Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 43
February 6, 2011
Try, and you might get what you need: Schoolteachers, linebackers, and strikes
Who is more important to you as a parent or grandparent? Troy Polamalu, Pittsburgh Steelers safety renowned for a mane so spectacular his endorsements include a shampoo? Or the local second grade schoolteacher? It’s a no-brainer – unless, of course, you’re related to Troy.
I ask the question because here in the northeast corner of Addison County, Vermont, schoolteachers are set to strike this Wednesday. Meanwhile, at some point today as we are watching the Super Bowl pre-game, post-game, or perhaps even the game itself – in the midst of our annual orgy of chips and dips and guac – we will hear someone on television murmur the letters, “CBA.” The letters do not stand for “Concussions But Awesome,” the NFL’s current stance on head injuries. They refer to the National Football League’s collective bargaining agreement. If there is not a new CBA by early March, there is likely to be a lockout.
The issues affecting the NFL and teachers are different in detail and scope. The teachers’ union is focused on salary, salary schedule, and how much of their health insurance they must pay; the players’ union is focused on revenue, salaries, retirement benefits, and the length of the season – whether to risk brain damage or quadriplegia 16 times a year (the current season) or 18 (what the owners want). There is more money and glamour with the NFL: TV is involved.
Nevertheless, it is worth nothing that a schoolteacher in this corner of the county could toil for 25 years and not earn what a rookie wide receiver is likely to make months out of college. And while there are still folks who believe teachers are overpaid and lead a pretty cushy life (summers off!), I think teachers are underpaid. After all, we trust them with our children’s care for seven hours a day, and our political leaders remind us frequently that if our nation has any chance at all of not becoming the next failed Roman Empire, we need the next generations to be really smart. That’s a lot of responsibility. And even people who believe passionately that teachers are overpaid have to admit: No one goes into teaching to get rich.
Of course, schoolteachers can work into their sixties; a running back’s career is over by 35 and he’ll have cranky knees and a balky hip forever. And an NFL football game is a lot more fun to watch than an AP calculus class. I confess, I have a man cave with a TV and between September and the Super Bowl, I watch a lot of football. Moreover, the players in the NFL are the 1,600 people best in the world at what they do.
But I never lose sight of this reality: A person like Alice Leeds – my daughter’s teacher when she was in the fifth and sixth at the Lincoln Community School, and one of the negotiating teachers – has a profound effect on my family’s life, while people like Eli Manning, quarterback of my beloved Giants, do not. Leeds won the 2010 Governor’s Heritage Teaching Award, and you have not seen Shakespeare until you have seen the bard performed by her 10 and 11-year-old students on a platform in the small school’s multipurpose room.
My sense is that a teachers’ strike will be dispiriting for everyone. I have not always agreed with my daughter’s teachers, but I have never questioned their commitment to the classroom.
Yesterday, the NFL and the players’ union met. The two sides talked.
Heather Parkhurst, a math teacher at Mount Abraham Union High School and chief negotiator for the teachers, says her group is committed to talking. “Let’s stay at the table until the work is done,” she says. “It’s emotional and tough, but it’s a process.”
My advice here in Addison County? Keep talking. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards don’t belong in a diplomatic corps anywhere – even if Mick has been knighted and Keith published a great memoir – but they got it right when they wrote, “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.”
Keep trying.
Now, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. Pass the chips, please.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on Sunday, February 6, 2011.)
I ask the question because here in the northeast corner of Addison County, Vermont, schoolteachers are set to strike this Wednesday. Meanwhile, at some point today as we are watching the Super Bowl pre-game, post-game, or perhaps even the game itself – in the midst of our annual orgy of chips and dips and guac – we will hear someone on television murmur the letters, “CBA.” The letters do not stand for “Concussions But Awesome,” the NFL’s current stance on head injuries. They refer to the National Football League’s collective bargaining agreement. If there is not a new CBA by early March, there is likely to be a lockout.
The issues affecting the NFL and teachers are different in detail and scope. The teachers’ union is focused on salary, salary schedule, and how much of their health insurance they must pay; the players’ union is focused on revenue, salaries, retirement benefits, and the length of the season – whether to risk brain damage or quadriplegia 16 times a year (the current season) or 18 (what the owners want). There is more money and glamour with the NFL: TV is involved.
Nevertheless, it is worth nothing that a schoolteacher in this corner of the county could toil for 25 years and not earn what a rookie wide receiver is likely to make months out of college. And while there are still folks who believe teachers are overpaid and lead a pretty cushy life (summers off!), I think teachers are underpaid. After all, we trust them with our children’s care for seven hours a day, and our political leaders remind us frequently that if our nation has any chance at all of not becoming the next failed Roman Empire, we need the next generations to be really smart. That’s a lot of responsibility. And even people who believe passionately that teachers are overpaid have to admit: No one goes into teaching to get rich.
Of course, schoolteachers can work into their sixties; a running back’s career is over by 35 and he’ll have cranky knees and a balky hip forever. And an NFL football game is a lot more fun to watch than an AP calculus class. I confess, I have a man cave with a TV and between September and the Super Bowl, I watch a lot of football. Moreover, the players in the NFL are the 1,600 people best in the world at what they do.
But I never lose sight of this reality: A person like Alice Leeds – my daughter’s teacher when she was in the fifth and sixth at the Lincoln Community School, and one of the negotiating teachers – has a profound effect on my family’s life, while people like Eli Manning, quarterback of my beloved Giants, do not. Leeds won the 2010 Governor’s Heritage Teaching Award, and you have not seen Shakespeare until you have seen the bard performed by her 10 and 11-year-old students on a platform in the small school’s multipurpose room.
My sense is that a teachers’ strike will be dispiriting for everyone. I have not always agreed with my daughter’s teachers, but I have never questioned their commitment to the classroom.
Yesterday, the NFL and the players’ union met. The two sides talked.
Heather Parkhurst, a math teacher at Mount Abraham Union High School and chief negotiator for the teachers, says her group is committed to talking. “Let’s stay at the table until the work is done,” she says. “It’s emotional and tough, but it’s a process.”
My advice here in Addison County? Keep talking. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards don’t belong in a diplomatic corps anywhere – even if Mick has been knighted and Keith published a great memoir – but they got it right when they wrote, “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.”
Keep trying.
Now, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. Pass the chips, please.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on Sunday, February 6, 2011.)
January 30, 2011
Pipe dreams? Nope, pipe nightmares.
You know it’s cold when a cold snap is news in Vermont. This past Monday morning it was 28 degrees below zero on my front porch here in Lincoln. This is still a far cry from the minus 40 degrees we had one January morning in the late 1980s, but it’s certainly not shabby in the “my cold is bigger than your cold” competition. Sally Ober, Lincoln Town Clerk, reported it was 31 degrees below zero at her house. Some Vermont schools closed and others opened late. And lots of folks had pipes that froze. Dundon Plumbing and Heating in Middlebury had over 35 calls to thaw frozen pipes on Monday.
Frozen pipes, of course, should never be news – though back in January 1987, my first experience with frozen pipes, I came very close to making serious news with frozen pipes by blowing up a sizable portion of the center of Lincoln. This was only the first of my “This Old House” near cataclysms, but in some ways it will always be the most impressive on the “Don’t Try This at Home, Kids” Stupid Meter.
My wife and I had been living in our 1898 Victorian village house about two and a half months then, having recently moved to Lincoln from a co-op in Brooklyn that had about as much living space as a minivan. We were young and naïve and knew nothing about managing a house that had been built when William McKinley was in the White Office.
One freakishly cold January morning, we woke up and discovered that our pipes had frozen. At the time, the house only had plumbing on the first floor, with the structure’s lone bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. So I called up some neighbors on Quaker Street, an absolutely delightful older couple named Jack and Betty Peters who had served as our guides to homeowning and all things Vermont, and asked who they used for a plumber.
Jack was a great guy, but he always had way too much faith in me. He never quite figured out that I was the Vincent van Gogh of Incompetence. So, when I told him our pipes were frozen, he came by my house with an acetylene torch, showed me how to fire that bad boy up, and said, “Just run it along your pipes and thaw wherever they’re frozen.”
In hindsight this was sort of like saying to a five-year-old, “Just put the Chevy Suburban in drive and step on the gas. You’ll be fine.”
Nevertheless, my wife and I went down into our basement and surveyed the chaotic array of copper that carried water and LP gas into the house. We were on our hands and knees or stooped over like Quasimodo because the ceiling there is between three and five feet from the dirt floor. I picked some tubes near the stone foundation, turned the torch on, and started gently running it along the copper, feeling every bit the capable homeowner I aspired to be. My wife was just over my shoulder.
I had been holding the flame against the pipes for perhaps thirty seconds when my wife tapped me on the arm. I lowered the torch and turned to her.
“Is that a gas pipe or a water pipe?” she asked, and there was a rare but unmistakable quaver in her voice. Together we followed the tube to its origin in the wall and realized – Surprise! – it was indeed a pipe bringing LP gas into the house.
Given that it had been only six years earlier that the center of Lincoln had nearly gone up in flames when the church burned, I would not have endeared myself to my new neighbors if I had caused my house and the surrounding buildings to explode. Still, that would have been the least of my problems, since almost certainly my wife and I would have been dead and – thanks to our proximity to all that flowing LP gas – cremated.
That afternoon, a plumber thawed our pipes.
And I will always be grateful that the biggest news story that day in Vermont was that it was cold. Really, really cold.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 30, 2011.)
Frozen pipes, of course, should never be news – though back in January 1987, my first experience with frozen pipes, I came very close to making serious news with frozen pipes by blowing up a sizable portion of the center of Lincoln. This was only the first of my “This Old House” near cataclysms, but in some ways it will always be the most impressive on the “Don’t Try This at Home, Kids” Stupid Meter.
My wife and I had been living in our 1898 Victorian village house about two and a half months then, having recently moved to Lincoln from a co-op in Brooklyn that had about as much living space as a minivan. We were young and naïve and knew nothing about managing a house that had been built when William McKinley was in the White Office.
One freakishly cold January morning, we woke up and discovered that our pipes had frozen. At the time, the house only had plumbing on the first floor, with the structure’s lone bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. So I called up some neighbors on Quaker Street, an absolutely delightful older couple named Jack and Betty Peters who had served as our guides to homeowning and all things Vermont, and asked who they used for a plumber.
Jack was a great guy, but he always had way too much faith in me. He never quite figured out that I was the Vincent van Gogh of Incompetence. So, when I told him our pipes were frozen, he came by my house with an acetylene torch, showed me how to fire that bad boy up, and said, “Just run it along your pipes and thaw wherever they’re frozen.”
In hindsight this was sort of like saying to a five-year-old, “Just put the Chevy Suburban in drive and step on the gas. You’ll be fine.”
Nevertheless, my wife and I went down into our basement and surveyed the chaotic array of copper that carried water and LP gas into the house. We were on our hands and knees or stooped over like Quasimodo because the ceiling there is between three and five feet from the dirt floor. I picked some tubes near the stone foundation, turned the torch on, and started gently running it along the copper, feeling every bit the capable homeowner I aspired to be. My wife was just over my shoulder.
I had been holding the flame against the pipes for perhaps thirty seconds when my wife tapped me on the arm. I lowered the torch and turned to her.
“Is that a gas pipe or a water pipe?” she asked, and there was a rare but unmistakable quaver in her voice. Together we followed the tube to its origin in the wall and realized – Surprise! – it was indeed a pipe bringing LP gas into the house.
Given that it had been only six years earlier that the center of Lincoln had nearly gone up in flames when the church burned, I would not have endeared myself to my new neighbors if I had caused my house and the surrounding buildings to explode. Still, that would have been the least of my problems, since almost certainly my wife and I would have been dead and – thanks to our proximity to all that flowing LP gas – cremated.
That afternoon, a plumber thawed our pipes.
And I will always be grateful that the biggest news story that day in Vermont was that it was cold. Really, really cold.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 30, 2011.)
January 23, 2011
Let's Get This Party Started!
Just about thirteen months ago, I was sipping a mimosa and watching 800 pounds of explosives blow up the Lake Champlain Bridge between Addison, Vt. and Crown Point, N.Y. It was a good combination: Booze and pyrotechnics, the sort of combustible mixture that has led many a young man to cheer – and sometimes because he can’t clap, because he has just blown off an arm.
The bridge was demolished on December 28, 2009, but it feels like only yesterday to me. Of course, I never used the bridge. It feels like 1928 – the year before the original bridge was completed – to people on both sides of the lake who once commuted upon it daily. Now they take the ferry or listen to whole books on audio in the time it takes them to drive to and from work each day.
In any case, the long wait for a new $69 million bridge is. . .well, not almost over. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel. In eight or nine months – sometime in early October – we will again be able to cross that bridge when we come to it. It will no longer be a bridge to nowhere. A bridge under troubled water.
As soon as tomorrow night, we can all begin to help plan the big reopening celebration. (Hint: Mimosas are our friends.) The Lake Champlain Bridge Community is holding a public planning meeting on Monday, Jan. 24, at six p.m. at the Crown Point Historic Site Museum on the New York side of the lake. The group wants volunteers and big ideas – especially big fundraising ideas, since right now the organization has more subcommittees (six) than it has dollars (zero).
Karen Hennessey, co-chair of the Lake Champlain Bridge Community and owner of the Sugar Hill Manor bed and breakfast in Crown Point, N.Y., told me she has very high hopes for the reopening celebration in October. Among the elements of the gala she envisions? “We want a two-day weekend event with a parade and a boat parade. We want musical groups, re-enactors, a footrace, a Saturday night dance, a Sunday morning ecumenical service, and Sunday night fireworks.” She also wants Champ the lake monster to be there, though preferably in his cuddly, minor league baseball mascot incarnation, and not in his decidedly less cuddly, bridge-killing, Godzilla or Cloverfield monster incarnation.
In other words, the party Hennessey envisions will make the original bridge opening back in 1929 – which had roughly 40,000 people and then Governor of New York, Franklin Delano Roosevelt in attendance – look like the weekly gathering of the high school math club. (Incidentally, the Vermont Governor was in attendance, too. No one remembers his name. No pressure, Governor Shumlin!)
Hennessey has the good sense to hope the ribbon-cutting is completed Saturday morning, so the dignitaries can depart and the real party can start. She also admitted that the bridge’s closure has been a nightmare for her business. “We probably have had one of our slowest times ever,” she said. And even once the ferry was up and running, people still had misconceptions. Exhibit A? She said it took www.mapquest.com months to make it clear on their site that a ferry linked the two shores and a person didn’t have to swim between the two states.
So, I am glad on a variety of levels that nine months from now the lake will have given birth to a bridge. It’s not simply that the corridor’s economic vitality will get a much-needed shot in the arm. It’s that I’ll have an excuse to drink mimosas for nearly two days.
* * *
IF YOU GO:
What: Lake Champlain Bridge Community bridge reopening public planning meeting
Where: The auditorium of the Crown Point Historic Site Museum
When: Monday, Jan. 24, at six p.m.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 23, 2011.
The bridge was demolished on December 28, 2009, but it feels like only yesterday to me. Of course, I never used the bridge. It feels like 1928 – the year before the original bridge was completed – to people on both sides of the lake who once commuted upon it daily. Now they take the ferry or listen to whole books on audio in the time it takes them to drive to and from work each day.
In any case, the long wait for a new $69 million bridge is. . .well, not almost over. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel. In eight or nine months – sometime in early October – we will again be able to cross that bridge when we come to it. It will no longer be a bridge to nowhere. A bridge under troubled water.
As soon as tomorrow night, we can all begin to help plan the big reopening celebration. (Hint: Mimosas are our friends.) The Lake Champlain Bridge Community is holding a public planning meeting on Monday, Jan. 24, at six p.m. at the Crown Point Historic Site Museum on the New York side of the lake. The group wants volunteers and big ideas – especially big fundraising ideas, since right now the organization has more subcommittees (six) than it has dollars (zero).
Karen Hennessey, co-chair of the Lake Champlain Bridge Community and owner of the Sugar Hill Manor bed and breakfast in Crown Point, N.Y., told me she has very high hopes for the reopening celebration in October. Among the elements of the gala she envisions? “We want a two-day weekend event with a parade and a boat parade. We want musical groups, re-enactors, a footrace, a Saturday night dance, a Sunday morning ecumenical service, and Sunday night fireworks.” She also wants Champ the lake monster to be there, though preferably in his cuddly, minor league baseball mascot incarnation, and not in his decidedly less cuddly, bridge-killing, Godzilla or Cloverfield monster incarnation.
In other words, the party Hennessey envisions will make the original bridge opening back in 1929 – which had roughly 40,000 people and then Governor of New York, Franklin Delano Roosevelt in attendance – look like the weekly gathering of the high school math club. (Incidentally, the Vermont Governor was in attendance, too. No one remembers his name. No pressure, Governor Shumlin!)
Hennessey has the good sense to hope the ribbon-cutting is completed Saturday morning, so the dignitaries can depart and the real party can start. She also admitted that the bridge’s closure has been a nightmare for her business. “We probably have had one of our slowest times ever,” she said. And even once the ferry was up and running, people still had misconceptions. Exhibit A? She said it took www.mapquest.com months to make it clear on their site that a ferry linked the two shores and a person didn’t have to swim between the two states.
So, I am glad on a variety of levels that nine months from now the lake will have given birth to a bridge. It’s not simply that the corridor’s economic vitality will get a much-needed shot in the arm. It’s that I’ll have an excuse to drink mimosas for nearly two days.
* * *
IF YOU GO:
What: Lake Champlain Bridge Community bridge reopening public planning meeting
Where: The auditorium of the Crown Point Historic Site Museum
When: Monday, Jan. 24, at six p.m.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 23, 2011.
January 16, 2011
My wife's a shoe-in at NYC bash
The first sign that my wife was feeling a little pressure was the email I got from zappos.com. For those of you who have been living on the Nikumaroro atoll in the Pacific Ocean where Amelia Earhart may have ditched her plane in 1937, Zappos is an online clothing company, but it is best known for shoes – and its policy of paying for customer shipping on returns. This means that a person can order 17 pairs of shoes online, keep the one pair that she likes, and send the rest back at no charge.
The email I got from zappos was an order confirmation. In all fairness, my wife did not order 17 pairs of shoes. She ordered six. Yup, six pairs of dress heels with bows and buckles and colors such as “ascot macau.” I’m a writer, and I couldn’t begin to tell you what color “ascot macau” resembles.
Why was my wife ordering six pairs of dress shoes when we live in a Vermont village where “dress shoes” mean “mud boots?” Because her mother turns eighty next month and is throwing herself a swanky birthday bash in Manhattan – and so my wife needs to represent. She has three sisters, and they live in Paris, Manhattan, and just outside of Boston. And those women know shoes. The last thing my wife wants is to reinforce her sisters’ stereotype that a Vermonter’s idea of heels are Birkenstocks.
It is also worth noting that my wife had to find a new dress to go with those shoes. My daughter and I went with her earlier this month when she went shopping, because she finds it extremely traumatic to take her clothes off in department stores, which – in her opinion – have conspiratorially demeaning mirrors. To quote her: “They get their mirrors from funhouses. I am not kidding.” She also tends to go shopping in blue jeans, which means she’s likely to be wearing knee socks. To quote her again: “No fancy dress looks good with knee socks. But do you really want to be barefoot in the changing room?”
I have put a lot of thought into the shoes I will wear to my mother-in-law’s party, too. I will not wear the orange high-top Converse sneakers my wife got me for Christmas, as much as I would like to. Instead I will wear the black Oxfords I bought at the Macy’s in the Burlington Town Center Mall in 2008.
Guys really do have it easy. For my mother-in-law’s big birthday bash, I will wear those three-year-old shoes, one of the three neckties I own, and a Michael Kehoe blazer I bought – again – in 2008. Just for the record, I have purchased that identical blazer three times going back to 2002.
Of course, I also don’t have fashion conscious siblings to increase the pressure. I have a brother who – if this is possible – dresses even more casually than I do. He is absolutely brilliant when it comes to low-maintenance clothes and hair. To wit, to stave off baldness as long as possible, I see my pal Don O’Connell at Burlington’s O’M Salon every five or six weeks so he can work whatever magic he can on the few hairs that cling to my scalp like survivors from a cranial shipwreck. My brother takes the opposite tact: He runs an electric razor over his scalp every Saturday morning and recreates that fabulous fifties ultimate buzz cut. He looks like Beaver Cleaver’s five-year-old friends from the eyebrows north.
Now, my wife did find a spectacular dress and some pretty hot shoes. (Jets football coach Rex Ryan would approve.) I am confident that she will be the best dressed of the four sisters. Moreover, she is all set for Kate Middleton’s and Prince William’s wedding this coming April, assuming we’re invited. No guarantees, but you never know.
And for that royal shindig in England? Trust me, I will be styling in my new orange sneakers.
___________________________________________________
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on January 16, 2011.)
The email I got from zappos was an order confirmation. In all fairness, my wife did not order 17 pairs of shoes. She ordered six. Yup, six pairs of dress heels with bows and buckles and colors such as “ascot macau.” I’m a writer, and I couldn’t begin to tell you what color “ascot macau” resembles.
Why was my wife ordering six pairs of dress shoes when we live in a Vermont village where “dress shoes” mean “mud boots?” Because her mother turns eighty next month and is throwing herself a swanky birthday bash in Manhattan – and so my wife needs to represent. She has three sisters, and they live in Paris, Manhattan, and just outside of Boston. And those women know shoes. The last thing my wife wants is to reinforce her sisters’ stereotype that a Vermonter’s idea of heels are Birkenstocks.
It is also worth noting that my wife had to find a new dress to go with those shoes. My daughter and I went with her earlier this month when she went shopping, because she finds it extremely traumatic to take her clothes off in department stores, which – in her opinion – have conspiratorially demeaning mirrors. To quote her: “They get their mirrors from funhouses. I am not kidding.” She also tends to go shopping in blue jeans, which means she’s likely to be wearing knee socks. To quote her again: “No fancy dress looks good with knee socks. But do you really want to be barefoot in the changing room?”
I have put a lot of thought into the shoes I will wear to my mother-in-law’s party, too. I will not wear the orange high-top Converse sneakers my wife got me for Christmas, as much as I would like to. Instead I will wear the black Oxfords I bought at the Macy’s in the Burlington Town Center Mall in 2008.
Guys really do have it easy. For my mother-in-law’s big birthday bash, I will wear those three-year-old shoes, one of the three neckties I own, and a Michael Kehoe blazer I bought – again – in 2008. Just for the record, I have purchased that identical blazer three times going back to 2002.
Of course, I also don’t have fashion conscious siblings to increase the pressure. I have a brother who – if this is possible – dresses even more casually than I do. He is absolutely brilliant when it comes to low-maintenance clothes and hair. To wit, to stave off baldness as long as possible, I see my pal Don O’Connell at Burlington’s O’M Salon every five or six weeks so he can work whatever magic he can on the few hairs that cling to my scalp like survivors from a cranial shipwreck. My brother takes the opposite tact: He runs an electric razor over his scalp every Saturday morning and recreates that fabulous fifties ultimate buzz cut. He looks like Beaver Cleaver’s five-year-old friends from the eyebrows north.
Now, my wife did find a spectacular dress and some pretty hot shoes. (Jets football coach Rex Ryan would approve.) I am confident that she will be the best dressed of the four sisters. Moreover, she is all set for Kate Middleton’s and Prince William’s wedding this coming April, assuming we’re invited. No guarantees, but you never know.
And for that royal shindig in England? Trust me, I will be styling in my new orange sneakers.
___________________________________________________
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on January 16, 2011.)
January 11, 2011
The SECRETS OF EDEN rock and roll, get your t-shirts paperback book tour
Greetings – and Happy New Year!
In less than three weeks, the SECRETS OF EDEN, rock and roll, get your t-shirts, paperback book tour begins. Here are the stops on the road:
January 31, 2011
Burlington, Vermont
Borders
Reading and Signing
29 Church Street
7:00 p.m.
February 1
West Lebanon, New Hampshire
Borders
285 Plainfield Road
12:30 p.m.
February 1
Newington, New Hampshire
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
45 Gosling Road: The Crossings at Fox Run
7:00 p.m.
February 2
Boston, Massachusetts
Barnes & Noble
800 Boyleston St.: The Prudential Center
12:30 p.m.
February 2
Burlington, Massachusetts
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
98 Middlesex Turnpike
7:00 p.m.
February 3
Stamford, Connecticut
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
100 Greyrock Place
12:30 p.m.
February 3
Madison, Connecticut
R.J. Julia Booksellers
Reading and Signing
768 Post Road
7:00 p.m.
February 4
Manhasset, New York
Barnes & Noble
1542 Northern Blvd.
12:30 p.m.
February 5
Carmel, Indiana
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
14709 US Highway 31 North
7:00 p.m.
February 7
Atlanta, Georgia
Margaret Mitchell House/Center for Southern Literature
Reading and Signing
99 Peachtree St., NE
7:00 p.m.
February 8
Austin, Texas
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
10000 Research Blvd.
7:00 p.m.
February 9
Kansas City, Missouri
Kansas City Public Library
(Books by Rainy Day Books)
Reading and Signing with Caroline Leavitt
4801 Main Street
6:30 p.m.
February 10
St. Louis, Missouri
St. Louis County Library
(Books by Barnes & Noble)
Reading and Signing
1640 S. Lindbergh Blvd.
7:00 p.m.
February 11
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Lake Park Bistro
(Books by Boswell Book Company)
Reading and Signing and Lunch
3133 E.Newberry Blvd.
Noon
February 11
Mayfair, Wisconsin
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
7:00 p.m.
February 12
Beachwood, Ohio
Cuyahoga County Public Library
(Books by Joseph-Beth)
Reading and Signing
25501 Shaker Blvd
2:00 p.m.
February 13
Dayton, Ohio
Books & Company at the Greene
Reading and Signing
4453 Walnut St.
2:00 p.m.
February 14
Cincinnati, Ohio
Joseph-Beth Booksellers
Reading and Signing
2692 Madison Road
7:00 p.m.
Now, if you do not see your city, fear not. I am touring again in October of this year on behalf of my next novel, THE NIGHT STRANGERS. Michigan, Florida, Illinois, California, New Jersey, North Carolina, Minnesota, and Washington are likely to be on the calendar.
So, stay tuned.
In the meantime, please join me next month. I’d love to see you – and there really will be some free t-shirts at all the stops!
Thanks again for your faith in my work – and in what stories can mean to the soul.
All the best,
Chris B.
www.chrisbohjalian.com
In less than three weeks, the SECRETS OF EDEN, rock and roll, get your t-shirts, paperback book tour begins. Here are the stops on the road:
January 31, 2011
Burlington, Vermont
Borders
Reading and Signing
29 Church Street
7:00 p.m.
February 1
West Lebanon, New Hampshire
Borders
285 Plainfield Road
12:30 p.m.
February 1
Newington, New Hampshire
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
45 Gosling Road: The Crossings at Fox Run
7:00 p.m.
February 2
Boston, Massachusetts
Barnes & Noble
800 Boyleston St.: The Prudential Center
12:30 p.m.
February 2
Burlington, Massachusetts
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
98 Middlesex Turnpike
7:00 p.m.
February 3
Stamford, Connecticut
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
100 Greyrock Place
12:30 p.m.
February 3
Madison, Connecticut
R.J. Julia Booksellers
Reading and Signing
768 Post Road
7:00 p.m.
February 4
Manhasset, New York
Barnes & Noble
1542 Northern Blvd.
12:30 p.m.
February 5
Carmel, Indiana
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
14709 US Highway 31 North
7:00 p.m.
February 7
Atlanta, Georgia
Margaret Mitchell House/Center for Southern Literature
Reading and Signing
99 Peachtree St., NE
7:00 p.m.
February 8
Austin, Texas
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
10000 Research Blvd.
7:00 p.m.
February 9
Kansas City, Missouri
Kansas City Public Library
(Books by Rainy Day Books)
Reading and Signing with Caroline Leavitt
4801 Main Street
6:30 p.m.
February 10
St. Louis, Missouri
St. Louis County Library
(Books by Barnes & Noble)
Reading and Signing
1640 S. Lindbergh Blvd.
7:00 p.m.
February 11
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Lake Park Bistro
(Books by Boswell Book Company)
Reading and Signing and Lunch
3133 E.Newberry Blvd.
Noon
February 11
Mayfair, Wisconsin
Barnes & Noble
Reading and Signing
7:00 p.m.
February 12
Beachwood, Ohio
Cuyahoga County Public Library
(Books by Joseph-Beth)
Reading and Signing
25501 Shaker Blvd
2:00 p.m.
February 13
Dayton, Ohio
Books & Company at the Greene
Reading and Signing
4453 Walnut St.
2:00 p.m.
February 14
Cincinnati, Ohio
Joseph-Beth Booksellers
Reading and Signing
2692 Madison Road
7:00 p.m.
Now, if you do not see your city, fear not. I am touring again in October of this year on behalf of my next novel, THE NIGHT STRANGERS. Michigan, Florida, Illinois, California, New Jersey, North Carolina, Minnesota, and Washington are likely to be on the calendar.
So, stay tuned.
In the meantime, please join me next month. I’d love to see you – and there really will be some free t-shirts at all the stops!
Thanks again for your faith in my work – and in what stories can mean to the soul.
All the best,
Chris B.
www.chrisbohjalian.com
January 9, 2011
Time to dial down the dialing in
A couple of years ago, I was sitting in my car in the Rite Aid parking lot on Cherry Street in Burlington, Vermont, waiting for my daughter to finish an evening rehearsal for a Lyric Theatre production she was in. I was listening to WFAN sports talk radio out of New York City (66 on your AM dial when the stars align and the signal makes it to Vermont), and decided that the slightly crazed and badly socialized callers who were bashing my football Giants needed an explanation for a particular coaching decision from a previous game. I called, got through, and – to use the comedian’s parlance – I killed. I would have made the talking heads on the football pre-game shows sound as knowledgeable as my wife when it comes to the Great American Sport of Concussions and Permanently Disabling Injuries.
How little does my wife know about football? Once, years ago, I was watching a game on TV in the middle of winter and the reception was pretty bad: All fuzz and snow. My wife sat down on the couch beside me with a magazine, and after about ten minutes looked up and asked, “What sport is this? Football or baseball?”
In any case, my brother, who lives in a suburb of Manhattan, happened to have been driving and listening to WFAN when “Chris from Vermont” weighed in on the Giants. He immediately called me on my cell phone. “I kind of thought you had a life,” he said. “Are you really calling into sports talk shows now?”
Short answer? Yup. Sadly, that night in the Rite Aid parking lot was not an aberration. Last month I was on “Mad Dog Unleashed,” Chris Russo’s Sirius Radio sports talk show. Again, I was trying to add a small dollop of sanity to the conversation among highly opinionated, middle-aged guys who believe that a Tom Brady football jersey looks good on a 45-year-old man with a Mini Cooper-sized paunch.
Yup, that could be me. It’s only a matter of time before I start painting my face on game day.
Calling radio talk shows has been, until now, a secret vice of mine. Not THAT secret, of course, since I do introduce myself as “Chris from Vermont.” But it isn’t something I am especially proud of, because – as my brother observed – it does suggest that I have a wee bit too much time on my hands.
This probably isn’t healthy. Yet it also brings me back to my childhood in a fashion that always leaves me rather content. Growing up, even in elementary school, I used to fall asleep listening to AM talk radio. I listened to Jean Shepherd, the radio raconteur who these days might be known best for writing and narrating the movie, “A Christmas Story.” Or I would listen to the news out of Manhattan. The first time I called into a radio program was when I was 14 years old. We had moved to Miami by then and I offered my opinions on the Miami Dolphins. It was appropriate that I was offering my wisdom on a team that only two years earlier had been – literally – perfect, since I was a geeky ninth grader with mediocre grades and a Super Size Meal for a stomach. I also had braces and orthodontic headgear. I was perfect for call-in talk radio.
Now, among my resolutions for 2011 is that I am going to try and dial down my dialing in. Really, there has to be a better way to spend my time.
Still, don’t be surprised if the next time you’re listening to talk radio, you hear “Chris from Vermont.” If you think the guy is smart, I’ll take credit. If not, just remember: There are a lot of guys named Chris in the Green Mountains.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 9, 2011. Chris begin the SECRETS OF EDEN rock and roll paperback book tour on January 31. To see if he is coming to your town, visit http://www.chrisbohjalian.com/events.... .)
How little does my wife know about football? Once, years ago, I was watching a game on TV in the middle of winter and the reception was pretty bad: All fuzz and snow. My wife sat down on the couch beside me with a magazine, and after about ten minutes looked up and asked, “What sport is this? Football or baseball?”
In any case, my brother, who lives in a suburb of Manhattan, happened to have been driving and listening to WFAN when “Chris from Vermont” weighed in on the Giants. He immediately called me on my cell phone. “I kind of thought you had a life,” he said. “Are you really calling into sports talk shows now?”
Short answer? Yup. Sadly, that night in the Rite Aid parking lot was not an aberration. Last month I was on “Mad Dog Unleashed,” Chris Russo’s Sirius Radio sports talk show. Again, I was trying to add a small dollop of sanity to the conversation among highly opinionated, middle-aged guys who believe that a Tom Brady football jersey looks good on a 45-year-old man with a Mini Cooper-sized paunch.
Yup, that could be me. It’s only a matter of time before I start painting my face on game day.
Calling radio talk shows has been, until now, a secret vice of mine. Not THAT secret, of course, since I do introduce myself as “Chris from Vermont.” But it isn’t something I am especially proud of, because – as my brother observed – it does suggest that I have a wee bit too much time on my hands.
This probably isn’t healthy. Yet it also brings me back to my childhood in a fashion that always leaves me rather content. Growing up, even in elementary school, I used to fall asleep listening to AM talk radio. I listened to Jean Shepherd, the radio raconteur who these days might be known best for writing and narrating the movie, “A Christmas Story.” Or I would listen to the news out of Manhattan. The first time I called into a radio program was when I was 14 years old. We had moved to Miami by then and I offered my opinions on the Miami Dolphins. It was appropriate that I was offering my wisdom on a team that only two years earlier had been – literally – perfect, since I was a geeky ninth grader with mediocre grades and a Super Size Meal for a stomach. I also had braces and orthodontic headgear. I was perfect for call-in talk radio.
Now, among my resolutions for 2011 is that I am going to try and dial down my dialing in. Really, there has to be a better way to spend my time.
Still, don’t be surprised if the next time you’re listening to talk radio, you hear “Chris from Vermont.” If you think the guy is smart, I’ll take credit. If not, just remember: There are a lot of guys named Chris in the Green Mountains.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 9, 2011. Chris begin the SECRETS OF EDEN rock and roll paperback book tour on January 31. To see if he is coming to your town, visit http://www.chrisbohjalian.com/events.... .)
January 2, 2011
Sitting duck...and cover.
Last month, William J. Broad reported in an absolutely terrific story in the “New York Times” that the United States government has important new guidelines on how people can best survive a nuclear attack. The recommendations? Stay inside. Stay inside some more. No, really: Stay inside. Don’t go outside and try and catch radioactive fallout on your tongue like snowflakes.
This is more than a little reminiscent of that great “duck and cover” strategy of the 1950s, in which the minute you saw the white flash, you were supposed to pee in your pants and curl into the fetal position. If there was a table nearby, you were supposed to crawl underneath it, because apparently a table is the one thing in the world that nuclear bombs don’t incinerate.
The U.S. survival strategy is based on the assumption that the nuclear device will be detonated by terrorists in a city, and not part of a doomsday scenario in which two or more countries launch nuclear bombs as if they’re mere 4th of July bottle rockets. This is important because it means that disaster assistance eventually will arrive. Sure, you’re living in a basement without ventilation, running water, or working cable TV to keep up with “The Biggest Loser,” but the cavalry is coming. The port-a-potties are on the way.
And as we all learned from the government’s emergency response to Hurricane Katrina in 2005, no one spells relief like FEMA – the Federal Emergency Management Agency. (Their motto? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.) And a little old nuclear detonation is probably child’s play compared to a natural disaster like a hurricane.
The key to survival, according to the U.S. planning guide, is to avoid fallout – hence the importance of staying inside. If you’re inside your car, stay there. Roll up the windows and sit tight. If you’re inside your car in an underground parking garage, you’re golden (versus glowing), because underground parking garages are deemed especially good places to avoid lethal radioactive fallout. Of course, your Sirius satellite radio won’t work if you’re in a parking garage, so you won’t be able to pass the time with Howard Stern or the best of Broadway. But even a few hours of waiting inside can make a huge difference.
To wit, Broad cited a computer model of what would happen if a nuclear device were detonated in Los Angeles. If Californians more than a mile from ground zero remained outside after the blast – trying to photograph Paris Hilton for TMZ, for example, as she emerged from a nightclub or hotel bar – 285,000 people would wind up casualties from fallout. But if they waited for her in their cars or in minimal shelter, the casualty figure would plummet to 125,000. And if they waited for Paris with telephoto periscope lenses deep inside office buildings, the total might fall all the way to 45,000.
So, these guidelines are not as loopy as they sound.
The very best part of Broad’s article, however, wasn’t the helpful governmental advice he shared. It was this tidbit: Las Vegas was chosen for a live exercise in emergency preparedness – a simulation of a terrorist detonation of a nuclear bomb. Instead it was the casinos that went nuclear. They said the test would terrify tourists, and so it was cancelled.
I think the casinos made a big mistake. To begin with, if you should stay inside in the event of a nuclear blast, in a world with thick walls and few windows, what safer place is there than a Las Vegas casino? I think casinos would want to have their guests trapped by fallout inside their windowless worlds. Sure, it’s a gamble. But what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas – even, if the winds are calm, nuclear fallout.
Happy New Year.
____________________________________________________
This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 2, 2011. Follow Chris here on goodreads, on www.facebook.com, or at www.chrisbohjalian.com .
This is more than a little reminiscent of that great “duck and cover” strategy of the 1950s, in which the minute you saw the white flash, you were supposed to pee in your pants and curl into the fetal position. If there was a table nearby, you were supposed to crawl underneath it, because apparently a table is the one thing in the world that nuclear bombs don’t incinerate.
The U.S. survival strategy is based on the assumption that the nuclear device will be detonated by terrorists in a city, and not part of a doomsday scenario in which two or more countries launch nuclear bombs as if they’re mere 4th of July bottle rockets. This is important because it means that disaster assistance eventually will arrive. Sure, you’re living in a basement without ventilation, running water, or working cable TV to keep up with “The Biggest Loser,” but the cavalry is coming. The port-a-potties are on the way.
And as we all learned from the government’s emergency response to Hurricane Katrina in 2005, no one spells relief like FEMA – the Federal Emergency Management Agency. (Their motto? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.) And a little old nuclear detonation is probably child’s play compared to a natural disaster like a hurricane.
The key to survival, according to the U.S. planning guide, is to avoid fallout – hence the importance of staying inside. If you’re inside your car, stay there. Roll up the windows and sit tight. If you’re inside your car in an underground parking garage, you’re golden (versus glowing), because underground parking garages are deemed especially good places to avoid lethal radioactive fallout. Of course, your Sirius satellite radio won’t work if you’re in a parking garage, so you won’t be able to pass the time with Howard Stern or the best of Broadway. But even a few hours of waiting inside can make a huge difference.
To wit, Broad cited a computer model of what would happen if a nuclear device were detonated in Los Angeles. If Californians more than a mile from ground zero remained outside after the blast – trying to photograph Paris Hilton for TMZ, for example, as she emerged from a nightclub or hotel bar – 285,000 people would wind up casualties from fallout. But if they waited for her in their cars or in minimal shelter, the casualty figure would plummet to 125,000. And if they waited for Paris with telephoto periscope lenses deep inside office buildings, the total might fall all the way to 45,000.
So, these guidelines are not as loopy as they sound.
The very best part of Broad’s article, however, wasn’t the helpful governmental advice he shared. It was this tidbit: Las Vegas was chosen for a live exercise in emergency preparedness – a simulation of a terrorist detonation of a nuclear bomb. Instead it was the casinos that went nuclear. They said the test would terrify tourists, and so it was cancelled.
I think the casinos made a big mistake. To begin with, if you should stay inside in the event of a nuclear blast, in a world with thick walls and few windows, what safer place is there than a Las Vegas casino? I think casinos would want to have their guests trapped by fallout inside their windowless worlds. Sure, it’s a gamble. But what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas – even, if the winds are calm, nuclear fallout.
Happy New Year.
____________________________________________________
This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 2, 2011. Follow Chris here on goodreads, on www.facebook.com, or at www.chrisbohjalian.com .
December 26, 2010
Eammon Byron Jones wasn't born yesterday
So, Eammon Byron Jones will not be the first baby born in 2011 at Fletcher Allen Health Care. Nor was he born yesterday, Christmas Day. Or on the winter solstice. Three chances for a totally awesome birthday and he blew them all. Instead he arrived – all eight pounds, one ounce of him – on December 20.
Who else was born on December 20? Bob Morley. Not Bob Marley. That would have been cool. Nope, Bob Morley, an Australian actor you’ve never heard of. Peter Criss, the drummer for Kiss, was also born on that date. (Criss was the one who wore the Catman makeup.) Who else? Kazimierz Marcinkiewicz, a Polish Prime Minister for a whopping eight and a half months – which isn’t even as long as Eammon Byron Jones was hanging around inside his mother, Krista Patterson Jones.
Wait, there’s one more big December 20 birthday: The guy who created Neopets.
Really, that’s as good as it gets. An obscure actor, a face-painting drummer for a 1970s glam band, and a prime minister who lasted a couple of seasons.
Krista and her husband, Andrew – Eammon’s parents – are neighbors of mine here in Lincoln. Diligent readers will recall that Krista is the culinary lunatic at the Lincoln General Store who, along with store owner Vaneasa Stearns, is responsible for some of the most delicious desserts anyone anywhere has ever eaten. Not hyperbole: Anyone. Anywhere. She’s spectacularly talented. People sometimes ask me why in the world I ride my bike up the Lincoln Gap. The answer? Biking the gap in mid-summer is the only way a person can work off the calories in a Krista Patterson Jones coconut cake. But, to quote my wife, a slice of that cake is worth every calorie.
This is, of course, another reason why the arrival of Eammon Byron Jones is going to have a profound effect on my life: It means Krista is not going to be at the store for a while because she is – oh, please – going to be the mother of a newborn. She is going to be home.
Fortunately, Vaneasa is a wonderful baker, too. Her peppermint brownies should be on the Food Network. Still, she expects she will have to ramp up her time in the Lincoln General Store test kitchen once folks here have finished off the chocolates and candy in their Christmas stockings.
The thing is, when I think of Krista, I often remember the toddler in a homemade Dalmatian costume who brought my wife and me Halloween treats years ago. The first time my wife and I met Krista, she was being carried in her mother’s arms one Halloween afternoon, going from house to house to give others cookies that her mother had baked. Other times I recall Krista’s and Andrew’s absolutely beautiful wedding on a farm on the Lincoln Gap, precisely where the road turns to dirt, and the majestic view of the valleys and the hills in the distance. It was a September Saturday. The leaves were just starting to turn.
Now Krista is 26. And a mom.
To be honest, I’m actually pleased that Eammon arrived on December 20. It meant that he and his mom and dad were home yesterday for Christmas. It meant that Krista was no longer feeling like the Hindenburg.
Moreover, based on the first photos of Eammon, the boy’s a keeper. He’s a handsome lad, with none of that scary, newborn, E.T. face going on.
And so perhaps it’s perfect that he was born on December 20. I have no doubt that he will have his parents’ generosity of spirit and infectious good cheer, and – years from now – people can say they were born on Eammon Byron Jones’s birthday.
Big congrats to the new mom and dad. And welcome to the world, Eammon.
___________________________________________________
This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on December 26, 2010.
Who else was born on December 20? Bob Morley. Not Bob Marley. That would have been cool. Nope, Bob Morley, an Australian actor you’ve never heard of. Peter Criss, the drummer for Kiss, was also born on that date. (Criss was the one who wore the Catman makeup.) Who else? Kazimierz Marcinkiewicz, a Polish Prime Minister for a whopping eight and a half months – which isn’t even as long as Eammon Byron Jones was hanging around inside his mother, Krista Patterson Jones.
Wait, there’s one more big December 20 birthday: The guy who created Neopets.
Really, that’s as good as it gets. An obscure actor, a face-painting drummer for a 1970s glam band, and a prime minister who lasted a couple of seasons.
Krista and her husband, Andrew – Eammon’s parents – are neighbors of mine here in Lincoln. Diligent readers will recall that Krista is the culinary lunatic at the Lincoln General Store who, along with store owner Vaneasa Stearns, is responsible for some of the most delicious desserts anyone anywhere has ever eaten. Not hyperbole: Anyone. Anywhere. She’s spectacularly talented. People sometimes ask me why in the world I ride my bike up the Lincoln Gap. The answer? Biking the gap in mid-summer is the only way a person can work off the calories in a Krista Patterson Jones coconut cake. But, to quote my wife, a slice of that cake is worth every calorie.
This is, of course, another reason why the arrival of Eammon Byron Jones is going to have a profound effect on my life: It means Krista is not going to be at the store for a while because she is – oh, please – going to be the mother of a newborn. She is going to be home.
Fortunately, Vaneasa is a wonderful baker, too. Her peppermint brownies should be on the Food Network. Still, she expects she will have to ramp up her time in the Lincoln General Store test kitchen once folks here have finished off the chocolates and candy in their Christmas stockings.
The thing is, when I think of Krista, I often remember the toddler in a homemade Dalmatian costume who brought my wife and me Halloween treats years ago. The first time my wife and I met Krista, she was being carried in her mother’s arms one Halloween afternoon, going from house to house to give others cookies that her mother had baked. Other times I recall Krista’s and Andrew’s absolutely beautiful wedding on a farm on the Lincoln Gap, precisely where the road turns to dirt, and the majestic view of the valleys and the hills in the distance. It was a September Saturday. The leaves were just starting to turn.
Now Krista is 26. And a mom.
To be honest, I’m actually pleased that Eammon arrived on December 20. It meant that he and his mom and dad were home yesterday for Christmas. It meant that Krista was no longer feeling like the Hindenburg.
Moreover, based on the first photos of Eammon, the boy’s a keeper. He’s a handsome lad, with none of that scary, newborn, E.T. face going on.
And so perhaps it’s perfect that he was born on December 20. I have no doubt that he will have his parents’ generosity of spirit and infectious good cheer, and – years from now – people can say they were born on Eammon Byron Jones’s birthday.
Big congrats to the new mom and dad. And welcome to the world, Eammon.
___________________________________________________
This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on December 26, 2010.
December 19, 2010
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...tree
There is a moment in one of my older novels in which a couple gets a little randy beside a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, and then departs for the evening church service. This time of year I hear from readers about that scene, and no one would categorize some of their responses as “fan mail.” Is the scene a little over-the-top? Maybe. But I always hoped it conveyed one thing: I like Christmas trees. I like them a lot.
One of my favorite memories of my daughter’s childhood is when my wife and I would bring her to Fred and Eleanor Thompson’s Christmas tree farm on Quaker Street here in Lincoln and together pick out our tree. The first year my wife held her in her arms and our daughter pointed out the one she wanted; the next year we pulled her among the trees on a blue sled until we found one that she liked but wasn’t too tall for the living room. Until she was five, she always wanted trees that belonged at Rockefeller Center.
I inherited my appreciation for Christmas trees from my mother, who would always go a little Ed Grimley as Christmas neared. Ed Grimley is the Saturday Night Live character created by Martin Short who – as Grimley would put it – goes “completely mental” over things that he loves. My family would trim the tree exactly twelve days before Christmas, and usually there was a theme. All bows. Nothing but red. Napkin rings.
I’m not kidding: Once we trimmed a tree with napkin rings. It actually looked pretty good.
And given that my mother was a perfectionist, there was a period when our family had two trees. There would be one in the family room that the males – my brother and my father and I – would decorate, and one in the living room that my mother alone would tackle. This was a reasonable plan, given the anarchic designs that my brother and I occasionally had for the tree. One Christmas, we trimmed our tree almost entirely with finger-length plastic soldiers. Nothing says peace on earth and good will toward man like a guy hurling a hand grenade.
Now, all of the trees from my childhood were artificial. It was not until my wife and I were married and living in Brooklyn that I ever trimmed a tree that once had been living. When my wife and my daughter and I were visiting my father in Fort Lauderdale last month, we passed a tiny, triangular spit of grass on Las Olas Boulevard on which a woman was selling live trees. They had been trucked to Florida from points north and already looked a little mangy.
Nevertheless, I found myself running my fingers over the needles and remembering the first time my wife and I bought a tree off the streets in Brooklyn.
Just for the record, not only were the trees of my childhood artificial, some years they were white. Twelve days before Christmas, my father would exhume them from the coffin-like boxes in which they were stored, and when I was in tenth grade I finally figured out what they smelled like: My chemistry classroom.
But here’s the thing: I associate those trees and the tradition of trimming a tree with my family. It is the other elements of Christmas that I associate with my faith. If there’s an element in the Christmas Eve scene in that older novel that’s particularly autobiographic, it occurs later in the evening when the male narrator is raising and lowering a candle with his young daughter beside him as the congregation sings “Silent Night” in the dimly lit church. The narrator is so moved by the moment that he is speechless and unable to sing. Some Christmas Eves in the United Church of Lincoln, that’s me.
The big day is less than a week distant now. Be patient. Be kind. Remember to smile when someone gives you a fruitcake, because it is the gracious thing to do and because without fruitcake we would all eat too much.
Merry Christmas.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on December 19, 2010.)
One of my favorite memories of my daughter’s childhood is when my wife and I would bring her to Fred and Eleanor Thompson’s Christmas tree farm on Quaker Street here in Lincoln and together pick out our tree. The first year my wife held her in her arms and our daughter pointed out the one she wanted; the next year we pulled her among the trees on a blue sled until we found one that she liked but wasn’t too tall for the living room. Until she was five, she always wanted trees that belonged at Rockefeller Center.
I inherited my appreciation for Christmas trees from my mother, who would always go a little Ed Grimley as Christmas neared. Ed Grimley is the Saturday Night Live character created by Martin Short who – as Grimley would put it – goes “completely mental” over things that he loves. My family would trim the tree exactly twelve days before Christmas, and usually there was a theme. All bows. Nothing but red. Napkin rings.
I’m not kidding: Once we trimmed a tree with napkin rings. It actually looked pretty good.
And given that my mother was a perfectionist, there was a period when our family had two trees. There would be one in the family room that the males – my brother and my father and I – would decorate, and one in the living room that my mother alone would tackle. This was a reasonable plan, given the anarchic designs that my brother and I occasionally had for the tree. One Christmas, we trimmed our tree almost entirely with finger-length plastic soldiers. Nothing says peace on earth and good will toward man like a guy hurling a hand grenade.
Now, all of the trees from my childhood were artificial. It was not until my wife and I were married and living in Brooklyn that I ever trimmed a tree that once had been living. When my wife and my daughter and I were visiting my father in Fort Lauderdale last month, we passed a tiny, triangular spit of grass on Las Olas Boulevard on which a woman was selling live trees. They had been trucked to Florida from points north and already looked a little mangy.
Nevertheless, I found myself running my fingers over the needles and remembering the first time my wife and I bought a tree off the streets in Brooklyn.
Just for the record, not only were the trees of my childhood artificial, some years they were white. Twelve days before Christmas, my father would exhume them from the coffin-like boxes in which they were stored, and when I was in tenth grade I finally figured out what they smelled like: My chemistry classroom.
But here’s the thing: I associate those trees and the tradition of trimming a tree with my family. It is the other elements of Christmas that I associate with my faith. If there’s an element in the Christmas Eve scene in that older novel that’s particularly autobiographic, it occurs later in the evening when the male narrator is raising and lowering a candle with his young daughter beside him as the congregation sings “Silent Night” in the dimly lit church. The narrator is so moved by the moment that he is speechless and unable to sing. Some Christmas Eves in the United Church of Lincoln, that’s me.
The big day is less than a week distant now. Be patient. Be kind. Remember to smile when someone gives you a fruitcake, because it is the gracious thing to do and because without fruitcake we would all eat too much.
Merry Christmas.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on December 19, 2010.)
December 12, 2010
Stars at last shining on Mike Stamatis
Burlington’s Mike Stamatis turns twenty today. As he steered his electronic wheelchair over the bricks on the northern tip of Church Street on a chilly afternoon last week, he shared with me his birthday wish list: “I’m enjoying my life more now than I ever have in the past. The best birthday gift I could have is to see my life continue on this course,” he said.
Until recently, Mike had lived a life that made Job look like a lottery winner. He was born with Spina bifida and spent 18 of his first twenty years in a series of foster homes across Vermont – including one in which his foster father took his own life – before landing with John and Mary Provost six months ago. It was 2:30 in the morning when he was brought there directly from the hospital. (Why was he at Fletcher Allen Healthcare? Because he has no feeling in his legs and so he hadn’t realized how seriously infected a cut on his knee had become.)
When he arrived at the Provosts on June 2, Mary told him, “This is the last foster home you’ll have. We’ll make this work.” It would have been understandable if Mike had been dubious, but he wasn’t. Mike is a charismatic and good-natured young adult who is, given his first two decades on this planet, almost unreasonably cheerful.
But he is also unstoppable, and with the help of the Provosts and Spectrum Youth and Family Services, his luck just might have turned. Certainly Mike suspected it when he woke up his first morning at the Provosts’ house in Burlington. Mary asked him how he had slept. It was a simple question, but it set the tone. “It made me feel wanted,” Mike recalls.
He is taking courses at the Community College of Vermont and through Vermont Adult Learning, and expects to graduate high school next June. He is also actively involved with the State’s Youth Development Committee, an arm of the State’s Department for Children and Families, and helping to produce a video with Spectrum about foster care. “The point of the video is to show that foster kids are good kids, it’s not our fault,” he said. “We want people to see that we can be successful.”
His goal is to be a sportscaster and he certainly has the basics: Good talker, knowledgeable, strong opinions. A part of the Red Sox Nation. It’s not hard to imagine him going to head-to-head with Mike Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser on ESPN’s “Pardon the Interruption.”
In the meantime, Spectrum is assisting him in a variety of ways. “They are really supportive,” he told me. In Mike’s case, they have helped with everything from learning to write a resume to getting a learner’s permit so eventually he can drive. Spectrum will work with him to acquire a vehicle he will be able to handle without the use of his legs, and is already helping him hone the skills he will need to live independently as an adult in a couple of years. They got him his gym membership at The Edge so he can swim – and then folks at the Edge found him two of his current athletic passions: sled hockey and motorized soccer.
“Mike is unlike any teenager I’ve ever worked with,” said Amanda Churchill, Youth Development Coordinator at Spectrum. “He’s humble and polite and fun to be with.”
It may still be a long road from Burlington to ESPN – even in a motorized wheelchair. But one of his favorite songs is Rascal Flatts’s “Life is a Highway.” My sense is that if anyone can make it, it’s Mike.
“Being a handicapped person shouldn’t stop you from acting on your dreams,” he told me. “You just have to go for it.”
* * *
This year Spectrum is one of the four local non-profits the Burlington Free Press is supporting via the Giving Season. To make a donation, clip the coupon from the newspaper this month and send it with your donation to Spectrum.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on December 12, 2010.)
Until recently, Mike had lived a life that made Job look like a lottery winner. He was born with Spina bifida and spent 18 of his first twenty years in a series of foster homes across Vermont – including one in which his foster father took his own life – before landing with John and Mary Provost six months ago. It was 2:30 in the morning when he was brought there directly from the hospital. (Why was he at Fletcher Allen Healthcare? Because he has no feeling in his legs and so he hadn’t realized how seriously infected a cut on his knee had become.)
When he arrived at the Provosts on June 2, Mary told him, “This is the last foster home you’ll have. We’ll make this work.” It would have been understandable if Mike had been dubious, but he wasn’t. Mike is a charismatic and good-natured young adult who is, given his first two decades on this planet, almost unreasonably cheerful.
But he is also unstoppable, and with the help of the Provosts and Spectrum Youth and Family Services, his luck just might have turned. Certainly Mike suspected it when he woke up his first morning at the Provosts’ house in Burlington. Mary asked him how he had slept. It was a simple question, but it set the tone. “It made me feel wanted,” Mike recalls.
He is taking courses at the Community College of Vermont and through Vermont Adult Learning, and expects to graduate high school next June. He is also actively involved with the State’s Youth Development Committee, an arm of the State’s Department for Children and Families, and helping to produce a video with Spectrum about foster care. “The point of the video is to show that foster kids are good kids, it’s not our fault,” he said. “We want people to see that we can be successful.”
His goal is to be a sportscaster and he certainly has the basics: Good talker, knowledgeable, strong opinions. A part of the Red Sox Nation. It’s not hard to imagine him going to head-to-head with Mike Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser on ESPN’s “Pardon the Interruption.”
In the meantime, Spectrum is assisting him in a variety of ways. “They are really supportive,” he told me. In Mike’s case, they have helped with everything from learning to write a resume to getting a learner’s permit so eventually he can drive. Spectrum will work with him to acquire a vehicle he will be able to handle without the use of his legs, and is already helping him hone the skills he will need to live independently as an adult in a couple of years. They got him his gym membership at The Edge so he can swim – and then folks at the Edge found him two of his current athletic passions: sled hockey and motorized soccer.
“Mike is unlike any teenager I’ve ever worked with,” said Amanda Churchill, Youth Development Coordinator at Spectrum. “He’s humble and polite and fun to be with.”
It may still be a long road from Burlington to ESPN – even in a motorized wheelchair. But one of his favorite songs is Rascal Flatts’s “Life is a Highway.” My sense is that if anyone can make it, it’s Mike.
“Being a handicapped person shouldn’t stop you from acting on your dreams,” he told me. “You just have to go for it.”
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This year Spectrum is one of the four local non-profits the Burlington Free Press is supporting via the Giving Season. To make a donation, clip the coupon from the newspaper this month and send it with your donation to Spectrum.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on December 12, 2010.)
