On most days my father wears a baseball hat.
Even when he was well if he wasn’t working he was wearing some type of baseball hat.
It was an intrinsic part of his daily get up.
It was usually the Red Sox, maybe the Celtics but NEVER the NY Yankees, God forbid, he would rather die than to be caught wearing one of those.
He still wears a hat these days although he would be hard pressed to tell you which hat he was wearing.
Truth be told, on any given day lately I’d have a tough time telling you what hat I‘m wearing.
I was talking with my sister Moe the other day and
she told me a very interesting story about our father and one of his ‘hats’.
She came down last weekend to see ‘Dad’ and wheeled him down to the quaint chapel in the nursing home for Sunday morning mass. She had called ahead to ask that he be cleaned up and shaved and dressed nicely, the proverbial cherry on the sundae, his baseball hat.
They got to the chapel where I’m assuming my sister knelt and said a prayer or two (thousand) . . .
As she sat back she noticed that Dad’s hat was sitting in his lap.
She swears she did not take it off, she was sure of that.
He took it off himself.
My sister took it as a sign that our father still acknowledges the fact that he is in a place that’s sacred and taking off your hat is something you do out of reverence and respect.
Maybe she’s right.
I took it more as a sign that says she and I will never be alone in this shattered ordeal that’s slowly nearing its very blue end.
Either way, I know that I wanted to remember the moment even though I couldn’t be there.
And though it’s doubtful that our father said one single prayer that morning, I’m confident that he left the chapel with more blessings than anyone else in the place.
And I’m positive he put his baseball cap right back on as he left.

I’ve spent the past several days doing some much needed thinking and introspection
and although I’ve yet to glean anything remotely resembling an answer, I have realized a few things:
I spend far too much of my time doing what I ‘think’ I should be doing opposed to what my own reality dictates.
My all too patient wife has been a ‘blogging widow’ for far too long and that must change.
She’s given me 3+ years of virtually bitch free blogging, a bonus for anyone bitten by the bug.
She does feel that my time would be better spent writing and working on this book of mine that has somehow floated too far offshore for me to easily rescue it.
But rescue it I will. (Do I sound like Yoda?)
I am not, I repeat, not done blogging.
Far from it, if that’s what you may be thinking.
But I have realized that it’s time for me to spill some fresh ink on my farfetched dream of one day being a published writer.
I am treading water for reasons that no longer elude me.
I am afraid my writing will ultimately fail.
Not a strange fear, I guess.
It’s too easy not to fail when you stay within the confines of a blog where
the people that read care for you and your artistic feelings.
That’s not too say that most comments are fluff, they are definitely not.
I feel that my words reach deep inside many people and I am truly blessed in the way your thoughts come back to me, amazed sometimes.
Although I’m still not sure of this blog’s ultimate direction some days, I do know it’s overall integrity will benefit from me doing what I originally set out to do.
I sincerely thank all of you for your thoughts, prayers and comments this past week or so.
I’ve read every single one.
It’s time for me to stop treading water and start swimming . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

*On another note, several people have asked about my father since I haven’t mentioned him lately.
I went to see him this past Sunday after a phone call from my sister who happened to be visiting him.
Pamela and I found them both sitting outside the confines of the nursing home taking in the sun.
It was around lunchtime and my sister Moe suggested that we feed him lunch al fresco, that he might enjoy the change of scenery.
I agreed and went to retrieve his lunch which was warmly sitting somewhere on the third floor.
The warmth of the sun felt so good and so right, as I fed my father while Pamela, myself and my sister talked.
I was happy with not only the way he looked but the way he devoured his lunch.
With a nice big slice of coconut crème pie for dessert, I was secretly hoping he’d be too full to eat it.
He ate the entire piece, a small, good thing, I guess.
I can’t tell you how nice it was sitting there in the sunshine watching my father actually enjoy a meal.
Maybe he knew Maureen and I were there.
The saddest part is how infrequent my visits have become.
Working for a living sucks.
But I have promises to keep.
All three of us wheeled my father back to the prison inside and into his room on 3 North.
I gave my sister a hug and a kiss on the cheek and headed home to watch some of the Patriots game before getting supper started.
My sister was staying a bit longer to give Dad a shave.
Walter had a very nice Sunday.
Come to think of it, so did my sister, Pamela and I.
For those on my blogroll, I will be stopping by . . .

All of us have moments in our lives that we repress; traumatic and emotional pitfalls, odd and complicated times – things we just can’t look squarely in the eye.
Occasionally, these moments are dragged out into the light for all to examine and mentally fondle.
This past August we went to stay with my sister and her family for a few days at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire.
It was here that one of these hairy little creatures of truth was revealed.
And no one was more surprised than ‘yours truly’.

One beautiful moonlit summer night, me, Pamela, my sister Maureen and my brother-in-law sat on their back deck sipping ice-cold margaritas while taking in the comfortable night.
With the conversation flowing nicely, and my cigar smoking beautifully
my sister said, “Do you remember in first grade when Mom dressed you up as a woman?”

I looked behind me wondering who the hell she was talking to.
My mother would never do something as hideously damaging as that to my then dormant masculinity.
I figured my sister was talking about a brother I never knew I had.
What else could possibly explain it?
I had no recollection of it whatsoever.
Holy crap, I wonder why.

She was staring at me, smiling.

“Me?” I said.

“Yeah, don’t you remember?” She asked.

“Get the hell outta here, Mom would never dress me up as a woman,” I said, scoffing at the mere thought.

“Well, she did. In First Grade. It was a costume contest.”

Pamela and my brother-in-law were laughing their proverbial asses off at the
hairy little critter my sister had just so casually released.

“Come on, ” I said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. And you won first place! You had on make-up and lipstick and you wore a dress.
I think she even gave you some boobs, too!”

Well, that explains . . . ah, nevermind.

So, I guess I made a very convincing woman when I was in the first grade.
This should eat up a few years of therapy.
Thanks, Mumsy.
And thanks to my sister for dropping that runny egg on my head. (you messed up my hair!)
Time to go change these damn panty hose, too.
Damn runs.
They just don’t make them like they used to when I was a little girl.
Wonder if she had me wear a pair of her stiletto heels, too . . .
Repressed memories?
Yeah, that’s one way to put it.
Somebody, please shoot me.
Just watch out for the pearls . . .

There are four people I want to meet in my life. (alright, there are a few more but . . . )
I want to hug them and tell them just how much they mean to me.
And yes, they are all bloggers.
Friends.
Dear friends.
Annie.
Mum.
Evyl.
Spaz.

I received an email several weeks ago from Susanne.
I really hate calling her Spaz, especially since I met her.
She’s much too pretty to call “Spaz”, IMHO.
That said, Susanne emailed me to say that she and B were going to be in Boston and wondered if a visit might happen.
I was surprised to say the very least.
It was like I’d just hit the lottery in a very unexpected way.
I told her ‘yes’ we have to meet.
It seemed almost predestined, to be honest.
I  first “met” Susanne years ago after a comment that she left on my blog.
She said it was “disturbingly beautiful”.
I just had to follow it up.
This ultimately lead to our finally meeting up, blogwise.
Her way with comments and her personal emails have inspired me to keep on writing and to believe in myself.
She’s actually made me continue writing much like my wife (who does so every single damn day).
Susanne and my wife share a striking similarity in appearance too.
Yeah, strange.
I’m a total sucker for really pretty blondes.
Our journey has been one of many splendid things, the culmination being a final meeting and a sharing of food and drink.
As Susanne said, it can never be the same after actually meeting a virtual friend.
I say it can be better.
As it currently is.
It was only for a short time that we met but I thank the good Lord that I can still “hear” her voice, feel her spirit, see her smile.
I will regret forever that our time together was all too short.
I need to start saving some money as well.
Canada is one fairly inexpensive roadtrip away.
And it’s one I will undoubtedly look forward to.
Sorry, but Mr. Smith won’t be coming along on this one, maybe in spirit . . .
Until then, Susanne . . .
be safe and be well
And take care of Chaaahlie (and B)

~m

ps. I’ve hugged one.
One down, three to go.
And Evyl? I’m hugging you dude. And no, I’m definitely not gay.

I’ve been busy updating my “pages” and doing some sorely needed blog maintenance.
The Ghosts and Poetry pages have been updated.
I’ve also posted a short story I wrote 6 years ago.
Just click on one of the corresponding tabs above to get there.
Thanks to Moe for all her help and guidance when I was absolutely freaking out.
She is a dear friend and a most awesome blogger.
If you haven’t visited her yet (or blogrolled her) you are really missing out.
Got some stuff planned in a few days.
Please stop back.
In the meantime, please browse my “pages”.
Soon . . .

My interview with Moe is up an running at the Nook and though I’m not 100% satisfied with it (no fault of Moe’s, mind you) I think you’ll see a different side of me. I think.

The story of me and Moe is quite interesting; it’s serendipity of the highest order.
It began when I was at Blogger, my tadpole blogging stage.
I met some very interesting people back then: Evyl, Carnealian and Snotsucker; these are friends I am obviously still in touch with today.
But I wanted to drive more traffic to my blog so I signed up at BlogExplosion.
BE is very basic in the way that it works: you surf random blogs and get random visits in return.
Some people leave comments, most don’t.
I’m a bit fuzzy on how it happened but one day I found a comment on an insignificant post that said, ” very nice site, love the background and the totally irrelevant pic. With all the blogs I’ve seen I think a cat pic is mandatory at some point!! I’m not stealing your button, but I’m blogrolling you.”
I don’t think I even knew that the hell getting blogrolled was at that point but I liked the fact that someone was doing it to me.
She signed her name, “Debambam”.
Hmmm . . . I liked the Flintstones. A good sign.
I visited Debambam’s site and came to find out that her name was Kelly and she was from Australia.
Yeah, how cool is that? An Aussie blogrolling your fanny. Coolbeans.
In my mind, I heard an Aussie accent whenever I read one of her comments.
She was intelligent, witty, compassionate and a wonderful addition to my blogroll.
It was around that time that I noticed something strange in my Sitemeter stat page.
Someone was spending an inordinate amount of time reading everything on my blog.
And they were from Australia.
I had an incredible amount of info at my fingertips thanks to Sitemeter and it astounded me.
I emailed Kelly and asked if she was hitting my blog.
She knew nothing about it and said it definitely wasn’t her.
Hmm . . . Very mysterious.
It was on THIS POST
that I was first introduced to Maureen.
The comment was signed by “anonymum” with no URL.
(no URL, how frickin’ weird is that? An internet without Moe? I don’t frickin’ think so!)
I knew who she was because of the amount of time I used to spend at Kelly’s blog.
I’m thinking, “Kell’s Mum is visiting me. How cool is that?”
Long story short, I found out who my Australian “lurker” was (MOE!) ultimately making what has turned out to be a very sincere and honest friendship. (with not only Moe but her husband Mark, a new and absolutely bloody wonderful mate of mine)
Maureen and I are much like brother and sister (ironic that my twin sister’s name is Maureen).
In many ways, whether she knows it or not, she has inspired me in my writing and has become the kind of long distance friend that some people can only dream about.
I consider her (and Mark, and Kelly, Tony and Zoe!) to be close to family.

Maureen? My heart thanks you for the many smiles since we first met. (and the vegemite)
You know my heart. Maybe that’s enough.
As far as the above, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Now head over to the Nook and rip me a new one.
Lord knows, I probably deserve it.
Check out my day in the warm Australian sun . . .
maybe someday . . .

I went to the cemetery yesterday to visit my mother’s grave before heading to work in Boston.
It was a beautiful day; the sun was brilliant, nary a cloud in the indigo sky, a slight warm breeze.
Suffice to say, I had a sentimental moment.
Maybe it was the fact that my father may not be here next Mother’s Day, maybe it was the bittersweet feeling I got driving through my old neighborhood.
I’m not really sure.
In my mind’s eye, I could see myself as a child running through the backyards of my youth without a care in the world.
For some reason I was missing my mother more this year than any previous one.
Couldn’t put my finger on it but the longing was undeniable, inescapable.
I arrived at the cemetery and walked up to her grave, placing a white rose on the cold granite stone bench bearing her name and I whispered a prayer, a Hail Mary.
I sat alone and talked to the empty cemetery as if she was sitting right next to me, and maybe she was.
I asked questions about my life that currently had no answers; dark fears and unfulfilled dreams.
A few tears fell to the ground watering the place where she lay but oddly enough they weren’t sad tears.
With every teardrop that fell, the better I felt.
That was my mother’s way: to make the sunshine come impossibly through the rain.
I kissed the palm of my hand and touched her name before leaving feeling much better than when I arrived.
I now know that she was there, somehow.

Later that day, I received an email from my twin sister, m~ , with ‘Mom’ in the subject box.
I knew she would be visiting the cemetery later that day and thought the email would mention that she saw the white rose and scribbled note I’d left hours earlier.

Her email mentioned that exact thing.
She also mentioned that for some reason she was missing Mom more this year than usual though she didn’t quite know why.
It was another affirmation that we will always be connected, always be twins.

We experienced the same emotional experience several hours apart.
I considered it a small gift sent down from my mother.
Knowing her as I did, she’d have it no other way.

(photo courtesy of Kel)

I am currently reading two books: “Book of Shadows” by James Reese and “Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage” by Alice Munro.
I always have several in the backpack.
The count was three as of earlier this evening before I finished
“When God Winks” by SQuire Rushnell, a belated birthday gift from my sister
(actually, wicked belated ).
WGW is a book that explores the deeper meaning of coincidence in our lives.

God Wink ; a personal signal or message, directly from a higher power, usually, but not always, in the form of a coincidence

My sister bought it for me simply because she and I are intensely familiar with God Winks.
There’s this.
Or this.
Or this.

The book goes on to explain that these instances of coincidence (or serendipity, if you like that better) are signposts from the heavens that we’re on the right track; cosmic signals that we are not alone.
I’ve had many “winks” in my lifetime.

A few years after I began writing, I entered a contest at Writer’s Digest.
Ten people could win $100 in WD writing books and a year’s subscription to Writer’s Market, a WD site that helps find a home for that oh, so lonely priceless manuscript.

Months passed and I forgot all about the contest BUT I was still writing.
I remember sitting at the computer one day and staring at the damned blinking cursor thinking, “What the hell am I doing? I can’t write. This is stupid.”
Feeling disgusted and totally unoriginal, I closed Word and checked my email.
Spam.
Spam.
Spam.
Word of the Day.
Spam.
Writer’s Digest.
Writer’s Digest?
Hmmm.
I opened the email and started yelling.
I won.
Ask my wife. I NEVER WIN ANYTHING. Truth.
A wink to be sure.
And hey, I’m still writing, right?
Now I pass the pen to you guys. I love coincidence and I love winks.
Tell me about one.
Come on, now. You have at least one if you really think about it.
I know for a fact that Kelly and Maureen have had a few.
Hell, Annie, too.
How about it guys?
One wink for the gipper? (I’m trying to say that with an Aussie accent)
~m

Ps. Sis, the book was bloody brilliant. I could have written it myself . . .

I received a letter today from my sister dated January 21st (one day before my last post).
In it was a poem she’d found many years ago when our mother was entering the late stages of Alzheimer’s.
As twins, we’ve always had an uncanny ability to surprise each other in ways unimaginable.
In light of my recent post, the Frozen Man, I could only smile when I read this poem.
My sister’s timing was perfect. Go figure.
If you have a family member suffering from this disease, print out the following poem and read it often.
My sister said reading it always makes her feel better and she hoped the same for me.
Thanks, m~
Yeah, it works for me, too . . .

~m

Heart Memories
by Louise M Eder

I remember you with my heart
My mind won’t say your name
I can’t recall where I knew you
Who you were
Or who I was.

Maybe I grew up with you
Or maybe we worked together
Or did we bowl together yesterday?
There’s something wrong with my memory
But I do know you
I know I knew you
And I do love you
I know how you make me feel
I remember the feelings we had together.
My heart remembers
It cries out in loneliness for you
For the feelings you give me now.

Today I’m happy that you have come.
When you leave
My mind will not remember that you were here
But my heart remembers
The feeling of friendship
And love returned.
Remembers
That I am less lonely
And happier today
Because of the feeling
Because you have come.

Please, please don’t forget me
And please don’t stay away
Because of the way my mind acts.
I can still feel you
I can remember with my heart
And a heart memory is maybe
The most important memory of all.

It’s always around my birthday that I get somewhat nostalgic and wax philosophic about my younger years. I’m not old by any stretch of the imagination but at a soon-to-be 49, I’m no longer a little boy either.

I have to smile thinking about several lines from an old James Taylor song called,
“I was a fool to care” – (if you know the album title right now, you’re my age)

I wish I was an old man

And love was through with me

I wish I was a baby on my mama’s knee

I wish I was a freight train

Moving down the line

Just a’ keeping track of time

Without all these memories . . .

I have so many sweet memories from long ago: the phone call from my mother asking me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday (she made many), the apple pie my father would bring home from Ware Pratt (a men’s clothing store, long gone) where he signed me up in their Birthday Club entitling me to a pie every January 10^th until I turned 13.

(and yeah, I’d give my twin sister m~ a slice)

So, so damn sweet.

Sometimes I have to wonder if I wasn’t a fool to care about such things; caring turns into sentimentality turns into heartache and ends with something sad and bittersweet.

Looking back, I realize I did care about those things. Dearly.

These are just words connecting my thoughts tonight, folks, and nothing real deep.

Whenever there’s a pause in my writing routine, I get back to square one by house cleaning and moving furniture; it’s my own personal literary feng shui if you will.
The warmest of wishes I send out to my twin sister, my own flesh and blood.
The rivers we’ve traveled run deep.
Happy Birthday, Moe.
I pray our 49^th year finds us healthy, full of happiness and covered with more love than we both know what to do with.
I guess this post has turned out to be something of a prayer.
And I welcome that . . .

~m

ps. my sister now signs her emails m~ . . .

pps. thanks to my dear friends, Laho & Liho for the cholesterol-inducing breakfast.
It was awesome.

ppps. Happy Birthday, Guinness!!!!!