Posted tagged ‘Boston’

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“As I grew up, I knew that as a building (Fenway Park) was on the level of Mount Olympus, the Pyramid at Giza, the nation’s capitol, the czar’s Winter Palace, and the Louvre — except, of course, that is better than all those inconsequential places.”

April 20, 2012

My friends and I had the best day yesterday at Fenway Park. It was filled with people wandering all over taking pictures, touching revered parts of the park and watching current Sox on the field and in the bull pen. All of us patiently waited in lines to see parts of Fenway usually off-limits, and most everyone wore something which proclaimed their allegiance to our home team. We touched the manually operated scoreboard on the green monster, watched Dice-K throwing and Bard and Buckholtz warming up. We saw Bobby Valentine, the new manager. All three of us sat on the little bench in the Sox dugout where Tito used to spend most games and went up in the elevator with Wally who was only to glad to have his picture taken. We found my brick in the Bill Monbouquette section by Gate B and sat in the pavilion seats with the best views of the park. We also sat for a while in the press box once filled with typewriters but now loaded with USB ports. This afternoon we will be glued to the TV to watch all the 100th birthday festivities starting with an entire park toast to Fenway, a toast hoping to make the Guinness Book of World Records. 100 years ago John Francis “Honey Fitz”  Fitzgerald, JFK’s grandfather, threw out the first pitch and the NY Highlanders lost. We’re hoping the final score will reflect that historic game.

I went out earlier as Gracie was barking, and I wanted to find out why. She was trying to jump the 6 foot fence around the yard to get at the loose dog on the other side. Twice she got her front paws on the top but couldn’t pull the rest of her over. I went down, grabbed her collar and brought her in the house. Her exertions were exhausting and Gracie is taking her morning nap.

Today is sunny but chilly, a typical spring day on Cape Cod. When we drove to Boston yesterday, the closer we got to the city, the fuller the trees were and some were already leafy. Cherry trees were in blossom. Our trees have small buds.

Gracie gets a trip to the dump today.

Categories: Music
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Comments: 12 Comments

“As I grew up, I knew that as a building (Fenway Park) was on the level of Mount Olympus, the Pyramid at Giza, the nation’s capitol, the czar’s Winter Palace, and the Louvre — except, of course, that is better than all those inconsequential places.”

April 20, 2012

My friends and I had the best day yesterday at Fenway Park. It was filled with people wandering all over taking pictures, touching revered parts of the park and watching current Sox on the field and in the bull pen. All of us patiently waited in lines to see parts of Fenway usually off-limits, and most everyone wore something which proclaimed their allegiance to our home team. We touched the manually operated scoreboard on the green monster, watched Dice-K throwing and Bard and Buckholtz warming up. We saw Bobby Valentine, the new manager. All three of us sat on the little bench in the Sox dugout where Tito used to spend most games and went up in the elevator with Wally who was only to glad to have his picture taken. We found my brick in the Bill Monbouquette section by Gate B and sat in the pavilion seats with the best views of the park. We also sat for a while in the press box once filled with typewriters but now loaded with USB ports. This afternoon we will be glued to the TV to watch all the 100th birthday festivities starting with an entire park toast to Fenway, a toast hoping to make the Guinness Book of World Records. 100 years ago John Francis “Honey Fitz”  Fitzgerald, JFK’s grandfather, threw out the first pitch and the NY Highlanders lost. We’re hoping the final score will reflect that historic game.

I went out earlier as Gracie was barking, and I wanted to find out why. She was trying to jump the 6 foot fence around the yard to get at the loose dog on the other side. Twice she got her front paws on the top but couldn’t pull the rest of her over. I went down, grabbed her collar and brought her in the house. Her exertions were exhausting and Gracie is taking her morning nap.

Today is sunny but chilly, a typical spring day on Cape Cod. When we drove to Boston yesterday, the closer we got to the city, the fuller the trees were and some were already leafy. Cherry trees were in blossom. Our trees have small buds.

Gracie gets a trip to the dump today.

Categories: Music
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Comments: 12 Comments

“St. Patrick’s Day is an enchanted time – a day to begin transforming winter’s dreams into summer’s magic.”

March 17, 2012

Yesterday it was in the darkness of early morning when I woke while today it was 10:30. I am as fickled as the weather. My friend Clare came by with a few St. Patrick’s day gifts and rang the bell. Gracie barked, and I woke up then tried to figure out the what day it is. I got it on the first try.

If St. Patrick’s Day was on a school day, we got it off as a holiday. After all, I went to St. Patrick’s Grammar School, and we had to honor the school’s patron saint or at least that’s what the nuns told us, but the significance of the day was always lost on us as we had no idea how to honor a patron saint, but we knew how to enjoy a day off from school. March was always the most dismal of school months with only this one day off unless Easter came early and we got Good Friday. We did thank St. Patrick but not for the reasons the nuns expected.

If you lived in and close to Boston, you also got today off from school but not for St. Patrick’s Day. Today is Evacuation Day. It is the day the British evacuated the city of Boston during the Revolutionary War. It used to be an official holiday for all schools and state workers but it was eliminated last year and now is celebrated in name only.

When I was in high school and a member of St. Patrick’s Shamrock drill team, we marched in the parade. It was the worst of all parades in which to march. Sometimes it was freezing cold. Every time, some drunk would join us for a bit of the march with a glass of beer in his hand he was more than happy to share with us. I remember the crowds along the street were loud and always cheered us for our name and for the shamrocks on our uniforms.

When I was in college, going to the St. Patrick’s day parade in South Boston was a big deal. It was a day to celebrate by wearing green and drinking a significant amount of alcohol. I remember several toasts to me by people I didn’t know that we’d met in the bars. Kathleen Ryan is as Irish a name as can be.

My mother always made corned beef and cabbage today. She was a great cook, but I do remember one year she cooked it a bit too long, and my father was mystified when he couldn’t find the potatoes. They had dissolved in the pan. He was more than disappointed.

I have no plans for today though I’m thinking I might go out for corned beef and cabbage. I can’t imagine St. Patrick’s  Day without it.

Categories: Musings
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” Man is a gaming animal. He must always be trying to get the better in something or other.”

March 9, 2012

The day is cloudy but bright. It looks as if the sun will be making an appearance sometime later. It is 41°, cooler than the last few days but seasonal for March. The wind blew all day and all night. I was lucky my deck glass table top didn’t break because the wind toppled the umbrella which then took the table along with it. I didn’t expect that to happen as the umbrella is through a hole in the center of the table so the wind was a mighty wind. Today is calm; nothing is moving.

 The Globe mentioned that Rex Trailer of Boomtown fame, a local program we all grew up watching and can probably still sing the theme to, has been designated the state’s official cowboy. At first I thought it a bit strange that this state would have a cowboy, a state fisherman maybe, but not a cowboy then I gave it some thought. Every Saturday morning Rex Trailer did it all: rode his horse Goldrush, played the guitar and sang cowboy songs, did the best rope tricks and once, in 1961, rode a covered wagon from Greenfield to Boston, a distance of 94 miles, to raise awareness about children with disabilities. He made us all want to be cowboys. I would have given anything to be on Boomtown, maybe even be made sheriff for the day. 

I grew up with television. I doubt there were many days in my life when I didn’t watch something. The Mickey Mouse Club was a program I never missed when I was a kid. As I grew older, my interests changed, and I watched shows like Dark Shadows and Bandstand and so many more. It wasn’t until Ghana that I had to do without TV. There wasn’t a single set in my town. Reception never got that far north. We learned to entertain ourselves.

 Bill and Peg, my friends and next door neighbors, were also PC volunteers. Most nights we got together, listened to music and played a game. One game was the alphabet game. The letters went down the page in a line in order from A to Z then we’d find a sentence and put one letter of each word next to the alphabet letter. If you had A with a B next to it, you’d have to find a well-known name with those initials like Aaron Burr and then you did the same for all the letters. One of my fondest memories of this game is Bill’s choices. It was often a name neither one of us, Peg and I, had ever heard before. Bill always said the guy was a football player. We voted against him every time.

My mother had sent me a Password game. We played it so much we had just about memorized every card. Unsuspecting company would play against us. We never lost. Despite the absurdity of our clues, we always guessed the right word.

The red ball attached by an elastic to a paddle was our favorite. We’d go into the back courtyard and challenge each other. Our eye hand coordination was really bad at first then we got spectacular. I can’t imagine what our neighbor thought when he heard us from the yard counting in unison: one, two and sometimes all the way up to over 200. When the elastic broke, it broke our hearts.

Games are still a huge part of my life. My friends and I always play a game when we’re together. Phase 10 and Sorry are our current favorites. We keep track of the winners of each game, and we always make fun of the loser. I won’t quote any of the responses the loser usually gives. This blog is Rated G.

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“I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday.”

January 30, 2012

Today will be a short post as I have to go to Boston. In days of yore, I used to go to Boston fairly often and never minded the trip. I’d meet friends, see a play, go out to dinner or shop. Now that I have all the time in the world, I begrudge the trip. I’d much rather sit at home and travel the Cape roads.

When I was a little kid, my mother didn’t drive. If we wanted to go to Boston, it meant walking up town and picking up the bus to Sullivan Square. Once there, we’d walk upstairs from the bus to the subway station. My mother would warn us away from the edge of the platform so we’d stand back and lean over to look down the tracks for the coming train. When it arrived, the doors always slid open with a whooshing sound, and we’d hurry inside to our seats. We always knelt on the bench like seats with our backs to the cars and our faces to the window. The city enthralled us as huge buildings, lots of cars and houses close together were unusual sights for us. The rule always was if we got separated, we were to get off at the next station and wait. We never did need to do that.

Mostly I remember going to Boston with my mother to see Santa Claus at Jordan Marsh. We were dressed in our good clothes and would wend our way to Santa through the Enchanted Village. It always held our attention, and we never once asked how much more we had to wait. Compared to today, the exhibit was primitive but for us it was almost magical. The people and the animals moved. Mostly they moved back and forth in one spot or their heads went up and down, and we thought it amazing.

That trip was always the best from start to finish. We got to ride a bus and a subway both ways. We saw Santa and the village, and my mother usually bought us a treat like a cone or a soft pretzel.

It was those trips which helped make Boston my all time favorite city. When I got older, high school age, I’d make the trip with my friends. Little had changed. We all still looked out the window and we warned each other to meet at the next stop if we got separated.

Looks like this was longer than I expected!

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“Speed, it seems to me, provides the one genuinely modern pleasure.”

October 25, 2011

Rain is coming later in the week, but for now I get to enjoy the sunshine and the coolness of a beautiful fall day. We did get out for a bit yesterday, but I ran into friends whom I haven’t seen in ages, and we chatted for a long while so I didn’t get as far as I’d hoped. Today Gracie and I will go down Cape; yesterday we went up Cape. For those of you wondering what directions I’m describing down-Cape means toward P-Town and up-Cape means toward the bridge. If anyone asked me east or west, I’d be hard pressed to answer.

When I visit Colorado, I ask how far to get somewhere, and they always answer in miles. Here when asked the same question we answer in time. How far to Boston from the cape elicits the response of about an hour and fifteen minutes, but it could be longer depending upon the traffic. In Colorado they’d tell me about 72 miles.

When I traveled in Ghana, the distance was measured in kilometers. I had no idea how far away anything really was. My mind worked only in miles so I always had to convert kilometers to miles. I learned to multiply by .6 so I’d figure out how far away I was from my destination.

Ghana, like Massachusetts, is also a time place. I had no idea the actual distance between Accra and Bolgatanga, but I know it takes 16 hours by bus. I know because that’s what the Ghanaians told me when I asked how far between Bolga and Accra. Later I looked it up and found it was 810 kilometers which didn’t make sense until I figured out it was 486 miles. It may seem like it takes forever by bus, and it does.

Once, when my parents and I were in Germany, my inner race car driver came out while I was driving on the autobahn. There I was driving at 80 MPH and getting passed. I knew this was my opportunity to be Mario Andretti without risking a ticket so I drove between 90 to 100 but I still got passed. My mother commented we seem to be going really fast and kept looking at the speedometer. I told her it was in kilometers, a bold face lie with good intentions, and explained how to convert and I mentioned that we were being passed by other cars going much faster. That seemed to calm her, and I got to be Mario for just a little while.

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“If you’ve seen one redwood tree, you’ve seen them all.”

October 17, 2011

It’s raining slightly, but still it’s raining. The paper got it wrong. The prediction is for rain tomorrow so I don’t know if that means two more days of rain despite all the rain we had last week. I swear this is Mother Nature’s way of erasing all the memories of summer. She gives us nothing but dreary days, and we start to expect them. Fall becomes winter far too quickly.

Today I have to go to Boston where I haven’t been in a while, other than the airport. I used to go all the time, but I’ve become a country bumpkin. Now I gripe and complain when I have to drive to Hyannis, a trip taking about 15 minutes. I don’t know if it’s age, retirement or just being comfortable here at home and on the Cape. Once I get on the road, I’m okay with the travel, but it’s getting the incentive to move that takes time. Today I have a doctor’s appointment, just a regular one so I have no choice.

When I was a kid, any car trip of great length was pure agony. Three of us were crammed in the backseat of a car which had that big hump in the middle of the floor. The windows never let in enough air, and I was prone to car sickness. We elbowed each other and whined about space and who was violating our space. I couldn’t read in the car and we had nothing but looking at the scenery to keep our attention. We’d play state license bingo, twenty questions, and I spy with my little eye but interest was difficult to maintain. How much can you spy in the same car for hours? We seldom stopped. My dad believed that any trip anywhere could be made in a single day. He groaned about bathroom stops and lunch never took much time, always at a picnic bench with the lunch my mother had made.

The only trip I remember with sightseeing was the one to the White Mountains. We saw the Old Man of the Mountain, now a memory since his collapse, went up Mount Washington and toward the end of the day stopped to the Flume. It was late in the afternoon and we got the last bus of the day to the Flume which meant we had to walk back to the car. I remember how cold it felt on the top of Mount Washington and how the road seemed far too close to the edge. The old man did look like a face, but he didn’t impress us all that much. We were kids, and he was a rock. All I remember about the flume is a bunch of walkways and some waterfalls. I can still see the tarred road we dragged ourselves on to get back to the car.  And, yup, we did all of that in one day.

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“A journey is a person in itself, no two are alike.”

August 26, 2011

It rained most of last night, but the morning broke sunny and warm. I dried off the table, had coffee and read my papers on the deck. Both papers were filled with stories about Hurricane Irene: the predicted path, people getting ready and the hurricane’s intensity. One article listed the flights already canceled out of Logan, but all of them were flights headed into the storm, most headed toward North Carolina or south to the islands. Saturday is supposed to be rain and only rain. The wind won’t begin until Sunday when, I hope, I’m already through Frankfurt on my way to Accra. This is one of your shake your head in wonder sort of things. I booked my flight in April and would never have expected that the first hurricane in twenty years would surface just before my flight. I’m wondering about karma, but I really do expect to get out of Boston. I am heading away from the hurricane and it will only be raining. I am so glad I didn’t book the direct flight from New York.

One day, I can’t believe it is one day until I leave. My to do list has most stuff crossed off. Today I have to water the plants and fill the bird feeders. Tomorrow is change the litter, go to the dump and pack day. My bedroom has stacks of clothes ready for the suitcase, and the chair is filled with stuff for my carry-on, most of it electronic. I can barely sit still for the excitement.

Engagements are already scheduled: the party on the 29th at Ryan’s pub, the swearing-in ceremony on the 30th and a party that night to honor and celebrate the newest volunteers.

I figure to leave for Bolga on the 1st, but I still haven’t quite figured out how to get there. The bus ride is 16 hours so if I go that route, I’ll leave on the night of the 31st so I can arrive in Bolga in the morning. The buses are air-conditioned and the seats go down so I’ll be fairly comfortable. It would be like backpack travel days during my 20’s when we always traveled by night to save the cost of a hotel room. If I fly, it will be to Tamale then 4 hours by bus to Bolga. I wish I were Samantha, and I would just wiggle my nose.

My mind is filled with forty year old images and sounds and smells all waiting to be updated.

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“Somebody did complain to me and tell me that my clothes were so loud they couldn’t hear me sing.”

July 17, 2011

No doubt about it: it’s hot already at 80°, but, luckily, yesterday’s humidity has yet to reappear. When it does, on goes the AC. My breakfast spot had no empty booths this morning for more than a minute or two, but I happened in at the right time and immediately found an empty booth. Breakfast, though, was boring. I’m beginning to think it always was, but I just didn’t notice. Lately I’ve tried eggs in a variety of ways, but there is only so much you can do with eggs. I’ve also tried French toast and even breakfast sandwiches. I’m out of options for what I think is the most boring meal of the day.

I sat at a red light by the summer church as it was letting out from mass. People in shorts walked out, and that’s what I noticed first. I thought how comfortable they must have been all crowded together in a pew. We used to have to wear skirts to mass and hats on our heads or even Kleenex if we didn’t have a hat. Bobby pins held the ugly white Kleenex in place. That reminded me of flying not all that long ago. People dressed up to fly. It was an occasion. It’s the same at my Friday night plays. Men used to wear shirts and ties with sports coats and women wore skirts or summer dresses. Now the dress code is simply cover your body in some way.

I read in the paper that GQ named Boston as the worst dressed city. The magazine article blamed all those college kids, called them hoodie monsters. It referred to the city as, “America’s Bad-Taste Storm Sewer: all the worst fashion ideas from across the country flow there, stagnate, and putrefy.” I find that a perfectly accurate description of the Boston fashion scene. I think I probably add to it as I like hoodies, and I hate to get dressed up.

The cape has always been a haven for the under-dressed, for the bathing suit crowd, for Topsiders white with salt rime, flip flops and t-shirts. It’s one of the reasons I love living here. No matter what I wear, nobody notices.

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“I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren’t certain we knew better.”

May 16, 2011

I just got home from a doctor’s appointment in Boston but decided to write a few musings anyway despite the lateness of the day. It rained last night, again this morning and on and off during my ride. The day is dank, damp and chilly, and the weatherman says it will stay this way most of the week. When I woke up, I turned on the heat just to warm the house. It was 49° outside.

The trip was uneventful, but I got a chance to see how all the trees along the highway are far more leafy, far more into spring, than the ones here on the Cape. The new leaves are light in color and the rows of trees have beautifully varied hues of green leaves. Some have a touch of red. I watched a hawk ride the thermals against the gray sky. Traffic was light and for that I was thankful.

Today is a nap day, no question about it. I woke up earlier than my alarm and had time for coffee and both newspapers before I left at 9. I yawned most of the way home. Gracie, who came with me, slept all the way up and all the way back. She got lively when I walked her in Cambridge near my doctor’s office. She sniffed just about every flower garden by the sidewalks. Gracie is usually a great walker but today she was excited and dragged me from garden to garden. Not being a city dog, today’s outing was quite exciting for Gracie, the country bumpkin. She did her part by leaving behind smells for the local dogs to ponder.

Last night I was standing by the back door waiting for Gracie. She was somewhere in the back of the yard as she had triggered the sensor lights. I noticed what I thought was a moving shadow near a tree so I kept an eye on it and saw a small possum quickly made its way out of the yard through the only part of the fence with an opening. I was glad it was I, not Gracie, who noticed the possum.

My Red Sox swept the Yankees.

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