truly grateful. Imagine talking to a bloke that’s alot funnier than Crocodile Dundee.
That’s Mark.
I shit you not.
I wish sunny skies for you buddy and an effortless trip over here to the states.
If you knew how much I’m looking forward to this July, you’d be a bit scared, buddy.
Please visit Moe and leave Mark a birthday comment.
He will undoubtedly reply.

The interesting thing about this post is that these two chaps will meet this July on Cape Cod.
It will probably be at Baxter’s in Hyannis where we’ll watch the sunset, drink some ice cold beer and eat some incredible lobster. (and drink some more beer, maybe smoke a nice Cuban cigar)
Sounds like heaven, right?
It will be just that.
Happy Birthday, Michael and Mark!
Have an awesome birthday, boys . . .

No one knows what it’s like,
maybe even him
the days are like carbon copies of days gone by, yesterdays passed;
more of the same, the blooming of a thousand shades of grey
And life is grey; maybe it’s the only shade he knows . . .

No one knows what it’s like
maybe even me
as I take in his awkward smiles, I wonder just who they’re really meant for
Does he miss her?
Yes, he does, and he tells me so, in sotto voce syllables
I’m still unsure of what I must believe and choose to believe in him because
what’s left is all I have to believe in

No one knows what it’s like
Perhaps, God does, but He is forgetful too;
like the saving grace of His mercy, of dignity and compassion,
the sadness of detail, the complexity of why
And He cries,
for all fathers present and past, but maybe for a world He ultimately created
in love . . .

My father knows what it’s like
when it’s time for me to leave and
long forgotten tears of understanding reach his tired eyes,
tears I can no longer wipe away
because unlike him,
I already know what it’s like to say goodbye
And I do . . .

The picture above is a favorite poem I wrote that I pasted into Wordle.
I found the site through Kat, a poet/writer and wonderful new blogging friend.
She ‘Wordled’ a poem she’d written and I so loved the image it gave me.
Wondering how many readers here know what poem I Wordled . . .
Any guesses?

btw- Pamela did most of what you see above. I just supplied the words.
Click on the picture for a larger view

My father is stuck.
Although it’s unlike Winnie the Pooh in the Honey Tree
or even a tomcat that’s climbed too high into an archaic but majestic oak, those types of ‘stuck’ are manageable to a certain degree.
It’s like he’s an enigmatic and unsolvable crossword puzzle, a stalemate of stalemates, a real life version of Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day where every day is the same.
And though I repeatedly tell myself that it doesn’t bother me, deep inside it does.
Every visit it’s the same old thing.
I sit and stare.
I tell him stories.
I tell him about the weather and what I had for lunch.
I tell him what I’m making for supper.
Almost like it really matters.
It’s sad when I can’t even fool myself anymore.
I swipe madly at this insidious and maddening cobweb that has my father’s mind and memories
in its grip, deliberately refusing to let go of him.
I was sitting the other day watching him go in and out of sleep like a short-circuiting light bulb, his eyes methodically opening and closing; wax on, wax off.
I softly said, “Dad, what are you waiting for?”
He muttered something incomprehensible and shut his eyes, tired of trying to solve the puzzle, tired of my questions, tired of this confusing life.
And I can’t blame him.
He’s endlessly moored to this drab room in a city nursing home with no knife to cut the ropes.
I’m starting to feel lost as well.
Lost to him and so very lost for me.
I feel guilty after asking him the question and retreat to my dark corner of the quiet boxing ring knowing he shouldn’t have to answer a query such as that.
This is about him and not about a too selfish ‘Michael’ and his all too busy life.
But how does it finally end for this sad and fragile man?
Please, dear God tell me. Will you?
If I’m supposedly being taught some kind of lesson here, I’m really losing my patience and these days nothing seems to make sense. Nothing.
So maybe God listens.
Maybe.
Once again, I close my eyes on another day and I think, maybe tomorrow.
Yeah, right, maybe tomorrow . . .

I have a very busy weekend coming up so I wanted to post something tonight.
This Sunday is Father’s Day and it will be a very emotional one for yours truly.
For those that visit here often and have been with me for sometime I think you understand why.
This will undoubtedly be the last such holiday that will find me actively participating.
I’m surprised my father is still hanging in there but if he can, so can I.
I plan on being there on Sunday to feed him lunch and will hopefully get my hands on some kind of special dessert; preferably something soft, sweet and chocolate.

I’ll tell him a few stories about the Red Sox and the Celtics and feel kind of sad because I know I’m doing it more for me than I am him, or so I think. Anything that will make the moment seem more normal is what I’m shooting for. I’ll take the inevitable stroll down Memory Lane and . . .
I’ll remember him after my sister’s wedding when we had a party back at the house.
He was in his glory that night. His daughter was married earlier that day to the love of her life and the wedding went beautifully. He was healthy and happy, as was my mother.
There were people everywhere and there was nothing that could soil his mood.
One of the groomsmen had a few too many drinks and happened to walk right through the screen door of the den (it was a hot August night) and I think Dad pissed himself laughing.
We all did.
It was the laughter that I remember from that night, his happiness, my mother’s glow.
These are the things I’ll think about when I see him on Sunday, trying hard to forget about the sadness, the loss and the many tears.
Upon leaving him, I’ll have a moment to myself because in my heart it will be one of the last.
This Father’s Day, I’m dedicating my world to the man that never missed one of my baseball games, stuck by me through thick and thin (though he knew I was probably wrong), loved me even though I was, at times, a mischievous and unruly son.
I pray to God that he always knew how very much I loved him and wanted to make him proud.
In my mind, it’s the bottom of the ninth with 2 outs, no score and no men on base.
This one’s for you, Wally.
And I’m hitting this one out of the park.
All I need now is an “after game” burnt hot dog with mustard and all will be right with the world . . .
Always,

Our sense of smell is acute and amazingly discerning allowing us to associate aromas and smells with our seemingly unlimited banks of memory.
How about the smell of a box of crayons?
Yeah, that’s a good one.
How many wonderful memories can you come up with there?
I thought so.

I think the holidays tend to elicit the strongest evoking power for obvious reasons.

• Christmas = peppermint, balsam, sweet baked goods and . . .
• Thanksgiving = roasted turkey, cranberries, cinnamon,
  clove and . . .
• Easter = floral scent (Easter lily), marshmallow peeps (yes, they have a scent), hard-boiled eggs (alright, not so good)
• Saint Patrick’s Day = corned beef and cabbage

When my mother was alive and well no Paddy’s Day went by without her making the Irish dish.
I’ve missed riding out to the house knowing full well my mother would have a pot full of it on the stove and delight in stuffing me silly.
Her corned beef would be cooking all day long and truth be told it must have taken weeks to get the cabbage stink out of the place.
It’s remembering days like those when I really start to miss her.

I worked the entire weekend and had no time to stink the fill the house up with those sacred aromas (you’re welcome, sweet Irish daughters ‘o mine).
It looked like I might go without this year and I must say it thoroughly depressed me.
Murphy + Saint Patrick’s Day = Irish Turkey and a freshly poured Guinness Stout
There’s a restaurant in Boston called Jacob Wirth’s and it’s said to be one of the oldest in the city. Someone mentioned that they may possibly be serving the traditional dish. (Check their link and read the menu. Yeah, huh?)
I called and sure enough, it was on the menu.
Knowing how popular this restaurant is, I had my doubts as to whether I’d actually get a seat.
I opened the old creaky doors and spied an open spot at the bar and immediately sat down.
Perfect, I thought. (And ironically it was right in front of that beautiful Guinness spigot)
The bartender promptly brought me a menu which I politely pushed away, “No need for that; Corned Beef and Cabbage, please.”
I asked for a large ice water but changed my mind when I saw him pour a Guinness with a 2″ frothy head.
He served me my dear Stout and I raised it slightly to the heavens and toasted my Madre for the many years of awesome corned beef and cabbage dinners.

My meal came minutes later and I dug in.

If you’re wondering how my lunch was, it wasn’t like my mother’s but the last place I wanted to go was back to work.
I wanted to stay at Wirth’s forever.

As they say, all good things must come to an end.

I left Jake’s with a stomach full of Irish Turkey and one heavenly Guinness under my belt.
And I was one happy Mick . . .

~m

the whisper of a song…

In the summer of ’98, we moved my mother to an assisted living facility called Hearthstone.
At the time, it was getting downright dangerous for her to stay at home for a number of reasons:
she was driving my father up a wall with questions, she was becoming increasingly paranoid
and she would leave the house on a whim and disappear in a wisp of smoke.

The facility we placed her in was secured and specifically designed for people with progressing dementia.
This was to be my first foray into the deeply fragmented world of Alzheimer’s.
So many things happened while she was out there.
From the clinging and uncomfortable goodbyes to the sad moments of epiphany when I realized I was becoming a total stranger to her.
I liked to think I took it all in stride, showing the world my brave face and big shoulders when in reality,
many a visit found me in my car afterward weeping bitterly while forsaking the heavens above.

The God I thought I knew was turning His back on my mother with a deep negligence and offering me little to no discernible shred of mercy.
I was the only one that saw the situation for the tragedy that it truly was.
I felt He “owed” me.
These days I’m beginning to believe that maybe
He was there after all.
They say that hindsight is 20/20 and I believe there were many small “miracles” that happened way back then.
I was just too angry to realize it.
This story is about one of them…

It was St. Patrick’s Day in ’99 that I went to see my mother.
It was a routine visit at best.
I sat with her in the common room at Hearthstone and talked using my one-way conversation that had become a learned ritual.
Usually, when I ran out of things to talk about it was time to leave.
I went into the kitchen and poured a cup of juice for her and went to leave.
For some reason, I decided I would check her room to make sure everything was clean and in order.
(Another story in and of itself)

Everything was fine and after talking briefly with one of the aides that took care of my mother,
I went downstairs to leave.
There’s a long corridor that takes you past the common room before turning left to the thick oak door that led to the free world outside.

My memory of that walk down the hall goes into slow-mo right about here.

I had a gazillion things buzzing through my mind at the time.
As I approached the doorway leading to the common room I began to hear music—Irish Music—Danny Boy, to be specific, one of my mother’s favorite songs simply because her father sang it to her when she was a child.
As I walked towards the door leading outside, I stopped.
Someone was singing the song.
I turned and walked back towards the doorway recognizing the voice of my mother.
I looked into the room and saw that all the residents had their heads bent down, prayer like.
There in the middle of the room was my mother, head back; eyes closed,
singing every familiar word I’d known since I was a child.
Ten minutes ago she couldn’t say or remember my name and here she was going solo.
I began to mouth the words sotto voce along with her.
It was about as close as I could get to her in that one solitary moment in time.
And it felt wonderful.
It was really her once again.
I smiled realizing that I had just been given mercy.

~m