tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336677882024-03-13T17:32:15.040-04:00SullsBlogBluster and Blarney Since 1965David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-56137240814312881932014-12-11T08:31:00.001-05:002014-12-11T08:36:15.032-05:00The Littlest Angel <h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L-NAUNeTf3o/VImdvtvwS6I/AAAAAAAAAqo/i87dUyQ-_UQ/s1600/angel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-L-NAUNeTf3o/VImdvtvwS6I/AAAAAAAAAqo/i87dUyQ-_UQ/s1600/angel2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
There
are events in life which occur with such resounding force that the
shock waves are felt for decades. The ripple effect of these events can
be felt by those who where never present or even born when the event
occurred. <b>December 14, 1970 </b>is the date of one of those events in my life and that of my family.<br />
<br />
Its the day my brother died.<br />
<br />
He was 1 month, 26 days old.<br />
<br />
Derek
was born in mid-October during the brilliance and splendor of Autumn in
New England. I remember going to visit my mother and Derek in the
hospital the day after he was born. My aunt and I drove over to Saint
Margaret's hospital in Dorchester braving a chilly fall rain. As we made
our way to the maternity ward we stopped at the gift shop. I begged her
to buy a little doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, for my new brother.
After what probably seemed like hours of groveling to her, she relented.
I can't recall presenting him with my gift, but it became a fixture in
his crib, at our home.<br />
<br />
A new baby adds spice to a home, sometimes
mild and sweet and at other times hot, unbearably hot. My mother was
born high strung. If she were in school today she would be diagnosed
with ADD, ADHD, PTSD or one of the myriad of other afflictions,
abbreviated with letters. The month following Derek's birth was a
mish-mash of highs and lows. The tenor of the household mirrored my
mother's mood.<br />
<br />
I can remember her crying uncontrollably, while
smoking at the kitchen table while Derek was lying on the couch,
surrounded by pillows.<br />
<br />
I can remember sitting with my mother on
the front steps of our apartment in Hyde Park. It was a warm Fall day
and the trees were shedding their leaves. She allowed me to hold my
brother while she watched, tentatively. I remember the smell of crisp
fallen leaves while I cradled his tiny head.<br />
<br />
I remember my mother and I laughing uncontrollably while I "helped" her change his diaper. He peed all over the two of us.<br />
<br />
I
remember my father (who was usually no where to be found) and mother
fighting loudly, while I rubbed my brothers head while he lay in his
crib.<br />
<br />
The night of December 13, 1970 was a typical night in my
childhood home. My mother downstairs smoking cigarettes and drinking
tea. My sisters playing in their room. My brother Mark and I jumping on
our beds in our room. Mark and I took Derek out of his crib and put him
on my bed. We jumped around him while he lay in the middle. He didn't
cry, he just seemed content watching us. We assumed he enjoyed the
gentle jostling.<br />
<br />
The next few days were a blur.<br />
<br />
Who knows
what traumas we block out of our minds. If we knew then they wouldn't be locked in, but open for examination. Some memories are best hidden from
our consciousness.<br />
<br />
I don't remember much about the day my brother
died. I recall sadness, grief. I recall standing across the street from
my house with the snow lightly falling, telling a schoolmate from my
kindergarten class about my brother. I recall my mother promising me
that they would bury my gift, the baby-boy-blue doll with him, so he
wouldn't be alone. My mother brought me a flower from his funeral. We
pressed it in plastic, and put it in an encyclopedia. From then, through
my high school years, I would come across it when looking up something
beginning with an "S" or a "T" and think of him.<br />
<br />
My mother was
never the same. From mid-October to December 14th every year until the
day she died was torturous. She blamed herself for his death. The
morning he died she got him from his crib for his morning feeding. She
tried to get him to latch on, but he just wouldn't take her breast. She
tried again and noticed that he was cold, motionless. He was gone.<br />
<br />
"Crib
Death" we were always told. When my mother passed in 1999 we found
Derek's death certificate amongst her belongings. Cause of death: acute
cardiac failure, emaciation.<br />
<br />
Emaciation.<br />
<br />
That explained
the years of autumnal depression. The years of self loathing and self
destruction. I, myself, thought I played a role in his passing. For
decades I thought that maybe that night we were jumping on my bed that
we hurt him, somehow. It was no ones fault. Our frolicking on the bed
had nothing to do with it. My mother gave him everything she had,
unfortunately she barely had enough to care for herself. The well had
run dry.<br />
<br />
Christmas time was always bittersweet. Ghosts of
Christmas past were not friendly specters guiding my mother toward
redemption, but haunting reminders of inadequacies and failure. Someway,
somehow, my mother was able to emotionally detach immediately the day
after the anniversary of Derek's death each year and get ready for
Christmas. I don't know how she did it, but she was always able to pull
off Christmas without her emotions getting in the way of our enjoyment
of the holiday. As the years went by her grief became more and more
transparent until it got to the point where she was paralyzed by her
loss and unable to find any joy in the season<br />
<br />
The year Derek died and for many years following, there was a Christmas special on TV titled "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064595/"><span style="color: red;">The Littlest Angel</span></a>".
It was the story about a boy (played by Johnny Whitaker, Jodie on
"Family Affair") who dies and goes to Heaven, but is allowed to go back
to earth to get his cherished treasure box, so he may give it as a gift
to the Christ child on Christmas. Each Christmas I imagined that Derek
was the "littlest angel" and gave his favorite toy, his doll dressed in
baby-boy-blue, to baby Jesus.<br />
<br />
In August of 1999, when I received the news of my mother's death my thoughts immediately turned to Derek.<br />
<br />
I imagined him welcoming my mother into heaven.<br />
<br />
I imagined her sense of relief when he forgave her for not having enough to give.<br />
<br />
I was comforted by the thought of them being together again.
David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-73357293068244583512012-08-10T14:39:00.000-04:002012-08-10T18:57:12.583-04:00Fishing on Black Pond"Do you want to go to my dad's camp with me this weekend?". <br />
<br />
I paused.<br />
<br />
We had just been dating for a month. A weekend with my girlfriend, her dad and his sketchy girlfriend at a cabin in the middle of nowhere in Vermont might be a tough one to swallow. Its not like going clothes shopping or sitting through a chick flick as a peace offering after I had blown her off the night before to go drinking with my buddies. This was all weekend, Friday through Sunday, in a 200 square foot cabin with the man whose daughter I am defiling and his coke snorting skank, who, the first time I met her, offered me some crystal meth, casually, as if it were a cup of tea. <br />
<br />
"Can we bring beer?".<br />
<br />
The 2 1/2 hour ride to Black Pond went by quickly. Lori drove while I sat in the passenger seat with some Budweisers. I never let other people drive, being a control freak, but I didn't mind Lori driving. I trusted her, plus it was her car. I was content to watch the trees get bigger and the sky grow closer as we headed through the Green Mountains. We reached the camp just before sunset.<br />
<br />
Black Pond is tree lined, speckled with cottages and cabins on the eastern shore. The western side of the pond has an access road that leads out to the the Half Moon State Forrest. Located 20 miles north west of Rutland and 20 miles east of Lake George it is remote. Black Pond in no misnomer. The water looks like a newly paved parking lot, flat and black . The sun was still hitting the tops of the trees that surround the pond adding to the contrast between dark and light, making the water seem like an endless abyss.<br />
<br />
Bobo and Mary were already there having left from Northampton at noon, stopping on the way to buy some beer and groceries. They were sitting in some Adirondack chairs down by the dock having some drinks. Lori and I checked out the cabin. It had electricity, but no indoor plumbing. It had one sleeping area, a kitchen area and a screened in porch. It was clean and quaint, but rustic. "This might not be too bad", I thought to myself as I took a swig off a beer that Bobo shoved in my hand as soon as we arrived.<br />
<br />
Lori and I took out the row boat while Bobo cooked up some steaks. The temperature had dropped quickly since we had arrived and it was chilly out on the water. It was now dark and we had to navigate by following the various campfires and lights from the cottages dotting the pond. We found our way back to Bobo's dock just in time for dinner. We ate on the porch, looking out at the pond. The food was just enough to satisfy my hunger without killing my buzz. After dinner, Bobo and I had a few shots of Jack and drank some more beer. Lori told me that he hated me. Probably because I was three years older than her. More likely that he knew that I was a horny 21 year man sniffing around his daughter. I would have hated me too if I were him. He was actually sociable and friendly. More than likely the Jack Daniels helped him to forget that I was the enemy. Just when the small talk had run its course he jumped up and declared that he was hitting the sack. Mary had already headed into the back room, likely to do some lines, but I was just happy not to have to deal with her. Lori had been sitting with us the whole time. I hadn't noticed her there. She had been watching us for the hour since dinner sizing up the situation, bored by our intoxicated banter, making sure her dad didn't kill me . We were sleeping on the porch on a pull out couch so when Bobo went to bed we set up camp for the night. A few deep breaths of the cool night air combined with the alcohol and I was asleep in seconds.<br />
<br />
In the distance I could hear a woman screaming. I pinched my arm thinking I might still be sleeping. I was awake. I peered out into the darkness and could see some dim headlights coming from a car parked on the access road across the pond. The screaming was interrupted by wailing, crying. The sound seemed to funnel directly across the pond right into our porch. Lori checked her watch and informed me that it was 2 AM. I threw on a T shirt and headed out to the dock to get a better look.. Bobo startled me as I exited the cabin. He too had heard the curious screams and followed me down to the dock. We hopped into the row boat and made our way across Black Pond. As we got closer to the western shore I could see a woman standing at the edge of the water. Behind her were two children standing huddled together. Her car was angled across the dirt road to face the pond, as if shining the headlights out onto the water, in search of something.<br />
<br />
I yelled from the row boat "Whats wrong. Are you OK?". <br />
"He's in the water", she bellowed frantically. She had both hands wrapped around the back of her head, jumping up and down frustratedly. "I can't swim and neither can he" her voice trailed off as if she were handing off her burden for us to carry awhile.<br />
<br />
"Where is he?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"There", she pointed out into the water to her right, our left. <br />
<br />
We rowed in that general direction and came upon a half-sunk canoe. Floating next to it was about five empty cans of Miller, a fishing pole, some plastic bags and a baseball hat. Suddenly I could feel my hangover. The adrenaline had been pumping hard up until this point and now that I knew what we were dealing with it shut off without warning. My head was pounding in rhythm with my heart. The canoe had a line of trout still tied up to one of the gunwales. All good sized keepers. There was no one in the water. I did the math quickly. I had been a lifeguard for years at a summer camp. In my training I knew that the brain could only survive about 3-4 minutes without oxygen. We had been on the water for at least 10 minutes and who knows how long she had been screaming before it finally woke us up from our drunken sleep.<br />
<br />
He was dead for sure.<br />
<br />
Bobo and I each took an oar and starting poking around the canoe. We were not touching bottom. I knew if I hit something it was going to be a body. Every swipe of the oar was filled with tentative anticipation. I kept remembering the scene in Jaws when Hooper goes under a wrecked boat in his scuba gear to see what had happened and had a head pop out at him. I took a break from searching and looked upward to stretch my neck which had a crick from straining while looking downward into the pond searching for the dead fisherman. The sky was filled with stars, The milky way was as clear as I've ever seen it. The sobbing from shore brought me back to the task at hand. I continued to skull and poke and peer into the black water.<br />
<br />
I am not sure how long we were on the water before the rescue team arrived. I'm not sure how they knew there was an emergency. Maybe another resident of the pond had a phone line in their cottage. Being 1986 there were no cell phones and even if there were I doubt there would have been service. They urgently put a boat in the water and made their way to us. They asked a few questions like how long we had been there and what we had observed. They then started to search using the same method as us but instead using ten foot long poles. Exhausted we decided to make our way back to the eastern shore and Bobo's cabin. We met Mary and Lori on the dock who were waiting to hear what had happened. I described the scene. The crying wife and scared kids. The empties floating in the water. The fish on the line. We all head back into the cabin. I fell asleep in seconds. <br />
<br />
What seemed like only a minute later I woke up to the sound of a machine working from across the pond. I went out to the dock. It was daybreak and light bathed the pond making everything visible. There were various rescue personnel walking around the shoreline drinking coffee and chatting. Two rescue trucks were parked on the access road one of which had a winch on the back. It was pulling something up from the water. It was the fisherman. The wife was standing at the top of the incline leading down to the waters edge, waiting. There were no sign of the kids. Before his body made it above the water line I turned around and headed back to the comfort of the pull out couch.<br />
<br />
The rest of the weekend was uneventful. We drove around the surrounding area doing some sightseeing. We had some drinks. We sat on the porch looking out at the water. We had some more drinks. Bobo had heard from a neighbor that the guy dragged his family out for some late night fishing. He stood up in the canoe when reeling in a fish and fell into the darkness. Thank god his wife and kids had stayed on shore.<br />
<br />
Years later Lori and I became parents of two boys. Bobo promised them that when they were old enough he would bring them fishing for the weekend at his camp. Lori and I had not been back to his camp since that weekend in 1986. I used to joke around all the time about how I went fishing once on Black Pond and didn't catch a thing. <br />
<br />
Bobo never got to bring the boys fishing at Black Pond. In 2011, he had a serious illness which had him hospitalized for three months. He eventually recovered, but was never quite the same. He and some friends went to his camp on Black Pond for the Memorial Day weekend. He fell while there and went to the hospital. They gave him some medication for his pain and sent him on his way. Once back at the camp he was incapacitated by his pain. All he could do was sit on the porch and look out at the pond. His friends brought him home a day early because he didn't seem right. When our oldest was born we bought the house next door to Bobo, in the neighborhood Lori had grown up in as a kid. The night his friends brought him back from the camp she spent most of it shuttling back in forth between our houses, checking on him. Something was wrong. The next morning she got a call from his roommate Dave that Bobo was unresponsive and breathing funny. I drove the kids up the hill to school. When I got home a few minutes later my wife and her sister were trying to get their dad out of his house and into my sister-in-laws car. I ran over and grabbed him by the waist and hauled him in the passenger seat. I knew he was gone. <br />
<br />
In the years since my wife and I had gone to Black Pond Bobo had sold his half of the camp to his friends Pam and Rollie. He had offered to sell half to us or Lisa, Lori's sister, but we knew we'd never use it. Lisa didn't want it either. <br />
<br />
2 and 1/2 hours away , an outhouse , no thanks. <br />
<br />
In the September following Bobo's passing Pam and Rollie hosted a party in Bobo's honor at the camp. Lori and I hadn't been there in 25 years and thought it would be great for the kids to see it and maybe fish there, since Grandpa never got to take them. Rollie and Pam threw a great party. They had fixed the camp up. It still had no indoor bathroom, but it was updated with new paint and furniture. It was nicely landscaped and there was a larger open area down by the docks complete with kayaks, canoes and the row boat. They invited all of Bobos friend from home and from VT, past and present, most of whom had spent time at the camp. We spent the day listening to bawdy stories about Bobo. Lots of laughter, food and drink. All his grandchildren got to fish off the dock and from the row boat we took out numerous times throughout the day. There was swimming, even this late in September with the air hot and dry and the water warm and inviting. Before dark, my wife, her sister and two of Bobo's best friends Mike and Ritchie took the row boat out to the middle of the pond with Bobo's ashes and a handle of Jack Daniels. As the entire group of party goers watched from the shore as they sprinkled Bobo's ashes and submerged the bottle of Jack not to far from the spot where Bobo and I went fishing that star filled night 25 years earlier.<br />
<br />
Back on shore the party got cranking, The days drinking and festivities were catching up to many of the party goers; lots of stumbling and swearing. A group gathered around some guys playing guitar by the fire pit. The fire fought off the early fall chill that had swept in from the pond. The smell of cannabis mingled with the burning hardwood, bringing back a flood of memories from Fall nights long forgotten. Lori and I decided to get the kids out of there before we had more explaining than we were prepared to do that day. We said our goodbyes, which took about a half an hour with Bobo's friends needing to find closure in Lori's arms. We went into the cabin and looked around one last time. Pam and Rollie told us we could go up any time, but I knew the chances of that were slim to none. While gathering up our things we saw a calendar on the bedroom wall. It was from 1986. We scrolled through and saw that there was writing on one of the dates in May. 'Man drowned on Black Pond' was written on May 31st. <br />
<br />
It hit me immediately. <br />
<br />
Bobo had died exactly 25 years to the day that he and I went fishing on Black Pond.<br />
<br />
I walked out to the dock and looked out into blackness. "Bye, bye Bobo." I said aloud, while making the sign of the cross. I turned and walked back toward the crackling fire and my waiting family.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-14207642088083207612012-08-07T18:08:00.001-04:002012-08-08T17:47:11.168-04:00The Evening of August 13th, 1999I had just drifted off to sleep when I heard a loud knock on the backdoor. I knew
immediately that something was wrong. My wife and I lived in an apartment on a
desolate stretch of road in the Connecticut River valley of western
Massachusetts in the town of Whately. The houses on that road were spaced far
apart and most of my neighbors were farmers. I knew that who ever was knocking
had to have driven and if someone spent the time to drive out to my house, it
must be urgent. I peeked out the window and saw a Massachusetts State Police
cruiser in my driveway. I had left my wife an hour earlier at a food festival in
Northampton where we sampled food from some local restaurants and had a few
drinks. Did she have an accident? Did I hit something on the way home and not
know it? In my heart I knew what it was. <br />
<br />
I opened the door. "Are you David
Sullivan?" the female officer asked with an ultra official voice that only a
statie commands. "Yes", I groggily replied. "Is your mother Cecilia Sullivan who
lives at the Walter Salvo house in Northampton?". My peripheral vision was lost;
the officer appeared to be at the end of a telescope. "Yes", I replied. My eyes
quickly welled up and I went numb. "Mr. Sullivan, I'm sorry to tell you that
your mother died sometime in the past few days. Her body was found in her
apartment by a friend in the Salvo House." I stared blankly at the officer. Her
male counterpart broke my concentration. "Are you OK sir?". I was holding on to
the door jam for support. "What happened? How...was she..", was all I could get
out. I felt like I was falling into a deep, dark hole with no end. The male
officer was moving his lips, but all I could hear was my own breathing. "...call
him with any questions", he handed me a card with a phone number of the
detective in charge of the case. "Are you going to be all right Mr. Sullivan?",
the female officer asked. "Yeah...thanks" I creaked. I turned and shut the
door.<br />
<br />
The police detective was matter of fact, "she died on the toilet,
the way we found her she was probably trying to pull herself up with her good
arm using the bar, but something happened, heart attack, whatever. There was no
evidence of foul play, but we found a bunch of empties by her chair and a bunch
of medications, she was on a lot of medications, huh?" "Where is she?" I
interrupted. "She went directly to 'Pease Funeral Home' over by the hospital.
There was no need to go to the hospital she was there for three, maybe four
days." "I talked to her on Tuesday, so it wasn't more than three." "Well, she
was in bad shape. It was hot up there and I'm surprised that no one complained
about the smell earlier." I was numb to his insensitivity and wanted to hear
more, however painful the details. "Can I see her?" "You'll have to call the
funeral home in the morning, but you don't want to...I mean...you shouldn't. Its
bad. Just remember her like she was the last time you saw her." <br />
<br />
That was
easy. <br />
<br />
I took her to her favorite restaurant, The Bluebonnet Diner, for
lunch on her birthday, August 7th. She didn't seem right. She only ate half of
her meal and was very spacey. She had been disabled since the age of 35 when a
brain aneurysm burst, causing her to have right side paralysis and no hope of
getting out of the hole she dug for herself by marrying at age 17 and having 6
kids and a divorce by the time she was 24. The last time I saw her she was
getting out of my car at her apartment after lunch at 'Bluebonnet'. I put her
wheelchair next to my car and helped her transfer from the front seat to the
chair. I tried to help push her to the front door. She had a hard time
disengaging the brakes. "Ma, push the brake up, I can't move..." "All right, all
right. Leave me alone!", she snapped. and wheeled herself to the front door. I
chided, "Bye, Maaa" in a sing, songy voice hoping to get her to lighten up. She
responded by waving an arm in the air, irritated, without turning around. I got
in the car and my wife and I laughed at how stubborn she was. I never laid eyes
on her again.<br />
<br />
I called my brothers and sisters after I got off the phone
with the detective. By this point shock had settled in and I have no
recollection of my conversations with them except that I was surprised by the
lack of emotion in their responses. Her death was expected, exactly when was the
question. She had been given last rights dozens of times over the years, but
always pulled through. Maybe their lack of discernible affect was not shock, but
relief that the years of self loathing and self destructive behavior was over.
She could finally stop running from the demons. My wife came home and I gave her
the news. I saw my devastation in her eyes. I realized that her face was
mirroring mine and that realization caused me to break down. I didn't cry again
until days later when I was carrying my mother's casket out of Blessed Sacrament
Church. I faced my brothers who were holding the other side of the casket. They
both looked like they did when they were little boys, vulnerable and needy. My
face was mirroing theirs.<br />
<br />
Soon after my wife got home we went to bed. The
next few days were going to be stressful at best and if I stayed up I'd just be
torturing myself with memories of Ma and me swimming at the lake, playing catch
in the backyard or her rubbing my head as I lay in her lap, watching television.
<br />
<br />
As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I was comforted by the thought that my
mother was with her infant son Derek who had died 29 years earlier, her sister
Rosemary and her mother in a place better than this one.
<br />
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</div>David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-62573610666317877222011-12-13T08:47:00.002-05:002011-12-13T08:48:17.246-05:00The Littlest Angel<h3 class="post-title entry-title"><br /></h3> <div class="post-header"> </div> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/R2sjhT6RtnI/AAAAAAAAAOY/b3cDuQnbadA/s1600-h/angel2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146246054388282994" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/R2sjhT6RtnI/AAAAAAAAAOY/b3cDuQnbadA/s400/angel2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There are events in life which occur with such resounding force that the shock waves are felt for decades. The ripple effect of these events can be felt by those who where never present or even born when the event occurred. <strong>December 14, 1970 </strong>is the date of one of those events in my life and that of my family.<br /><br />Its the day my brother died.<br /><br />He was 1 month, 26 days old.<br /><br />Derek was born in mid-October during the brilliance and splendor of Autumn in New England. I remember going to visit my mother and Derek in the hospital the day after he was born. My aunt and I drove over to Saint Margaret's hospital in Dorchester braving a chilly fall rain. As we made our way to the maternity ward we stopped at the gift shop. I begged her to buy a little doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, for my new brother. After what probably seemed like hours of groveling to her, she relented. I can't recall presenting him with my gift, but it became a fixture in his crib, at our home.<br /><br />A new baby adds spice to a home, sometimes mild and sweet and at other times hot, unbearably hot. My mother was born high strung. If she were in school today she would be diagnosed with ADD, ADHD, PTSD or one of the myriad of other afflictions, abbreviated with letters. The month following Derek's birth was a mish-mash of highs and lows. The tenor of the household mirrored my mother's mood.<br /><br />I can remember her crying uncontrollably, while smoking at the kitchen table while Derek was lying on the couch, surrounded by pillows.<br /><br />I can remember sitting with my mother on the front steps of our apartment in Hyde Park. It was a warm Fall day and the trees were shedding their leaves. She allowed me to hold my brother while she watched, tentatively. I remember the smell of crisp fallen leaves while I cradled his tiny head.<br /><br />I remember my mother and I laughing uncontrollably while I "helped" her change his diaper. He peed all over the two of us.<br /><br />I remember my father (who was usually no where to be found) and mother fighting loudly, while I rubbed my brothers head while he lay in his crib.<br /><br />The night of December 13, 1970 was a typical night in my childhood home. My mother downstairs smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. My sisters playing in their room. My brother Mark and I jumping on our beds in our room. Mark and I took Derek out of his crib and put him on my bed. We jumped around him while he lay in the middle. He didn't cry, he just seemed content watching us. We assumed he enjoyed the gentle jostling.<br /><br />The next few days were a blur.<br /><br />Who knows what traumas we block out of our minds. If we knew then they wouldn't be blocked, but open for examination. Some memories are best hidden from our consciousness.<br /><br />I don't remember much about the day my brother died. I recall sadness, grief. I recall standing across the street from my house with the snow lightly falling, telling a schoolmate from my kindergarten class about my brother. I recall my mother promising me that they would bury my gift, the baby-boy-blue doll with him, so he wouldn't be alone. My mother brought me a flower from his funeral. We pressed it in plastic, and put it in an encyclopedia. From then, through my high school years, I would come across it when looking up something beginning with an "S" or a "T" and think of him.<br /><br />My mother was never the same. From mid-October to December 14th every year until the day she died was torturous. She blamed herself for his death. The morning he died she got him from his crib for his morning feeding. She tried to get him to latch on, but he just wouldn't take her breast. She tried again and noticed that he was cold, motionless. He was gone.<br /><br />"Crib Death" we were always told. When my mother passed in 1999 we found Derek's death certificate amongst her belongings. Cause of death: acute cardiac failure, emaciation.<br /><br />Emaciation.<br /><br />That explained the years of autumnal depression. The years of self loathing and self destruction. I, myself, thought I played a role in his passing. For decades I thought that maybe that night we were jumping on my bed that we hurt him, somehow. It was no ones fault. Our frolicking on the bed had nothing to do with it. My mother gave him everything she had, unfortunately she barely had enough to care for herself. The well had run dry.<br /><br />Christmas time was always bittersweet. Ghosts of Christmas past were not friendly specters guiding my mother toward redemption, but haunting reminders of inadequacies and failure. Someway, somehow, my mother was able to emotionally detach immediately the day after the anniversary of Derek's death each year and get ready for Christmas. I don't know how she did it, but she was always able to pull off Christmas without her emotions getting in the way of our enjoyment of the holiday. As the years went by her grief became more and more transparent until it got to the point where she was paralyzed by her loss and unable to find any joy in the season<br /><br />The year Derek died and for many years following, there was a Christmas special on TV titled "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064595/"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">The Littlest Angel</span></a>". It was the story about a boy (played by Johnny Whitaker, Jodie on "Family Affair") who dies and goes to Heaven, but is allowed to go back to earth to get his cherished treasure box, so he may give it as a gift to the Christ child on Christmas. Each Christmas I imagined that Derek was the "littlest angel" and gave his favorite toy, his doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, to baby Jesus.<br /><br />In August of 1999, when I received the news of my mother's death my thoughts immediately turned to Derek.<br /><br />I imagined him welcoming my mother into heaven.<br /><br />I imagined her sense of relief when he forgave her for not having enough to give.<br /><br />I was comforted by the thought of them being together again.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-39312429799761593182010-03-25T07:57:00.000-04:002010-03-24T08:01:27.156-04:00Auntie Rosie<strong><em>25 years ago today my Aunt Rosie passed away. She was just shy of her 45th birthday.</em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SdOcfw0opdI/AAAAAAAAAmU/YMzxJdbHxhI/s1600-h/200px-Irish_shamrock.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 311px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319767654350235090" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SdOcfw0opdI/AAAAAAAAAmU/YMzxJdbHxhI/s320/200px-Irish_shamrock.jpg" /></a><br />My family buried my Aunt Rosie 24 years ago today. The day we buried her was a typical early spring day in New England, cold, windy, moisture in the air. She was 44. The age I am now.<br /><br />I recall the moment we heard she had passed. My mother answered the phone. She didn't say a word, but I could tell by the growing contortions to her face that someone we loved was gone. She dropped the phone to the floor. "Rosie's dead" she struggled to say and started crying uncontrollably. My mother never cried. Hardened by divorce, poverty and infirmity she was a rock. She rarely showed emotion and when she did it was usually anger. Her anger was never usually directed at one person she was just angry at everyone and everything. When she did show another emotion like love, surprise, affection or disappointment it was palpable and visceral. Watching her cry was heart wrenching. I too rarely cry. My stoicism similarly born out of a feeling of hopelessness and resignation. As I stood there watching her wail I felt like I was watching a movie about someone hearing about a loved one dying. I became an emotional sponge, soaking in my mother's grief, but unable to feel my own.<br /><br />I often refer to my mother, grandmother and aunt as my "Holy Trinity". Being a good Catholic boy and a son of Irish descendants I knew from a young age that Saint Patrick used the three leafed Shamrock to teach the pagan Celts the symbolism of the Holy Trinity:the father, son and holy ghost. These three women made up for the lack of a father and gave me all the support and love I needed to make up for many of the holes in my life. My mother gave me strength and perseverance. My grandmother taught me the value of unconditional love and to the appreciation of life's little things. My Auntie Rosie gave me everything else.<br /><br />Rosemary C. Norton was the first born of John Norton and Cecilia (Mc Lean) Norton. She was the oldest of five children. Her father, "shuffled off to Buffalo", as my grandmother used to say because he literally left his family and went to Buffalo, leaving her to help her mother raise her brothers and sisters. I don't know much else about her childhood growing up in the Mission Hill section of Boston. According to my mother she was very intelligent, artistic, but kind of shy and a loner. Her and I were thrust into very similar roles being the oldest child in a broken home. She probably bore more responsibility than she should have which caused her to become controlling and cautious.<br /><br />My earliest memories of her are of me sitting in her lap and listening to her read to me. I also remember driving in her car watching her sip coffee and smoke cigarettes. I also remember calling her when my parents were having knock down, drag out, fights. She would reassure me on the phone while my siblings and I would huddle in my room with the door closed.<br /><br />When my parents divorced she moved in with us. Knowing that my mother was not in any shape mentally to be raising five kids she slept on the couch, in our beds or in a chair for a good part of five years, until we moved 100 miles west from Boston to Northampton. During her time with us she did everything a parent would do and more. She helped us with school work. She drove us to appointments. She comforted us when we woke up from a nightmare. She took us on adventures to Plimouth Plantation, the Museum of Science, Walden Pond and many long car rides around Eastern Massachusetts usually ending up at some Antiques shop or the "Dover Country Store". When I was ten she and my Uncle Mac took my younger brother Mark and I on a two week long trip out west to California, Utah, Nevada and Arizona. We camped, stayed in hotels, visited National Parks and big cities; things I never could have done with a single mother of five. She helped me study every day for two months prior to me taking and passing the entrance exam to the prestigious Boston Latin. We were her kids and she was as much a mother to us as our own mom.<br /><br />I vividly remember the day my mother got the phone call telling her that we got accepted into a subsidized housing project in Northampton. The first thought running through my mind within seconds of my mother getting of the phone was "what are we going to do without Auntie Rosie". We found out a few months later. Within a year of moving my mother was once again overwhelmed. My mother had a new support system in her sister Carol who lived one town over and her brother Joe and his wife Feno who also lived nearby, but it wasn't the same. Rosie kept my mother in line as well as the rest of us. She had a way of making you not want to disappoint her without making you feel guilty. With out Rosie around my mother spiraled ot of control leaving us hanging in the wind.<br /><br />After we moved west she did her best to visit as often as possible. Her monthly visits eventually became bi-monthly visits, which became quarterly visits which became holiday visits. She had spent a lifetime bearing responsibility for others mistakes and now she needed time for herself. She explored interests like horticulture; she was president of the American Begonia Society. She traveled around New England particularly up to Maine. She studied meditation and was an avid reader.<br /><br />The week before she passed she visited us in Northampton. My mother had suffered a burst brain aneurysm a year earlier and was up to help her run some errands and checking for things she needed. She had an eventful visit filled with catching my brother Mark in a compromising situation with a girl, in-fighting between my siblings and me being in various states of inebriation. She was not happy with "her kids", but when she left that Sunday there were no hard feelings. We all gave her big hugs and kisses and chased her car like little kids as she drove out of the parking lot, waving wildly. That was the last time we saw her alive.<br /><br />A week later, sometime after midnight my Uncle and grandmother found my Aunt in her chair complaining of a severe headache. She had headaches for years, but chalked it up to stress. After my mother's stroke, she paid more attention to her pains and even had scheduled an appointment for a thorough check up. She died later that day.<br /><br />Very few days have gone by in the past 24 years that I don't think about Auntie Rosie. Whether it be the smell of coffee and cigarettes, a little blue car putting down the road(she drove a Renualt), a pastel colored sunset or the sound of my wife reading to my kids, I think of her.<br /><br />In August 2002, on the three year anniversary of my mother's death, I was restless. I was drinking heavily. My wife was expecting my firstborn. I had recently had huge marital problems. I was lost and in need of direction. I thought deeply about my "Holy Trinity", the people I could always turn to when I was in trouble. I went out that day and got a shamrock tattooed to my left shoulder to honor them. As I sat in the chair and the artist went to work I started to softly cry. "Are you OK. Do you need me to stop" the dude asked, thinking I was in pain. "No man, its fine. Just thinking about some loved ones".David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-85516707071986313252009-12-13T18:40:00.000-05:002009-12-13T18:41:22.777-05:00The Littlest Angel<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/R2sjhT6RtnI/AAAAAAAAAOY/b3cDuQnbadA/s1600-h/angel2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146246054388282994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/R2sjhT6RtnI/AAAAAAAAAOY/b3cDuQnbadA/s400/angel2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There are events in life which occur with such resounding force that the shock waves are felt for decades. The ripple effect of these events can be felt by those who where never present or even born when the event occurred. <strong>December 14, 1970 </strong>is the date of one of those events in my life and that of my family.<br /><br />Its the day my brother died.<br /><br />He was 1 month, 26 days old.<br /><br />Derek was born in mid-October during the brilliance and splendor of Autumn in New England. I remember going to visit my mother and Derek in the hospital the day after he was born. My aunt and I drove over to Saint Margaret's hospital in Dorchester braving a chilly fall rain. As we made our way to the maternity ward we stopped at the gift shop. I begged her to buy a little doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, for my new brother. After what probably seemed like hours of groveling to her, she relented. I can't recall presenting him with my gift, but it became a fixture in his crib, at our home.<br /><br />A new baby adds spice to a home, sometimes mild and sweet and at other times hot, unbearably hot. My mother was born high strung. If she were in school today she would be diagnosed with ADD, ADHD, PTSD or one of the myriad of other afflictions, abbreviated with letters. The month following Derek's birth was a mish-mash of highs and lows. The tenor of the household mirrored my mother's mood.<br /><br />I can remember her crying uncontrollably, while smoking at the kitchen table while Derek was lying on the couch, surrounded by pillows.<br /><br />I can remember sitting with my mother on the front steps of our apartment in Hyde Park. It was a warm Fall day and the trees were shedding their leaves. She allowed me to hold my brother while she watched, tentatively. I remember the smell of crisp fallen leaves while I cradled his tiny head.<br /><br />I remember my mother and I laughing uncontrollably while I "helped" her change his diaper. He peed all over the two of us.<br /><br />I remember my father (who was usually no where to be found) and mother fighting loudly, while I rubbed my brothers head while he lay in his crib.<br /><br />The night of December 13, 1970 was a typical night in my childhood home. My mother downstairs smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. My sisters playing in their room. My brother Mark and I jumping on our beds in our room. Mark and I took Derek out of his crib and put him on my bed. We jumped around him while he lay in the middle. He didn't cry, he just seemed content watching us. We assumed he enjoyed the gentle jostling.<br /><br />The next few days were a blur.<br /><br />Who knows what traumas we block out of our minds. If we knew then they wouldn't be blocked, but open for examination. Some memories are best hidden from our consciousness.<br /><br />I don't remember much about the day my brother died. I recall sadness, grief. I recall standing across the street from my house with the snow lightly falling, telling a schoolmate from my kindergarten class about my brother. I recall my mother promising me that they would bury my gift, the baby-boy-blue doll with him, so he wouldn't be alone. My mother brought me a flower from his funeral. We pressed it in plastic, and put it in an encyclopedia. From then, through my high school years, I would come across it when looking up something beginning with an "S" or a "T" and think of him.<br /><br />My mother was never the same. From mid-October to December 14th every year until the day she died was torturous. She blamed herself for his death. The morning he died she got him from his crib for his morning feeding. She tried to get him to latch on, but he just wouldn't take her breast. She tried again and noticed that he was cold, motionless. He was gone.<br /><br />"Crib Death" we were always told. When my mother passed in 1999 we found Derek's death certificate amongst her belongings. Cause of death: acute cardiac failure, emaciation.<br /><br />Emaciation.<br /><br />That explained the years of autumnal depression. The years of self loathing and self destruction. I, myself, thought I played a role in his passing. For decades I thought that maybe that night we were jumping on my bed that we hurt him, somehow. It was no ones fault. Our frolicking on the bed had nothing to do with it. My mother gave him everything she had, unfortunately she barely had enough to care for herself. The well had run dry.<br /><br />Christmas time was always bittersweet. Ghosts of Christmas past were not friendly specters guiding my mother toward redemption, but haunting reminders of inadequacies and failure. Someway, somehow, my mother was able to emotionally detach immediately the day after the anniversary of Derek's death each year and get ready for Christmas. I don't know how she did it, but she was always able to pull off Christmas without her emotions getting in the way of our enjoyment of the holiday. As the years went by her grief became more and more transparent until it got to the point where she was paralyzed by her loss and unable to find any joy in the season<br /><br />The year Derek died and for many years following, there was a Christmas special on TV titled "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064595/"><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Littlest Angel</span></a>". It was the story about a boy (played by Johnny Whitaker, Jodie on "Family Affair") who dies and goes to Heaven, but is allowed to go back to earth to get his cherished treasure box, so he may give it as a gift to the Christ child on Christmas. Each Christmas I imagined that Derek was the "littlest angel" and gave his favorite toy, his doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, to baby Jesus.<br /><br />In August of 1999, when I received the news of my mother's death my thoughts immediately turned to Derek.<br /><br />I imagined him welcoming my mother into heaven.<br /><br />I imagined her sense of relief when he forgave her for not having enough to give.<br /><br />I was comforted by the thought of them being together again.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-26697296723150037112009-10-08T12:23:00.008-04:002009-10-09T07:48:09.843-04:00Youkatek<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/Ss4UkfLf4QI/AAAAAAAAAms/m1P7qK5GWFQ/s1600-h/Youkatek+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/Ss4UkfLf4QI/AAAAAAAAAms/m1P7qK5GWFQ/s400/Youkatek+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390268421086634242" border="0" /></a><br />I hate facial hair. I have grown a beard a few times over the past 30 years, but never kept it past three weeks. It gets itchy, food gets caught in it and I look like an old man or at least, an older man. While shaving last week I started out with my usual routine. I shave the sides first starting at the right ear, down the right cheek to the right corner of my mouth. My 6 year old son Matt was brushing his teeth while I was shaving. When he saw my partially shaved face he screeched "Yoooouk!"; foamy toothpaste flew from his mouth. When I went to finish the job he pleaded for me to leave the goatee ala Kevin Youkilis, gold glove first baseman for the Boston Red Sox. I carefully shaved the other side and trimmed my neck into a respectable goatee. He was elated. "Dad, your not Youk, you're Varitek" referring to the Boston Catcher Jason Vairtek who also sports a goatee albeit less cro-magnon than the neanderthal-like Youkilis. As I patted down my freshly shaved cheeks and admired my manly growth he blurted out "You're Youk-a-tek!!!" and laughed with a blend of self amusement and derision. I gave him a big, juicy kiss on the cheek making sure I rubbed my growth back and forth across his cheek. He laughed at first, then complained that it itched. "Wait till mom feels this", I explained as I knew she wouldn't like it at all.<br /><br />Today is day ten of the "Youkatek" and its getting more Youk than Tek by the day. Tonight the Red Sox take the field in LA in their quest of winning a third World Series title in six seasons. I'll try to sport the Youkatek till they get knocked out of the playoff or until they bring home another title. Until then its itch, itch...scratch, scratch. <br /><br />And probably no sex.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-20824911616462188382009-07-23T12:21:00.004-04:002009-07-23T15:51:27.275-04:00Frozen In TimeMy wife often says "I wish the kids would never grow up; I wish they'd stay this age forever". I'm paraphrasing, but the sentiment is that time is flying by and she wishes that she could remember them at this age as vividly in twenty years, as she does now. <br /><br />Twenty years from now I'll miss Peter's squeaky, testosterone-less professions of undying love or Matthew's full lipped kisses every time we part, for more than a few minutes. Its hard to imagine that there won't be a time when we don't have to carry the boys from our bed to their bed, half asleep, stumbling over toys and shoes in the dark. But I differ from my wife. I can't wait for the next age. I relish every minute of whats happening in my kids life now, but am just as excited for the next big thing. I can't wait for the day Matt can walk to school by himself. I will jump for joy when Pete can pour his own bowl of cereal, eat it without making a mess and put his bowl in the sink. <br /><br />My cousin Sue's daughter Meagan passed away six years ago. For the past four years the family has put on a golf tournament in her memory. They raise anywhere from $3000 to $4000 per outing and the proceeds go toward research on childhood leukemia, which was what cause her death. She unknowingly had the disease and she died suddenly; the details are too heart wrenching for words. She was three when she passed and each year at the tournament there are pictures of her displayed at the check in, on buttons or on fliers advertising the tournament. Everyone who attends the tournament is getting older, greyer, taller, skinnier, balder, but there is Meagan, as cute as ever, never aging, forever young, smiling a mischievous smile, frozen in time. I had a brother who died at 1 1/2 months old. We have few pictures of him, but it's the same; he'll always be an infant(read <a style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);" href="http://http//sullsblog.blogspot.com/2007/12/littlest-angel.html">here</a>).<br /><br />Close your eyes and think about the following people: your mother, your best friend from childhood, your first boyfriend/girlfriend, your spouse...what image do you see? We usually revert either back to our earliest memories of that person or the last time you saw that person. Either way, its an image that's frozen in time, a snapshot that's indelibly marked in your memory. What will my snapshot be of my boys? Will it be the day they were born. The day Matt played in his first baseball game? The day of Pete's dance recital? A day of the two of them at the beach or skating in the backyard? Or will it be them as teenagers or young men or middle aged men playing with their kids. <br /><br />Will I miss the view of Peter coming out of the bedroom with his shirt on backwards smiling proudly that he dressed himself? Will I long for the days that Matt wants nothing more than to cuddle into the crook of my arm while watching the Red Sox? Of course. But I am grateful that we can add to the "snapshots". I look forward to what pictures we can add to the photo album.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-88116948886231952652009-04-01T10:12:00.005-04:002009-04-01T13:18:39.948-04:00Auntie Rosie<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SdOcfw0opdI/AAAAAAAAAmU/YMzxJdbHxhI/s1600-h/200px-Irish_shamrock.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319767654350235090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 311px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SdOcfw0opdI/AAAAAAAAAmU/YMzxJdbHxhI/s320/200px-Irish_shamrock.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />My family buried my Aunt Rosie 24 years ago today. The day we buried her was a typical early spring day in New England, cold, windy, moisture in the air. She was 44. The age I am now.<br /><br />I recall the moment we heard she had passed. My mother answered the phone. She didn't say a word, but I could tell by the growing contortions to her face that someone we loved was gone. She dropped the phone to the floor. "Rosie's dead" she struggled to say and started crying uncontrollably. My mother never cried. Hardened by divorce, poverty and infirmity she was a rock. She rarely showed emotion and when she did it was usually anger. Her anger was never usually directed at one person she was just angry at everyone and everything. When she did show another emotion like love, surprise, affection or disappointment it was palpable and visceral. Watching her cry was heart wrenching. I too rarely cry. My stoicism similarly born out of a feeling of hopelessness and resignation. As I stood there watching her wail I felt like I was watching a movie about someone hearing about a loved one dying. I became an emotional sponge, soaking in my mother's grief, but unable to feel my own.<br /><br />I often refer to my mother, grandmother and aunt as my "Holy Trinity". Being a good Catholic boy and a son of Irish descendants I knew from a young age that Saint Patrick used the three leafed Shamrock to teach the pagan Celts the symbolism of the Holy Trinity:the father, son and holy ghost. These three women made up for the lack of a father and gave me all the support and love I needed to make up for many of the holes in my life. My mother gave me strength and perseverance. My grandmother taught me the value of unconditional love and to the appreciation of life's little things. My Auntie Rosie gave me everything else.<br /><br />Rosemary C. Norton was the first born of John Norton and Cecilia (Mc Lean) Norton. She was the oldest of five children. Her father, "shuffled off to Buffalo", as my grandmother used to say because he literally left his family and went to Buffalo, leaving her to help her mother raise her brothers and sisters. I don't know much else about her childhood growing up in the Mission Hill section of Boston. According to my mother she was very intelligent, artistic, but kind of shy and a loner. Her and I were thrust into very similar roles being the oldest child in a broken home. She probably bore more responsibility than she should have which caused her to become controlling and cautious.<br /><br />My earliest memories of her are of me sitting in her lap and listening to her read to me. I also remember driving in her car watching her sip coffee and smoke cigarettes. I also remember calling her when my parents were having knock down, drag out, fights. She would reassure me on the phone while my siblings and I would huddle in my room with the door closed.<br /><br />When my parents divorced she moved in with us. Knowing that my mother was not in any shape mentally to be raising five kids she slept on the couch, in our beds or in a chair for a good part of five years, until we moved 100 miles west from Boston to Northampton. During her time with us she did everything a parent would do and more. She helped us with school work. She drove us to appointments. She comforted us when we woke up from a nightmare. She took us on adventures to Plimouth Plantation, the Museum of Science, Walden Pond and many long car rides around Eastern Massachusetts usually ending up at some Antiques shop or the "Dover Country Store". When I was ten she and my Uncle Mac took my younger brother Mark and I on a two week long trip out west to California, Utah, Nevada and Arizona. We camped, stayed in hotels, visited National Parks and big cities; things I never could have done with a single mother of five. She helped me study every day for two months prior to me taking and passing the entrance exam to the prestigious Boston Latin. We were her kids and she was as much a mother to us as our own mom.<br /><br />I vividly remember the day my mother got the phone call telling her that we got accepted into a subsidized housing project in Northampton. The first thought running through my mind within seconds of my mother getting of the phone was "what are we going to do without Auntie Rosie". We found out a few months later. Within a year of moving my mother was once again overwhelmed. My mother had a new support system in her sister Carol who lived one town over and her brother Joe and his wife Feno who also lived nearby, but it wasn't the same. Rosie kept my mother in line as well as the rest of us. She had a way of making you not want to disappoint her without making you feel guilty. With out Rosie around my mother spiraled ot of control leaving us hanging in the wind.<br /><br />After we moved west she did her best to visit as often as possible. Her monthly visits eventually became bi-monthly visits, which became quarterly visits which became holiday visits. She had spent a lifetime bearing responsibility for others mistakes and now she needed time for herself. She explored interests like horticulture; she was president of the American Begonia Society. She traveled around New England particularly up to Maine. She studied meditation and was an avid reader.<br /><br />The week before she passed she visited us in Northampton. My mother had suffered a burst brain aneurysm a year earlier and was up to help her run some errands and checking for things she needed. She had an eventful visit filled with catching my brother Mark in a compromising situation with a girl, in-fighting between my siblings and me being in various states of inebriation. She was not happy with "her kids", but when she left that Sunday there were no hard feelings. We all gave her big hugs and kisses and chased her car like little kids as she drove out of the parking lot, waving wildly. That was the last time we saw her alive.<br /><br />A week later, sometime after midnight my Uncle and grandmother found my Aunt in her chair complaining of a severe headache. She had headaches for years, but chalked it up to stress. After my mother's stroke, she paid more attention to her pains and even had scheduled an appointment for a thorough check up. She died later that day.<br /><br />Very few days have gone by in the past 24 years that I don't think about Auntie Rosie. Whether it be the smell of coffee and cigarettes, a little blue car putting down the road(she drove a Renualt), a pastel colored sunset or the sound of my wife reading to my kids, I think of her.<br /><br />In August 2002, on the three year anniversary of my mother's death, I was restless. I was drinking heavily. My wife was expecting my firstborn. I had recently had huge marital problems. I was lost and in need of direction. I thought deeply about my "Holy Trinity", the people I could always turn to when I was in trouble. I went out that day and got a shamrock tattooed to my left shoulder to honor them. As I sat in the chair and the artist went to work I started to softly cry. "Are you OK. Do you need me to stop" the dude asked, thinking I was in pain. "No man, its fine. Just thinking about some loved ones".David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com161tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-23040849988640362372009-03-27T07:59:00.004-04:002009-03-27T15:06:23.886-04:00CameltoepiaThe past few months I've had a consistent morning routine. Wake up. Lay in bed. Wait for my wife to bring me some coffee. Watch "Morning Joe" on MSNBC. Channel surf when Joe's right wing rhetoric gets too much to bear. More often than not I watch the music video channels for a song or two then tune back in to hear about the fiscal crisis and other political banter. Occasionally the kids, one or both, make their way down the hallway to my bedroom and crawl into bed with me for a bit until they get bored then head out to the living room to watch cartoons. The other morning I switched from Joe to VH1 and there was Lady Gaga. She was writhing around by the pool, petting a dog, playing poker, practically 69 ing a dude all while wearing a skin tight one piece bathing suit, sporting...you guessed it...camel toe.<br /><br />Now don't get me wrong, I'm no prude. I'm all for glimpses of female anything. As a kid I couldn't wait for the Boston Sunday Globe to be delivered, mostly for the sports section and funnies, but also for the flyers. Every department store flyer had a section were there would be a "lady" modeling some underwear, bras or stockings. I would study these pictures trying to make out any shape or form that I could trying to picture what was underneath. There wasn't much to go on as I'm sure they airbrushed any detail out of those photos, but occasionally you could see the outline of a nipple or if really lucky something outlined down in the nether regions.<br /><br />As I lay in bed the other morning I was thoroughly enjoying the fine art work and direction of Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" video (see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQ5uCfwK6qw"><span style="color:#ff6666;">here</span></a>). So was my 6 year old son. He was staring at the screen, blankly. I could almost see the surge of hormones coursing through his system as he was studying the screen. I immediately switched back to MSNBC and with that he jumped up and left the room. I then switched back to VH1, not for my own enjoyment, but to really study this video putting myself in the mind of a six year old. The video ended and a new one started. "Beyonce" wearing a skin tight leotard with two other girls dancing around singing about "all the single ladies". More crotch shots.<br /><br />I turned 16 in 1981, the year MTV made it on to our televisions by way of a new communication medium known as cable television. Not every community got cable right away. I had cousin's who lived in a neighboring town who got cable a few years before I did in early 1982. While visiting their house for a Sunday afternoon dinner I lay on the couch all afternoon watching corny, grainy, jumbled videos of musical acts like Styx, The Rolling Stones and Queen all had videos that mainly showed the band jamming away or playing out some ridiculously contrived skit that loosely went along with the theme of the song, or not. A few years later Madonna brought sex into the equation. Even when she was writhing around with a lion, moaning and groaning about having sex like a virgin, she was covered up albeit in some sexy garb, but covered up nonetheless.<br /><br />No T. No A. No CT (and I don't mean Connecticut!).<br /><br />When WhiteSnake came out with "Here I Go Again", model girlfriend of David Coverdale, Tawney Kittean draped herself over the hood of his car in various seductive poses, but never gave us a glimpse of what was underneath her flowing dress. It was hot, sexy and worthy of putting in the spank vault for another time, but quite tame. "Hot For Teacher", "Cradle Of Love", "California Girls", "Cherry Pie" were all sexy videos from the '80's that titillated without actually showing the actual tit. No camel toe in sight.<br /><br />Moving into the '90's Chris Isaak's "Wicked Games" video had a teen aged Helena Christianson writhing around on the beach, showing some ass cheeks and snuggling with a much older Chris was the epitome of the sexy video. The buxom (and I mean that in a good way) Mariah Carey came on the scene in the '90's and upped the sexy ante a bit with videos like "Honey", but was still wholesome enough to let the kids watch. The 90's also brought us Brittany in her catholic school girl outfit asking the be "hit" one more time. Dirty, yep. Sexy, no doubt. Camel toe, no.<br /><br />Then came the 2000's.<br /><br />The video world has became a virtual Cameltoepia. Cisco's "Thong Song" (see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VC5uRjF9vN8"><span style="color:#33cc00;">here</span></a>) seems tame compared to Christina Aguilera's "Dirty" (see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pijlVZIVIK8"><span style="color:#ffcc00;">here</span></a>). "Dirty" seems tame to NERD's "Lap Dance" (see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiG0tcTraGA"><span style="color:#3333ff;">here</span></a>). The 2000's leave nothing to the imagination. Raw, hardcore, unadulterated, its a Cameltopia. No need to scour the flyers for found porn. No need for binoculars at the beach. Glimpses of thong underwear peeking out at you from the top of some low rider jeans are no big deal anymore. Kids today just have to tune in to their favorite music video channel to have all their curiosities met. It's only a matter of time when full frontal nudity will be the norm then there will be nothing left to the imagination.<br /><br />I clicked over to VH1 this morning to find a 50 year old Madonna, sporting a leotard, spreading her legs and shaking her money maker. A long way from her "like a virgin" days. I clicked right back over to "Morning Joe" and the kids wern't even in the room. <br /><br />Some things are best left to the imagination.<br /><br />(Click here for a cornucopia of Cameltoepia, <a href="http://74.125.93.104/search?q=cache:71864AvJXcoJ:www.maxim.co.uk/inbox/videoclips/12075/top_20_sexiest_music_videos.html+sexy+music+videos&hl=en&ie=UTF-8"><span style="color:#ff0000;">Maxim's 20 Hottest Music Video's</span></a>)David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-1452844963618055412009-03-20T09:57:00.006-04:002009-03-25T07:59:56.828-04:00More Good StuffAs of yesterday I've been doing this blogging thing for two years. Here are some of my best pieces I've posted over the past year.<br /><br /><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/04/backyard-games.html"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong>Backyard Games</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/07/summer-day-1975.html"><span style="color:#ff6600;"><strong>A Summer Day 1975</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/07/hitchhiking-switchblades-and-jaws.html"><span style="color:#00cccc;"><strong>Hitchhiking, Switch blades and Jaws</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/08/evening-of-august-14th-1999.html"><span style="color:#330033;"><strong>The Evening of August 14, 1999</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/08/last-day-of-camp-1982.html"><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>The Last Day of Camp, 1982</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/09/then-there-were-two.html"><span style="color:#ff9900;"><strong>Then There Were Two</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/couch-surfer.html"><span style="color:#339999;"><strong>The Couch Surfer</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/09/1st-road-trip.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>First Road Trip</strong></span></a><strong><span style="color:#990000;"> </span><br /><span style="color:#990000;"></span><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/09/1st-road-trip.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>(Part I)</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-road-trip-part-ii.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Part II</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-road-trip-part-iii.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Part III</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-road-trip-part-iv.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Part IV</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-road-trip-part-v.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Part V</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/11/first-road-trip-part-vi.html"><span style="color:#990000;"><strong>Part VI</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong><a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2009/03/dear-blogspot.html"><span style="color:#ffff00;"><strong>Dear Blogspot...</strong></span></a><strong><br /><br /></strong>Happy reading!!David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-46873782164045810212009-03-17T13:07:00.003-04:002009-03-17T14:36:56.300-04:00Póg mo thóin!Last year I posted a piece that was semi-optimistic about the situation in Northern Ireland titled "26 + 6 = 1" (<a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/03/26-6-1.html"><span style="color:#33cc00;">read here</span></a>).<br /><br />What a difference a year makes.<br /><br />Two British Soldiers were murdered Saturday March 7th and a police officer, Stephen Carroll, was shot down March 9th by two separate splinter groups of the supposedly disarmed IRA (<a href="http://www.boston.com/news/world/europe/articles/2009/03/15/back_to_the_past_in_northern_ireland/"><span style="color:#33ff33;">read here</span></a>). People of the "north" need to brace themselves for a long summer of curfews, harassment and violence. Although people on both sides are condemning the violence this was bound to happen. As long as an occupying force continues to occupy the animosity never leaves (lesson to US: get out of Iraq ASAP). No one living on the Island of Ireland, Catholic or Protestant, Unionist or Republican thought the peace would be lasting.<br /><br />There is a line in the movie "The Departed" where Matt Damon's character turns to his girlfriend when discussing their relationship and says "If we're not going to make it it'll have to be you that gets out. I'm fucking Irish, I'll deal with something being wrong the rest of my life". This sums up the Irish psyche as much as any quote I've ever heard. There is a somber, resignation about the human condition that is ingrained in every person boastful of their Irish heritage. If it wasn't an Irishman that came up with the saying "The more things change, the more they stay the same" I'd be genuinely shocked.<br /><br />How do the Irish deal with their jaded and skeptical outlook on life? Living life to its fullest, living life like there's no tomorrow and by finding humor in the darkest of situations. "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die" is the mantra many Irish live by.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#33cc00;"><strong>My wife sent me this joke today.<br /></strong></span><br /></em>*An Irishman moves into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry, walks into the pub<br />and promptly orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but<br />serves the man three beers, which he drinks quietly at a table, alone.*<br /><br />*An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more.<br />This happens yet again. The next evening the man again orders and drinks<br />three beers at a time, several times. Soon the entire town is whispering<br />about the Man Who Orders Three Beers.*<br /><br />*Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the<br />town. "I don't mean to pry, but folks around here are wondering why you<br />always order three beers?"*<br /><br />*"Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies. "You see, I have two brothers, and<br />one went to America, and the other to Australia . We promised each other<br />that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank as a way of<br />keeping up the family bond."*<br /><br />*The bartender and the whole town were pleased with this answer, and soon<br />the Man Who Orders Three Beers became a local celebrity and source of pride<br />to the hamlet, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch<br />him drink.*<br /><br />*Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender<br />pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening.<br />He orders only two beers. The word flies around town. Prayers are offered<br />for the soul of one of the brothers.*<br /><br />*The next day, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first<br />of all, want to offer condolences to you for the death of your brother. You<br />know-the two beers and all"*<br /><br />*The man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear<br />that my two brothers are alive and well. It's just that I, meself, have<br />decided to give up drinking for Lent."*<br /><br /><span style="color:#009900;"><strong><em>Happy Saint Patrick's Day!!! </em></strong></span>David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-66785346780679521782009-03-16T09:31:00.007-04:002009-03-16T10:43:43.350-04:00Dear Blogspot...Dear Blogspot,<br />You may have noticed recently that we've been growing apart. I don't visit as often. I've neglected my readers. I've stopped reading other bloggers stuff. I just wanted you to know that I still love you, but things have changed. <br /><br />I have found someone else. <br /><br />Her name is Facebook.<br /><br />She is fresh, attractive and non- judgemental. I don't feel any pressure to log on to her page. She has connected me with dozens of old friends with whom I can instantly reminisce about old times, instead of sitting around for hours trying to conjure up memories and hunt and peck them down on my keyboard. Many of the people I've shared with you on my webpage at Blogspot have now come to life over at Facebook. With you, those old friends just sit there, static, waiting for someone to read about them, occasionally. On Facebook old friends come alive. I can see that Sheryl from summer camp back in the '80's just "went for a hike". I can read that an ex-co worker "just put on a pot of coffee". I can see that a friend from the old neighborhood has kids that are uglier than THEY were at that age. Facebook is instant gratification. It's cocaine. You on the other hand are like an old, drunk, uncle, telling the same stories over and over and over.<br /><br />You know that we first got together I was upfront with you. I told you that I wanted to have a place to write some stuff and archieve thoughts. I made you no promises except only to write when things were fresh, relevant and interesting. Lately you have been smothering me. I feel obligated to you when I am too young and active to be tied down. I need to be free and do what I want. I hope you understand. I know what you are going to say. "Facebook is just a fling. She'll rock your world, then leave you after she's had her fun." Maybe so. But I have to do this for me.<br /><br />It's not you... it's me.<br /><br />I still love you. I'm just not "in love" with you anymore.<br /><br />I hope we can still be friends.<br /><br />Your friend,<br />Sully<br /><br />PS: Maybe this is just a phase. Please don't hate me. <br /><br />PPS: I know that Facebook is pretty open about things, so maybe the three of us can go out some time? ;)David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-55320310663196922009-03-09T09:26:00.007-04:002009-03-09T14:43:21.328-04:00Six YearsMy oldest son Matt turns six at 10:24 this evening. With maybe the exception of my own birthday, March 9, 2003 is the most important date in my life.<br /><br />I am not going to wax poetic about the virtues of fatherhood. Fatherhood is what it is. Its a mostly thankless job wherein the rewards are few and far between.<br /><br />Some might guess that having an absent father is why the day is so important. Wrong again. Although me not having a father around definitely impacted every aspect of my upbringing (read <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2007/09/sins-of-father.html"><span style="color:#33cc00;">here</span></a>), not having him around may have been for the best. He was not the most stable, nor upstanding individual (criminal, actually).<br /><br />If its not love of fatherhood or being the "dad I never had", then what could it be?<br /><br />I have led a semi-charmed kind of life. The first twenty were tough. Real tough. The next eighteen were lived with complete onanistic abandon (read <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2007/04/1992-vs-2007.html"><span style="color:#ff9900;">here</span></a>, <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/03/top-5-hangovers.html"><span style="color:#33ff33;">here</span></a> and <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/05/odyssey-part-v.html"><span style="color:#3366ff;">here</span></a>, and <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2007/03/longest-day.html"><span style="color:#993399;">here</span></a>). My first twenty years I bore responsibilities no kid should have to bear. (If you are a regular reader you've heard some of the horror stories, if new read <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2007/03/i-was-born-poor-black-child.html"><span style="color:#ff0000;">here</span></a>, <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2007/12/littlest-angel.html"><span style="color:#990000;">here</span></a> and <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/05/my-winter-of-discontent.html"><span style="color:#ffcc00;">here</span></a>) I helped raise my brothers and sisters when my mother had checked out emotionally first and physically later on. When I had enough, I overcompensated and focused on my own needs to the point that no one else mattered. Not even my wife, who had helped me transition from adolescence to adulthood and helped spur me along to independence.<br /><br />The driving force behind my self-absorption was my competency. I am one of those people to whom everything comes easy.<br /><br />I have never had problems making friends. Girls, no problem. I maintained straight A's through fifth grade (except penmanship; you can't BS penmanship) and once I realized that I could get B's by simply listening in class, I rarely did any studying and only homework when necessary. I am good at all sports. I didn't pick up a golf club till I was 30 except for an occasional bucket at the driving range and within a year of playing I was shooting in the eighties. I have had some of the best jobs just fall into my lap. Summer camp counselor, after school coordinator, youth sports director, right up to my current job. Never the best paying, but jobs where the quality of life is so good that friends making three times as much have been enviable. I lived the "<a href="http://http://74.125.47.132/search?q=cache:Ke43RdQ_Z9IJ:en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Life_of_Riley+life+of+reilly&hl=en&ie=UTF-8"><span style="color:#009900;">life of Reily</span></a>" until March 9, 2003, because I could.<br /><br />On March 9, 2003 it was the first time in eighteen years that I turned my focus outward. It was time to disengage the pause button and start the process of reciprocity. I welcomed the responsibility before me, but more than that, I welcomed the challenge. I honestly wasn't personally challenged by something since studying for a passing the entrance exam to Boston Latin (a prestigious Boston "exam" school) when I was in sixth grade (unfortunately I got my acceptance letter forwarded to me after we moved 100 west of Boston, to Northampton Mass, that summer).<br /><br />I'm not complaining. The fact that things come easy for me makes life with kids easier than most. I have an extremely flexible job which allows me more time with my kids than any dad I know and most moms. My modest upbringing taught me to not want for much materially, so we live within our means. Life is as good as it was before Matt, but in a different way. I feel better about myself. I feel like I am part of something bigger than myself. Being challenged as a parent every day is more rewarding to me than scoring playoff tickets, getting on an exclusive golf course or being the last one standing after a night of drinking. I would love to get World Series tickets, play Pebble Beach or binge drink in Vegas, but I don't have time right now. I have more important things to do.<br /><br />"An idle brain is the devil's workshop" is an old English proverb. After a successful eighteen year run the workshop is closed.<br /><br />Thanks Lori and Matthew for changing my life...for the better.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-21526369484751695752009-03-03T08:30:00.004-05:002009-03-03T16:16:04.581-05:00Reports Of My Death Have Been Greatly ExaggeratedAlright, none of you thought I was dead, but I was closer than you'd think. The month of February was one of the most stressful months I've had in the past 20 years. I was in jeopardy of losing my job. My brother Mark was reported as a missing person. My kids were deathly ill. I watched my family's retirement money shrink down to pre 2000 levels. There were a few times in February that I thought I was having a stroke. Racing thoughts, heart palpitations, tingling of the extremities. I haven't had that much anxiety since I took a white shit (read <a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/03/top-5-hangovers.html"><span style="color:#ff0000;">here</span></a> about my white shit). Don't laugh. You take a white shit and see if you don't feel like you've lost your mind.<br /><br />Even though we here in New England got hammered with a 12 inch snowstorm, March came in like a lamb for me. My skating rink is back from the dead. I turned 44 on the first and got some great gifts. My troubles have subsided to manageable levels. St. Paddy's will be here soon which means spring is just around the corner. That means coaching baseball, watching baseball, playing golf, feeling alive again. Things are looking up.<br /><br />When I started this blog thing I knew that it would Eb and flow. I hemmed and hawed for months whether to start a blog because I knew I wouldn't be able to be as prolific as I wished (ala my cuz, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.jimsuldog.blogspot.com"><span style="color:#ff6600;">Suldog</span></a>) due to my busy life. I realistically thought I could post once per week. That's been my average over the past two years. Some months I posted a dozen times and others I've posted once. I promised in my first post that I wouldn't write for the sake of writing, so my posts will be frequent when I have time and energy and be non existent when life is being lived instead of being written about. When I disappear for a week or a month it's most likely because I'm living life.<br /><br />I AM alive and kicking!David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-28060646966314239902009-02-13T12:41:00.002-05:002009-02-13T12:58:38.972-05:00Blah!!!Doldrums, cabin fever, a case of the blah's...whatever you want to call it...I've got it. Work...sucks. Snow...sucks. I've got an employee who is a complete douche bag. Even a couple of 50 degree days haven't lightened my mood; it just pisses me off more that my rink is melting. I have had zero creativity, drive or need to socialize, so blogging has been non-existent. I am hopping in my SUV Saturday after Matt's hockey practice to visit my brother and sister in North Carolina. Me and the fam will be making it a leisurely trip stopping in D.C. and N.Y.C. I might even get in a round of golf with my bro. Maybe wallking some fairways and getting on the open road will get me back on track. Until then...BLAHHHH!!!David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-75136875343465336212009-01-27T06:19:00.004-05:002009-01-27T06:39:36.359-05:00The Snow Game<span style="color:#3333ff;"><strong><em>(Seven years ago the New England Patriots made an improbable run to win their first of three Super Bowl championships. With a backup quarterback, a rag tag offense and punishing defense they defied the odds makers and beat the "greatest show on turf" St. Louis Rams, featuring the now leader of the Arizona Cardinals, Kurt Warner. Their Super Bowl run started in a snowy evening in Foxboro Massachusetts.) <span style="color:#ff0000;">This piece was originally published 9/7/07. </span></em><br /></strong></span><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/RuGXJxnsxeI/AAAAAAAAALk/HDrfNIZ0CaE/s1600-h/aaaaaa.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107529646609319394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/RuGXJxnsxeI/AAAAAAAAALk/HDrfNIZ0CaE/s400/aaaaaa.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />January 19, 2002.<br /><br />The Snow Game.<br /><br />The greatest football game in New England football history.<br /><br />I was there.<br /><br />The New England Patriots have played bigger games (as of the date of this writing they have played in 5 Super Bowls), they have played in closer games, had games with more controversy (1976 playoffs vs Raiders, sno-blower-gate) and they have played games in worse weather conditions. There has never been a single game in their history that could compare with this games combination of magnitude, atmosphere, suspense and exhilaration.<br /><br />The Pats had a season that was typical of those since Bob Kraft had bought the team in the early 90's, competitive, hopeful, but missing some unknown key ingredient. The one difference between this team and the others in recent history was that they were peaking. They had earned a home playoff game and in every possible scenario it would be their only home playoff game thus making this game the last game played in the drab, dismal Schaefer... Sullivan...Foxboro Stadium. As horrible as it was a venue, it held a vault of beer soaked memories that could never be replaced by a state of the art stadium. Going to Foxboro Stadium was like going to a football game in the town of Bedrock circa 2500 BC. Touch football in the rock strewn, gravel parking lot. The smell of meat cooking on ridiculously huge grill fires. Drunken fights at 11:00 AM, two hours before kick off. Blood and beer.<br /><br />The week leading up to the game my buddy Billy and I had been scouring the net for tickets to the game. Billy is a hard drinking , hard living guy who bought his father's roofing business back in the 90's and was my golf partner. He had bought season tickets back when Kraft bought the team, but had sold them recently to a vendor of his. We had gone to lots of games together, but were on a mission from God to go to this game. We wanted to experience one last game like cavemen, drunk, eating meat and watching fights. On Friday afternoon I found some tickets for $200 a piece and immediately called Billy, excitedly. He had already gotten us tickets from a vendor, for free.<br /><br />Yoo-hoo!!!!<br /><br />Saturday we got on the road at 11 AM. packed with beer and a crock pot full of meatballs and sausage. The game was an 8PM start, but we had a plan. Drink. Check into our hotel we booked knowing it was going to be a late, drunken evening. Spend the afternoon in Providence drinking. Get on our cold weather gear and head to the game. Things pretty much held to plan.<br /><br />During our ride down the Mass Pike the snow had already started falling as predicted, but was not yet sticking to the frozen pavement. It wisped back and forth across the road blown around by the speeding cars. We checked into our hotel in Attleboro on Route 1 about 5 miles from the stadium at 1PM. We plugged in the crock pot and hopped back in the car for the 15 minute ride to Providence and its warm, inviting stripper bars. The snow was still light as we made our way into "Club Fantasies". We opted for this joint on the recommendation of the front desk clerk at the hotel over the infamous "Foxy Lady". There is nothing like sitting in a warm, cozy stripper bar with 50+ naked women prancing about while drinking beer and shots of Jaegarmeister as the snow piles up outside. Its like Apres Ski without the Apres or the ski. Billy and I sat at the bar for the most part occasionally heading into "The Pit" (a squared off section next to the main stage) for a $5 sample table dance(an R-rated version of the $25, X-rated, private table dances done upstairs. We had lost time while in the joint and when we walked out sometime after 5 PM it was into "white out" conditions.<br /><br />It took us 45 minutes to make the 15 minute ride back to the hotel. We put on our "long johns" and waterproof gear, gathered up the meatballs and french bread and headed toward the stadium. My Bonneville handled surprisingly well in the snow and the trip to the stadium went smoothly. We stopped at a liquor store 2 miles from the stadium and Bill went in. He came out with 12 nips of Grand Mariner. We pulled in to the stadium parking lot and there were no discernible parking spaces. The snow was at least 8 inches deep. I had plugged the crock pot into my a/c converter which plugged into my lighter on the way to the stadium from the hotel, so we expected some steamy, hot meatballs to go with our beer. No go. The converter not only shorted the lighter, thus making our meatballs cold, it shorted out half the electrical system including the defroster, heater and inside lights. We sat in the car eating luke warm meatball grinders washed down with ice cold beer. 45 minutes before game time we filled our pockets with beer and nips of Grand Mariner and headed for the gates of the stadium. At the gates there were ticket takers and droves of security. I thought for sure we would have all of our booze confiscated. I handed the ticket taker my ticket and got a token pat down by a disinterested security person. I know he must have felt one of the five beers I carried in in my jacket pocket or one of the six nips I tucked in my socks. I turned to Billy as we headed to our seats in Section 216 and said "I guess Kraft is trying to save money on demo and is hoping someone brings in a bomb". "I'll drink to that" he said as he hoisted a Grand Mariner in a mock toast.<br /><br />The scene at our seats were something that could not be duplicated by the best of Hollywood's special effects artists. Snow was falling sideways under the dim lights. The grounds crew was walking back and forth over their respective yard line snow blowing the line so you could see the yardage. Players were warming up mainly by running in place or doing jumping jacks as to not get injured before the game even started. A fog was enveloping the stadium caused by the breath of 60,000 strong anticipating the kickoff.<br /><br />The game developed slowly. The only scoring in the first half was a Raiders touchdown, Gannon to Jett. In the third quarter the Russian born Sebastian Janikowski and the South Dakota born Vinateiri, both seemingly oblivious to the weather, accounted for dueling field goals with Janikowski winning 2 to 1. With the Pats down 13-3 the crowd got restless. Our half of the stadium, on the Pats sideline, spontaneously started chanting "We want Drew" in response to Brady's inefficiency. Drew was warming up on the sideline and seemed to zip the ball a bit stronger as the pleas for his entry became louder.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/RuGXXRnsxfI/AAAAAAAAALs/zrSuDMpcxdY/s1600-h/aaaa.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107529878537553394" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/RuGXXRnsxfI/AAAAAAAAALs/zrSuDMpcxdY/s400/aaaa.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Then there was the forth quarter.<br /><br />Brady appeased the masses by driving the ball down field early in the quarter and ran one in cutting the Raiders lead to 3. Miss cues on both sides ensued. With under two minutes to go Brady dropped back to pass and was being tackled when the ball popped loose. The crowed groaned collectively as a Raider pounced on the ball. I started yelling hoarsely, drunkenly "His arm was going forward, they are going to reverse it." I repeated it a number of times while people stood in dead silence or headed sullenly for the exits. Some guy a few rows in front turned around and told me to shut up. Just as I was about to dive over a couple of rows to fulfil the trifecta of booze, meat and blood the ref said the play was being reviewed. I suddenly went from drunk "belligerent" guy to drunk "knows what hes talking about" guy. The call was reversed and everyone was hugging, high 5-ing and kissing like it was New Years Eve. The guy that told me to shut up even gave me a high 5 which I reciprocated as hard as I could.<br /><br />Brady took advantage of the second chance, but couldn't get us within "chip shot" range which on a night like that would've been inside the ten, if that. He got us to the 30 with just under 30 seconds to go. The snow seemed to pick up in intensity when Vinitieri was lining up the field goal attempt. As the ball lifted off the ground into the falling snow I immediately sunk my head. The trajectory of the kick was way too low to travel 47 yards and I didn't want to see it miss. As I stared at the pile of beer cans and bottles of Grand Mariner, covered with snow, piled at my feet the roaring erupted. The kick carried just enough over the cross bar to tie the game at 13 - 13. Every hair on my body was standing on end. People were falling over their seats. For two straight minutes everyone in the stadium was bouncing in unison, screaming and laughing.<br /><br />This never happens to us, we never get the breaks.<br /><br />The ghosts of Ben Dreith, Buckner, Piersall, "The Fridge", Desmond Howard and Bucky Dent who had been lingering over the moment retreated hastily from the joy and ectasy rarley experienced on a January night in New England.<br /><br />Over time was anti-climactic. We won the coin toss, drove the field and AV made a chip shot right in front of us to win the game. As Lonnie Paxton was making snow angels below the stands were a sea of euphoria. People were screaming, jumping, cackling, hooting, hollering and even crying. I stood there like a lifeless spector not making a noise, but soaking in the sights and sounds of the moment until Billy bear hugged me bringing me back from my daze. No one left their seats for an hour. Every fan stayed there listening to the post game interviews being broadcast over the loudspeakers, drinking smuggled booze and telling tales of this game and games prior. It was like an Irish wake, drunken and raucous, but touching.<br /><br />We made it back to the Bonneville about 2:30 AM, but didn't get out onto Route 1 until after 3AM. We passed out at our hotel immediately. I woke up at 7 AM to take a piss. As I stood over the bowl, still drunk, I noticed that my right hand was killing me. I inspected it figuring I must have slept on it the wrong way, but the palm was black and blue. I sat on the end of my bed flummoxed, then it hit me. As I walked out of the stadium I high fived at least 1000 people.<br /><br />We got on the road by 10 AM. At home I alternated between worlds on my couch while watching the Steelers and Rams win. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the breath rising and the snow falling. It was a mid-winter nights dream.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-63883030642790859852009-01-21T10:48:00.005-05:002009-01-21T11:17:45.886-05:00Just Another Ordinary Day<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SXdJ66ZbmFI/AAAAAAAAAmA/nsTeLqECU2Y/s1600-h/US%2520Flag.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293781163454470226" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SXdJ66ZbmFI/AAAAAAAAAmA/nsTeLqECU2Y/s400/US%2520Flag.jpg" /></a><br />Today is just another ordinary day. I woke up. Drank a shitload of coffee. Made breakfast. Got one son ready for school. Got the other one ready for the day. Did some work. Checked the ice on my rink.<br /><br />Inauguration day is always amazing to me. Peaceful transfer of power, hope, trepidation all converge in a show of pomp and circumstance that rivals most monarchies. Freedom is fluid and the fact that we can change the ruling party overnight without bloodshed or violence makes this country the most remarkable and stable society in history. Yesterday a black man was sworn in as President of the United States. No shots fired. No unusual displays of discourse. As extraordinary as it was that we elected a black man as President of the Untied States it was just another ordinary inauguration. It was just a beautifully orchestrated show of our countries unity and common ground.<br /><br />To me,the fact that this Inauguration Day was business as usual shows how far we have come and what makes our country the greatest in the history of this planet.<br /><br />Here's to many ordinary days to come.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-85431414908282410582009-01-14T09:01:00.008-05:002009-01-21T12:08:56.070-05:00The Rink...Bigger and Better<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3zn3NEq2I/AAAAAAAAAlY/Sa51x3Uwv0o/s1600-h/Picture+001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291153003389430626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3zn3NEq2I/AAAAAAAAAlY/Sa51x3Uwv0o/s400/Picture+001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Last year I built a skating rink in my backyard (<a href="http://sullsblog.blogspot.com/2008/01/rink.html">read here</a>). This year its bigger and better. Last year it was about 60 x 25 when all said and done. This year its 70 X 40. A new net and some tweaking such as keeping an unfrozen hose in the basement for nightly icings have made for a perfect surface. Since I dropped my digital camera in my coffee Xmas morning I can only download picutes in the camera's memory (the memory cards are unusable in the camera, now), so when I buy a new camera in the next week or two I'll take some action pics. Until then enjoy some pictures taken after this past weekends snowstorm.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3ytIjW-1I/AAAAAAAAAlA/dcxcC3QRNZE/s1600-h/Picture+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291151994434026322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3ytIjW-1I/AAAAAAAAAlA/dcxcC3QRNZE/s400/Picture+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3zRMfZo7I/AAAAAAAAAlQ/tVdyYEFX2qQ/s1600-h/Picture+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291152613966455730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3zRMfZo7I/AAAAAAAAAlQ/tVdyYEFX2qQ/s400/Picture+004.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3zALTLZxI/AAAAAAAAAlI/c3BBpfADyes/s1600-h/Picture+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291152321588979474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/SW3zALTLZxI/AAAAAAAAAlI/c3BBpfADyes/s400/Picture+002.jpg" border="0" /></a>David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-25124292063627617462009-01-05T07:59:00.007-05:002009-01-05T09:58:20.869-05:00Normalcy Returns...Whatever THAT IsSince my last posting life has been a roller coaster, on ice, with the riders all smoking crack, puking, with the flu and me strapped to the tracks.<br /><br /><strong>December 13, 2008</strong><br /><br />My five year old son Matt and I left hockey practice at the Mullins Center on the UMass campus both drained. I had that foreboding feeling you get when you know you are getting sick. Matt is usually a tiger on the ice, but today skated like a kitten. He starts a small cough as we pull into our driveway.<br /><br /><strong>December 17, 2008</strong><br /><br />Matt and I are both coughing all night, but it subsides in the AM. Matt goes to school to endure his own sleep deprived hell, while I have to fight my lack of sleep while doing last minute Christmas preparations with my three year old Peter in tow. Pete hasn't gotten sick...yet.<br /><br /><strong>December 19, 2008 </strong><br /><br />Matt goes off to school in the AM. Amazingly, he hasn't missed a day off school, but is obviously not feeling well. He has a dry cough and is lethargic, but can function. I have offered to keep him home each of the last three mornings, but he chooses to go to school. He must realize that being home with me while I'm sleep deprived and sick would be worse than him being sleep deprived and sick sitting in his classroom. Pete still seems OK. Mom goes to work each day and seems oblivious to our plight. She is immersed in her yearly pre-Christmas mania. She won't be able to relax until sometime Christmas night. I am supposed to meet my friend Eric in Foxboro tomorrow for a night of drinking then a Pats game in the snow on Sunday. I consider cancelling, but figure that being sleep deprived and sick while drunk watching football in the snow is better than being sleep deprived and sick hanging out with a stressed out wife, sick kid and an energy filled unsick kid.<br /><br /><strong>December 20,2008</strong><br /><br />I wake up feeling better than I have in days. Matt seems better too. I get out while the gettin's good. I drive to Franklin Mass where I meet my friend Eric who currently lives in Maine. We have gone to a Pats game every year for close to 20 years. Even when he lived in Cleveland we would meet in Buffalo for a game. We spent the night drinking, re-telling drunken tales of old, etc... I fall asleep in a queen sized bed to the sound of my own snoring.<br /><br /><strong>December 21,2008</strong><br /><br />Eric and I trudge to the game in an eight inch snowstorm. I am not hungover, but only have three Bud Lights in the car in the parking lot outside of the stadium while cranking the heat and watching the snow melt on my wind shield. the snow piles up outside my vehicle. We are sitting eight rows up from the field in the corner end zone. The game is a joke. The Patriots are up 24 - 0 sometime in the second quarter. We consider leaving early, but are the types that don't leave cause you never know if a once in a lifetime play or occurrence will happen. In the third quarter it does. Cassell throws a screen pass out to his left to Randy Moss who has a 70 yard clear run to the end zone, our end zone. As he cruised down the sideline it was as if he was all alone and running toward me, only me. Like in a love story with two lovers running toward each other in a field of daisy's I made my way down the eight steps and got to the railing overlooking the end zone just as Randy crossed the goal line. He started walking toward me with the ball outstretched. I quickly realized that he was bringing the ball to a kid who was standing next to me with his dad. As he handed the ball to the starstruck tyke I was reaching down patting Randy on the shoulder pads. It was a real, live Coke commercial (you remember the one where Mean Joe Greene throws the shirt to the kid). We leave the game in the forth quarter with the Pats up 47 - 7. I get home and scour the Internet for footage of me and Randy's moment.<br /><br /><strong>December 22, 2008 </strong><br /><br />While I was on my "man" weekend Pete and Lori become ill. Pete has a 102 degree temp and Lori has an upper respiratory something. She goes to work, Matt goes to school and Pete pukes a half a dozen times. There always seems to be penance to pay after a "man" weekend. Pete naps numerous times throughout the day as do I.<br /><br /><strong>December 24, 2008</strong><br /><br />Pete is getting better, but still whiny. I drop him and Matt at my sister-in-laws while I drive to Boston to pick up my Uncle Mac. I stop at my mother, aunt and grandmother's grave site and leave them a Christmas gift then head to BC where my uncle has worked for 45 years and picked him up for the 100 Mile ride west. We get back to Northampton around 2 PM and spend the afternoon watching "A Christmas Carol", doing last minute wrapping and watching the kids get wound up for Santa. We go to my sister's house for a turkey dinner about 6PM, but get out of there by eight to put the kids in bed, for Santa.<br /><br /><strong>December 25, 2008 </strong><br /><br />Christmas morning was magical, until I dropped our digital camera in my coffee, ruining it. If I dropped the camera 1000 times it would not have fit perfectly in my cup as it did. The day was great, otherwise. We hosted dinner at our house. While the kids played with their new toys the adults drank wine and Irish coffee, gorged themselves on my wife's dessert creations and watched "Bad Santa".<br /><br /><strong>December 26, 2008 </strong><br /><br />I dragged my ass from the couch playing the Wii Santa brought for the kids and placed plastic down on the area I had snow blowed last week on the side of my house. My rink will be bigger and better than last year. My uncle helps lay down the plastic, but falls hard on his ass, but is OK. He won't be the first person to fall on his ass on the rink this year.<br /><br /><strong>December 31, 2008</strong><br /><br />In the midst of his first school vacation Matt is in a Wii induced coma, rarely leaving the couch to eat or use the bathroom. At one point I think he shit himself and just when I'm about to yell at him I hear the cat was scraping around in the litter box. We have a babysitter come over around 5 PM and we go out for a quick, but intimate dinner at the Whately Inn. We go home and play the Wii until 11 PM. We go to bed and are asleep 1/2 hour before the New Year.<br /><br /><strong>January 2, 2009</strong><br /><br />Matt and I are skating on our rink. Pete went skating for the first time earlier in the week at the Mullin's Center free skate and was able to stay up by himself by the end of the skate. He has no interest in skating today, but says he'll skate with "mom" when mom skates. Fricken "mama's boy"! There are a few rough spots, but it's skatable now and will only get better with consecutive icings and colder weather.<br /><br /><strong>January 3, 2009</strong><br /><br />Hockey practice was nothing short of awesome. Matt and I were both back to our normal selves, skating hard for the first time since early December. We just introduced sticks and pucks to practice which makes it feel like hockey instead of skating practice. Tomorrow we'll skate on our rink at home then it's back to school Monday. Time to get off the roller coaster.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-17726548846872150842008-12-14T10:01:00.000-05:002008-12-14T10:03:23.592-05:00The Littlest Angel<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/R2sjhT6RtnI/AAAAAAAAAOY/b3cDuQnbadA/s1600-h/angel2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146246054388282994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Gg0zUOxYQ9w/R2sjhT6RtnI/AAAAAAAAAOY/b3cDuQnbadA/s400/angel2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There are events in life which occur with such resounding force that the shock waves are felt for decades. The ripple effect of these events can be felt by those who where never present or even born when the event occurred. <strong>December 14, 1970 </strong>is the date of one of those events in my life and that of my family.<br /><br />Its the day my brother died.<br /><br />He was 1 month, 26 days old.<br /><br />Derek was born in mid-October during the brilliance and splendor of Autumn in New England. I remember going to visit my mother and Derek in the hospital the day after he was born. My aunt and I drove over to Saint Margaret's hospital in Dorchester braving a chilly fall rain. As we made our way to the maternity ward we stopped at the gift shop. I begged her to buy a little doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, for my new brother. After what probably seemed like hours of groveling to her, she relented. I can't recall presenting him with my gift, but it became a fixture in his crib, at our home.<br /><br />A new baby adds spice to a home, sometimes mild and sweet and at other times hot, unbearably hot. My mother was born high strung. If she were in school today she would be diagnosed with ADD, ADHD, PTSD or one of the myriad of other afflictions, abbreviated with letters. The month following Derek's birth was a mish-mash of highs and lows. The tenor of the household mirrored my mother's mood.<br /><br />I can remember her crying uncontrollably, while smoking at the kitchen table while Derek was lying on the couch, surrounded by pillows.<br /><br />I can remember sitting with my mother on the front steps of our apartment in Hyde Park. It was a warm Fall day and the trees were shedding their leaves. She allowed me to hold my brother while she watched, tentatively. I remember the smell of crisp fallen leaves while I cradled his tiny head.<br /><br />I remember my mother and I laughing uncontrollably while I "helped" her change his diaper. He peed all over the two of us.<br /><br />I remember my father (who was usually no where to be found) and mother fighting loudly, while I rubbed my brothers head while he lay in his crib.<br /><br />The night of December 13, 1970 was a typical night in my childhood home. My mother downstairs smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. My sisters playing in their room. My brother Mark and I jumping on our beds in our room. Mark and I took Derek out of his crib and put him on my bed. We jumped around him while he lay in the middle. He didn't cry, he just seemed content watching us. We assumed he enjoyed the gentle jostling.<br /><br />The next few days were a blur.<br /><br />Who knows what traumas we block out of our minds. If we knew then they wouldn't be blocked, but open for examination. Some memories are best hidden from our consciousness.<br /><br />I don't remember much about the day my brother died. I recall sadness, grief. I recall standing across the street from my house with the snow lightly falling, telling a schoolmate from my kindergarten class about my brother. I recall my mother promising me that they would bury my gift, the baby-boy-blue doll with him, so he wouldn't be alone. My mother brought me a flower from his funeral. We pressed it in plastic, and put it in an encyclopedia. From then, through my high school years, I would come across it when looking up something beginning with an "S" or a "T" and think of him.<br /><br />My mother was never the same. From mid-October to December 14th every year until the day she died was torturous. She blamed herself for his death. The morning he died she got him from his crib for his morning feeding. She tried to get him to latch on, but he just wouldn't take her breast. She tried again and noticed that he was cold, motionless. He was gone.<br /><br />"Crib Death" we were always told. When my mother passed in 1999 we found Derek's death certificate amongst her belongings. Cause of death: acute cardiac failure, emaciation.<br /><br />Emaciation.<br /><br />That explained the years of autumnal depression. The years of self loathing and self destruction. I, myself, thought I played a role in his passing. For decades I thought that maybe that night we were jumping on my bed that we hurt him, somehow. It was no ones fault. Our frolicking on the bed had nothing to do with it. My mother gave him everything she had, unfortunately she barely had enough to care for herself. The well had run dry.<br /><br />Christmas time was always bittersweet. Ghosts of Christmas past were not friendly specters guiding my mother toward redemption, but haunting reminders of inadequacies and failure. Someway, somehow, my mother was able to emotionally detach immediately the day after the anniversary of Derek's death each year and get ready for Christmas. I don't know how she did it, but she was always able to pull off Christmas without her emotions getting in the way of our enjoyment of the holiday. As the years went by her grief became more and more transparent until it got to the point where she was paralyzed by her loss and unable to find any joy in the season<br /><br />The year Derek died and for many years following, there was a Christmas special on TV titled "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0064595/"><span style="color:#ff0000;">The Littlest Angel</span></a>". It was the story about a boy (played by Johnny Whitaker, Jodie on "Family Affair") who dies and goes to Heaven, but is allowed to go back to earth to get his cherished treasure box, so he may give it as a gift to the Christ child on Christmas. Each Christmas I imagined that Derek was the "littlest angel" and gave his favorite toy, his doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, to baby Jesus.<br /><br />In August of 1999, when I received the news of my mother's death my thoughts immediately turned to Derek.<br /><br />I imagined him welcoming my mother into heaven.<br /><br />I imagined her sense of relief when he forgave her for not having enough to give.<br /><br />I was comforted by the thought of them being together again.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-8677709398195221592008-12-11T11:29:00.003-05:002008-12-11T16:13:50.227-05:00Paying It BackwardLast week I brought my clients to a Christmas party. Being a director in a non-profit human service agency I have lots of responsibilities. One of those responsibilities is making appearences at various agency functions some involving the folks we serve and others with just co-workers. I loath these events. When attending the events with co-workers I have to make small talk and feign interest in people's problems and stories. When attending events with our individuals I have to make small talk and feign interest in their problems and interests.<br /><br />In the last few weeks I have been more misanthropic than usual. I have been irritable. My kids have been driving me crazy. My employees have been driving me nutty. My wife and I can't have a conversation that doesn't end in some sort of arguement or misunderstanding. Going to a client Christmas party was the last thing I needed.<br /><br />The party was held at a large banquet hall, the same place where my agency's annual dinner is held. There was a sumptious buffet dinner served complete with carved roast beef, turkey and ham with plenty of fixin's. I got a plate of food and sat down at a table with three of my current clients. They are men with traumatic brain injuries who are living in one of our residential programs. They were in the holiday spirit greeeting people who passed our table and humming along to holiday music. I was eating quickly, hopng to slip out unnoticed while going up for another plate of food.<br /><br />As I was shoving a hunk of ham in my mouth I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a former client who I hadn't seen in a whlie. He told me how he had moved on from one of our group homes into his own semi-supervised apartment and that he had just gotten his driver's license. I was floored. This is a guy who has a borderline mentally retarded diagnoses and had been living in a highly restrictive program set up for high risk clients. I congratulated him on his successes and promised to visit him in his new digs.<br /><br />As I went up for more food someone yelled out my name. It was a woman who I worked with ten years ago who suffered from variuos mental disabilites and was a raging alcoholic. She informed me that she has been sober for three years and is living independantly with only 2 hours of staff per week.<br /><br />Comming back from the buffet line I saw a table with men I had worked with who were all living in the same group home. I sat with them and listened to them tell me about their successes like working or getting along well with family and housemates.<br /><br />On the way for some coffee I met another guy who I worked with who moved in with new housemates recently who were much less challenging than his former housemates. He shook my hand and hugged me and said "I remember you Dave Sullivan, you took me to Cape Cod to see the seals" and he proceeded to make seal noises. We laughed, fist bumped and went on our way.<br /><br />After dinner I slipped out, grabbing a few cookies off the dessert buffet in the process.<br /><br />As I drove out of the parking lot I thought about the party. I had seen at least twenty past and present clients. All of them were happy to see me. All of them were doing well. All of them were making the best of their lives and didn't bitch and moan about their situation. I thought about each one of my individuals and the time I spent with them; the good times and tough times. I realized that I had a part in all of their recent fortunes be it big or small. Driving down the road I realized that I was smiling.<br /><br />For the first time in weeks I wasn't miserable.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-377654422220563592008-12-01T10:16:00.001-05:002008-12-02T14:35:54.368-05:00First Road Trip (Part VI)I awoke to the sight of my uncle looming over the piles of cushions and blankets looking slightly amused. "Do you guys want to go to IHOP for breakfast?". To this day pancakes are some of the best medicine for my hangovers and it was no different then.<br /><br />Sunday morning was sunny and brisk. The leafless trees made things a bit brighter than a few weeks earlier, thus exacerbating the pounding in my head. We were seated right away and discussed the Patriots chances that day. The coffee was horrible, but helped to bring us back to some sense of normalcy. We all agreed that the Patriots high powered offense gave them a shot at a win. We dropped my Uncle off in front of his house and purposely stayed in the car as to avoid answering my aunt's prying questions.<br /><br />We headed south on Route 1 toward Foxboro. As we approached the stadium traffic came to a crawl. The smell of charcoal and cooking meat was almost as intoxicating as the perfume and booze from the night before. As we were being parked we saw our first fight. Two punks punching an older guy while the older guy's old friend was trying to pull the punks away. The older guy had a bloody nose. There were no police or security in sight so the fight played out to its gruesome end. Punks 7, Old Guys 0.<br /><br />We skipped the tailgating, having done enough partying the night before and headed right into the stadium. We went down to the end zone to watch warm ups. The receivers and tight ends were doing passing drills directly in front of us. I was in awe of the size and speed of these men up close. Andy Hasslebeck, a Patriots tight end caught a warm up toss and ran up to the stands were I was standing. He looked me directly in the eye and said "Hi". I was at least a foot higher than him in the stands, but we were eye to eye. I mentally crossed off "NFL Player" on my list of dream jobs.<br /><br />We settled into our seats and watched a great game. The first play of the game was a flea-flicker. Grogan handed off to Tatupu who tossed the ball back to Grogan who hit a streaking Stanley Morgan for a 76 yard touchdown. At half time I called Terri from a pay phone to let her know we made it safe and sound. She invited us to stop by after the game. Easton is the next town over from Foxboro, so I said we would. The game ended in regulation tied at 27. Despite the heroics of Tony Collins, Steve Grogan and John Smith, this game was a microcosm of their 2-14 season and although they were close, the Patsies gave up a field goal in OT. We fought through the sea of drunk men to the Corona and headed to Easton.<br /><br />Terri invited us in and we met her mom and dad. Her dad was a hulking Italian man who looked like he could have played for the Patriots. We went to her room where we giggled about the previous night. I wanted to get on the road before dark, so we gave each other some hugs and decided to get together again soon. The ride home was uneventful. We drove non stop hoping not to tempt fate one more time. I dropped Jeff off at his door and he thanked me for "the best night of his life". He wrote Charlene back and forth for a year, but never saw her again. <br /><br />It was a wicked good time. I was more than thankful that I could report to my mother that her car was in one piece and that I managed to stay out of jail. Upon returning home I kissed my mother and went straight to bed. I lay there staring at the ceiling, basking in the glow of a successful first road trip. I didn't get the girl, but then again I didn't get arrested. I thought about the next road trip and where it would take me. The horse was out of the barn.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-85015715809228215882008-11-25T12:20:00.005-05:002008-11-25T13:23:33.145-05:00First Road Trip (Part V)Jeff and Charlene went back to making out on the log. "Come on Char, we've got to get out of here. Lets walk to Robin's house 'cause the cops will be watching the car", Terri said urgently. "Don't worry Terri. You are wicked nervous for no reason" slurred Charlene. "Come on Jeff, lets get the fuck out of here. We've got to get back to Boston. Its after midnight", I demanded. "I ain't fuckin' goin' anywhere", Jeff was hammered. The days drinking combined with the fact that I was trying to separate him from the one girl that finally allowed him to stick his tongue in her mouth made him ornery. I looked at Terri and shrugged my shoulders, resigned to sitting in the woods watching the happy couple push the limits of their fledgling sexuality. Terri wasn't so patient. "You boys can stay here, but we've got to go" she pronounced. "We're staying right Char?", Jeff was insistent on keeping the night going. "Jeff let me talk to you" Charlene stood up motioned for him to follow her. They stumbled through the brush behind a tree. She talked, he nodded. When they were done talking they rejoined us. "Come on Terri, lets walk to Robin's. My brother will pick us up there if I call him". Jeff was silent, but even in the darkness I could feel him glaring, seething. "Lets go down the hill parallel to the trail", I tried to act like I had a plan. We had just enough ambient light from the parking lots that we made it down the hill unscathed. There were no cops in sight as we peered out from behind the building. We walked over to the car. Jeff and Charlene started groping each other, while I opened the door and got in the Corona. Terri came over to the drivers side window and made me promise to call her in the morning to let her know we made it back alright. "I promise I'll call you" Charlene assured Jeff as he got in the passenger seat. Once in the car Jeff said "Thanks a fuckin' lot Sully". I stared forward, starting the car. I beeped as we drove by the girls walking to their friend's.<br /><br />We drove in silence up 138 toward Boston. I replayed the nights events over in my head. How did Jeff get a girl and I didn't? Terri definitely likes me. Should we have stayed? How did I not get arrested today? I looked over at Jeff as we passed Blue Hills Reservation; he was out cold.<br /><br />We pulled up to my grandmother's house just before 1 AM. While parking I hit the curb, hard. We walked in the door and there was my aunt and grandmother watching TV waiting for us. "What was that out there? Did you hit my car?" , here comes the inquisition, I thought. "No Auntie Rosie," I responded in a sing songy voice "I'm just not used to parallel parking in front of cars. I hit the curb". It was partially true. Instead of backing in like you are supposed to when parallel parking I just pulled straight in, nailing the curb. "Well, glad you're back safe and sound. Come on Ma lets go to bed. Oh, Mac wants to take you boys out for breakfast before the game tomorrow". My Aunt and Grandmother got up and gave me kisses and retired to their bedrooms. I pulled some cushions off the chairs and love seat and put them on the floor for us to sleep on, then got some blankets and pillows out of the closet. As we lay there in the dark Jeff broke his silence, "Sorry Sull". "You don't have to be sorry. I understand". <br /><br />I really did.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33667788.post-23816573590896391082008-11-22T08:19:00.009-05:002008-11-22T20:55:09.117-05:00First Road Trip (Part IV)"Hide the booze. We're getting stopped by the cops" I bellowed, turning off the music and shoving my beer under the front seat. I pulled over to the side of the road. The car was silently bathed in bright white light shone from a spotlight mounted on the cruiser. My breathing stopped as the officer peered in my driver's side window. "Good evening son. Can I see your license and registration?". I opened the glove box and there was the empty pint of Blackberry Brandy. I quickly shoved it under some paper napkins my mother had accumulated from trips to various fast food joints. I deftly pulled out the registration from under the napkins and empty booze bottle. I turned to the officer, handing him the documents, expecting an inquiry about the contents of the glove box, but he didn't notice. "You got your license yesterday?", he chuckled. He poked his head in the car. "Looks like you've got your hands full in there" he said to Jeff whose look of ecstasy was replaced by one of someone who had just shat himself. "Was I speeding officer?" I asked trying to get the attention out of the backseat where the beer was hidden somewhere in the mass of bodies. "No son, but you rolled through a stop sign about a mile back and I noticed you had too many people in the car. Where are you guys going?". "The movies", I lied, quickly. "Well this is a warning. Come to a complete stop next time and don't overload your car. Have fun." He handed me back my license and registration and gave me a smile that might as well been a high five. I started breathing again and the party rolled on.<br /><br />We got to the party spot just a few minutes after getting stopped. We parked in front of a strip mall and went around to the back. There was a wooded hillside with a trail leading upward, dimly lit by the from the parking lot. We ascended the trail fumbling and feeling our way up the hillside. I strategically place myself behind Terri. Near the top of the climb the trees were basked in an orangish glow. At the top of the hill was a wooded glen formed by four huge rock faces in a semi circle. There was a roaring bonfire in the middle of the glen with dozens of kids drinking beer from a keg that was placed next to one of the rock formations. The hum of chatter hung over the glen mixing with the crackle and smoke from the fire. It was a modern, teenage Stonehenge. I imagined teen aged druids doing the same thing thousands of years earlier.<br /><br />Our arrival was accompanied by drunken screams. Girlfriends of our girls coming over to give hugs and proclamations of their drunkenness. There were a few inquiries about us strangers, but we naturally blended into the scene. I struck up a conversation at the keg with a guy wearing a North Easton High hockey jacket. I asked him if he knew Jim Craig, the goalie from the 1980 US Olympics Hockey team that had defeated the Russians en route to winning the gold medal, being that he was from Easton. He drunkenly regaled me with stories of Jim Craig playing hockey and partying with his older brothers. After some time he asked who I came with. When I mentioned Terri he asked "You bangin' her?". "Not yet." I replied with a hint of self assuredness which got me a high five and a loud, intoxicated "WHOOOO, HOOOO", the closest we get to a rebel yell here in stoic New England.<br /><br />I found Terri, Renee and Lisa hanging with some of their girlfriends by the fire. I did a sweep of the glen looking for Jeff. Jeff was nowhere to be found. Neither was Charlene. I went back to the fire to hang with the girls. I pounded down keg beer listening to the girls chatter about who was dating who and who was wearing what and who was doing what drugs. I watched Terri and even while spewing gossip she was adorable. Our eyes met for a second and I nodded my head away from the fire in the direction of the keg. We walked side by side toward the keg, playfully bumping each other. I grabbed her hand and held it tightly leading her past the keg to the edge of the glen. As we reached the darkness I turned to face her. Her form was silhouetted against the glow of the fire, breath rising in the cold November air. I couldn't see her eyes or mouth, so I reached up, brushing her cheek, searching for her lips. As I leaned in toward her, a commotion broke out in the glen. "Cops", someone shouted. Sure enough four uniformed officers appeared over Terri's shoulder entering the glen from the trail. Kids scattered in all directions like leaves in the wind. I grabbed Terri by the hand and led her deeper into the woods. We reached a small clearing where Jeff and Charlene were cozying up on a log. "What's up?", asked Charlene.<br /><br />Fucking cops.David Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06847923057333798936noreply@blogger.com2