.
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| Skater Girl |
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| On the Floor Trailed by ABFA and Wingman |
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| Loving It |
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| Abuela and Dad Offering BR3 Advice |
The party called for the unveiling the
latest of another of my Favorite Panamanian’s superb granddaughter birthday
cakes, roller skating themed this time out. She spends three days creating each
of these cakes and bakes so much love into each. While I had brought
Bonecrusher with us, we felt it would probably be frowned upon by the rink management
to enter with a three-foot broadsword. The FBR understood and said we could
cleave the remnants of the cake later at home. She also wanted my daughter to
cut the cake with her as I had forgotten to bring Bonecrusher with me for her birthday.
Kid has a heart.
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| FBR's Birthday Gang |
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| ABFA and the Cousins |
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| The Cake |
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| Its Creator |
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| The Birthday Girl |
The rink was filled with at least three
other birthday parties and such additional people as the roller-skating genre
appeals to. The ABFA, being the true athlete, spent almost the entire time out
on the skating floor with sore feet to prove it. Wingman was similarly affected,
but both devoted a large amount of their time shepherding the kids around the
endless loop. My wife and I have only two good knees between us, so the roller
skating was not on our agenda. My son and I were keeping a beaded eye on the
clock as it marched so slowly towards the party end time. While it was
supremely rewarding to see the FBR glorified and immersed in her birthday celebration,
it was time to leave well before the appointed hour.
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| Candles Lit |
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| And Unlit |
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| Mother and Daughter |
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| Very Happy Birthday Party |
A representative quorum of the FBR’s friends
live in the neighborhood and returned home with us for the ceremonial gifts
opening. I always enjoy watching the granddaughters open gifts because it brings
back memories of the joy associated with these moments from my own youth. Part
of the joy of grandkids is the vicariously living out archived memories they
bring to the fore. The FBR, I think, was happier to be surrounded by family and
friends than the gifts themselves, but it was a tight contest. We moved to the
backyard for the piñata bashing. Earlier in the day I accompanied my daughter
and the FBR to the local party store where I bought the piñata. The FBR has inherited
her abuela’s shopping acumen and chose the largest piñata available. I thought the
thing was pretty sturdy and envisioned another one of those death by a thousand
blows piñata situations. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when the FBR
dealt a deathblow to the thing with the first swing. A piece broke off and the candy
flowed out to into a sea of diving nine-year-olds and one Panamanian lady.
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| Back Home for Gifts |
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| The FBR Holding Court |
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| The Crew With the Short-lived Pinata |
After the exhausted but sugar infused granddaughters
were sent to bed, we settled in for another one of those evenings I cherish.
The “kids”, Wingmom, and we sat around enjoying each other’s company in a way
only a familial bond creates. Someone mentioned a new documentary available on
Netflix surrounding the 2004 Red Sox and we spent the rest of the evening luxuriating
in that seminal moment in New England sports lore, appropriately titled, “The Comeback”.
Watching it in the heart of the Evil Empire led to a truly fun evening.
Sunday was recovery day for everyone except
the kids who were surreptitiously delving into their candy bags whenever the
parents weren’t paying close enough attention. After church we trooped over to the
Player Agency, Wingman’s new restaurant where he served as a fabulous host,
even tuning in the Red Zone for me, knowing how much my two football-less weeks
in Europe had cost me (despite all the wine). My Favorite Panamanian created a fantastic
roast beef dinner for all before we had to face the return journey home. The
BRS came down with some kind of stomach bug (roller rink food?) which put her
out of action for most of the day, culminating with a technicolor yawn onto the
couch in the early evening. While dinner was being created the FBR and BR3
decided I needed a makeover which resulted in face sparkles and the aforementioned
blue and red nail polish. They were a little upset with me when I removed it
when I went to buy gas for the return trip. They solved that dilemma by
re-applying it. Dinner was followed by the drawing and quartering of the cake
remnants by the FBR’s and my daughter’s expert wielding of Bonecrusher.
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| Player Agency Time |
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| My Makeover Artists |
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| BR3 Helping her Auntie |
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| Bonecrusher Time! |
We set out for home in the early evening,
driving through the first appreciable rain we’ve had in a very long time. The
only good thing about leaving New Jersey was my son’s family trailing behind us
and spending the night again at our house, this time with us in residence. I
was trying to figure out why I was getting some weird looks at a rest stop
until my eyes smarting a little bit reminded me that I still had the granddaughter
applied makeup on. We were all safely home before midnight and this morning BR3
provided critical assistance to my Monday morning rubbish, flag raising, and bird
feeding rituals. She only asked, in the way of payment, for a game of hide and
seek. A small price, indeed. I can also finally post pictures from the recent Halloween
while we were in Italy (drinking wine, Wingman!). They’re all home now but
morale has been irrevocably restored and while the house is very quiet, I have
it on good authority I have a birthday pub crawl waiting for me this weekend. Color
me more than excited.
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| FBR Halloween Pics |
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| With Her mom |
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| BRS and BR3 HAlloween |
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| Arrested! |
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| FBR School Photo |
Veterans’ Day
Veterans Day always causes me to reflect
on how I ended up wearing a uniform for much of my adult life. I blame my
uncles. I grew up idolizing my father’s brothers and sisters, all of whom
served in World War 2 along with my father and his brother Pete who died on
Guadalcanal. My family has a long history of military service; my great
grandfather’s brother, Warren, was killed crossing the Wheatfield at
Gettysburg. I was a typical kid growing up in the 1960s drawn in a lot of
directions by the cultural forces trying to pull the country apart (kind of
like nowadays). I wandered into the
military after college and found a home. I met leaders who reminded me of the
gentle uncles with the steel lightly disguised behind eyes that had seen too
much. I also found a love of America these aunts and uncles had imbued me with.
I’ve written about this before and
decided to repost a couple of those thoughts because they’re appropriate today
when we should all be remembering the sacrifices made and thanking those who
donned the uniform for the belief in this greatest of all countries. I was
brought up, without ever realizing it, to have a deep abiding love of this
country and serving in the military only refined those feelings. To serve in
the military you must believe in what you’re fighting for. I think, that, more
than any other factor can determine an Army’s success on the battlefield. I
know that a lot of civilians don’t “get it” and at times even ridicule those
who profess a love of country. To be honest, certain fanatical factions of the
far right have attempted to hijack patriotism as their sole property while also
serving as the judge of who is “patriotic”. This could not be farther from the
truth.
Patriotism means standing up for the
values your country is based on, not on the convenient truth of the latest
politician. True patriotism is found in hating a hateful message but loving the
freedom to send it. If nothing else America stands for freedom, an escape from
the notion that your station of birth determines your station in life. This is
such a precious commodity. I believe in the bedrock decency of America and hold
in utter contempt politicians and intellectuals who attempt to denigrate who we
are and kow tow to their foreign counterparts to curry favor. They don’t fully
appreciate or understand what America means to us. We as a nation comprise the
most startlingly successful expression of the basic human need for individual
freedom that the world has ever seen. Since we are humans, we are certainly not
perfect but we, as a nation, dare to believe we can be better than we’ve been.
That is the marrow of this country and the profound, immense strength that
fanatics will never understand or successfully confront. Certainly worth fighting
for.
I post this every Veterans Day because
it says what being a veteran is much more eloquently than I ever could:
What is a Vet?
Some veterans bear visible signs of
their service: a missing limb, a jagged
scar, a certain look in the eye. Others may carry the evidence inside
them: a pin holding a bone together, a
piece of shrapnel in the leg – or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the
soul’s ally forged in the refinery of adversity. Except in parades, however, the men and women
who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem. You can’t tell a vet just
by looking. What is a vet? He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in
Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel
carriers didn’t run out of fuel. He is
the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy
behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of
exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel. She, or he, is the nurse who fought
against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in
Da Nang. He is the POW who went away one
person and came back another – or didn’t come back at all. He is the Quantico drill instructor who has
never seen combat but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no account
rednecks and gang members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other’s
backs. He is the parade riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals
with a prosthetic hand. He is the career
quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by. He is the three
anonymous heroes in the Tomb of the Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington
National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes
whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean’s
sunless deep. He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket, palsied
now and agonizingly slow, who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and wishes all
day long that his wife was still alive to hold him when the nightmares come. He
is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being, a person who offered some
of his life’s most vital years in the service of his country, and who
sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs. He is a
Soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more
than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation
ever known. So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country,
just lean over and say Thank You. That’s all most people need, and in most
cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were
awarded. Two little words that mean a lot, “THANK YOU”. Remember November 11th is Veterans Day. “It
is the Soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press. It is
the Soldier, not the poet who has given us freedom of speech. It is the
Soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the Soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose
coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag.” –
Father Denis O'Brien, USMC
Those are powerful words and I know it’s
hokey but they still bring tears to my eyes because of their intrinsic truth. My
proudest moment in uniform was not at a change of command or a medal ceremony. It
was while I was at Washington’s Union Station, in uniform, waiting to pick up
my daughter. A businessman noticed me walked over and said, “I just wanted to
thank you for serving your country.” As stated above, that meant so much to me,
more than any medal or accolade.
So if
you have a chance today, say thank you to a veteran.
He or she has earned it.
Three movies fell in the A-Z watch, all keepers:
Men in Black 3, fun look at 2 versions of Jones; Men in Black International, updating
the classic with a cool reunion of Thor and Valkyrie; and Miami Vice, great atmosphere with a certifiable lack of the cool from the TV series.
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RECURRING CHARACTERS:
ABFA – Amazing Best Family
Athlete - my daughter
in law; BR3 – Blog Reader #3 – granddaughter
#3; BRS - Blog Reader the Sequel -
second granddaughter; Cantankerous Friend – friend since grade school who likes to argue
about everything, poses as radical leftist to attract women; CRC - Connecticut
Riverboat Captain – another close friend from high school, renowned sailor
of the big river; Curbside Girls – close
friends of my daughter acquired during her single days in Brooklyn; Deckzilla – our backyard deck which
grew to monstrous dimensions once my wife got involved in planning; Favorite Panamanian - the wife (of
course); FBR - First Blog Reader -
first granddaughter; First Friday –
celebrations to mark the First Friday of the Week; Great Aunt - my elder sister; Keene
Friends 1 & 2 – friends since high school from my home town of Keene,
NH; Kindergarten Friend – friend
since kindergarten whom I reunited with after many years; Maine and Virginia Musqueteras – two close friends of my wife –
her US sisters, my wife is the 3rd Musquetera (musketeer); Namesake Nephew –
son of Great Aunt and Soxfather named after me; Neighborhood Mafioso - wife's close friend and Panamanian mafia
member; PanaGals – female relatives
/friends of my wife from Panama; Panamanian/Latin
Mafia – inevitable group of Latino friends my wife accumulates wherever we
have lived & their spouses; PCR - Pittsburgh College Roommate – high school friend, also a “Minor
Celebrity” in Pittsburgh; PCR+1 - Pittsburgh College Roommate’s wife; Riggins - also known as the Grandpuppy, son's dog; Seis Amigos
- two couples from our condo complex and my wife and I; Soxfather – my brother-in-law (whom I miss more than I can ever
explain); Tia Loca – wife’s younger sister; Wingman – my son in law; Wingmom – Wingman’s mom, of course
