Where Did the Bow Break?

I have always loved being a dad, despite the egregious lack of credentials and absence of any semblance of requisite skills. Thanks to modern technology, Sigrid and I knew enormous amounts about our children long before either of them was born (so far in advance, I, of the short attention span, sometimes lose track of their actual dates of birth). 

They were our children well before either of them was a person. As adults now in their own right, they have to struggle with a father who 'knows' they are grown-ups, but who has decided that may be true in another world, though not his.

True to form and family tradition, I was much more comfortable when our children were younger. I had a tough time winning over Patrick or Michelle when they were infants since it was hard to successfully show them how smart I seemed, possibly because I wasn't. 

Since they had no basis for comparison at their age, it should have been really easy and I should have drawn some conclusions when it wasn't. Except I've always been bad at Art, as well as Paul. It was easy being one of the two grown-ups in the house with all the answers, even though in my case I married a grown-up with all the answers instead of being one.

Raising a Child by Andrei Popov

There were the days of learning to tie shoes, to ride bikes, and to drive cars. The medical emergencies of pinched fingers, sprained ankles, and skinned knees. I was never good at matters of the heart--those have always seemed to be the easiest to break and the hardest to heal. For a guy who talks a lot, I've never known what to say especially when the mantra of 'everything will be alright' is revealed so often to be a shining lie.

I used to suggest to our children when the hurt got worse and the heart got harder that there was a reason why things had worked out the way they had(n't). But we all saw that as a tall tale from a short man. 

I'm in that neighborhood again now; knowing I can hope and I can hover but I can't always fix. Or soothe the pain should all the laughter turn to tears.
-bill kenny

Make Some History of Our Own

The Minute Men are part of the history of our region and a national treasure. They were, if you will, the original first responders even before we were a country. In the nearly two hundred and fifty years since we declared our independence, we've had minute men and women of every kind for every challenge. 

Be it in response to attacks of war through economic calamity or catastrophic acts of nature, their response has always been immediate and unquestioning.

I'm thinking maybe we should put some time back on the clock and see if there are still minute men among us. Here in Norwich, we have a target-rich environment for those wishing to extend a helping hand. 

There isn't a Norwich neighborhood that doesn't have a household not in need of a friendly face that can visit with a winter-bound senior citizen for some conversation and some caring or who could read a child an after-school story so a care-giver had fifteen minutes of 'me time' before starting supper. None of that costs any of us anything but its worth is incalculable and impact, beyond measurement.

Speaking of children, the Board of Education has regular monthly, publicized meetings. That might be your chance to go beyond the headlines of one of our local newspapers (the other one, when not ignoring the Board's existence entirely offers little better than drive-by analysis) and to learn more about where the Norwich Public School system is heading and hear firsthand about what our children and teachers are involved in daily. 

And perhaps, most importantly, it's your opportunity to make your voice for informed choice heard.

We spend so much time talking about downtown economic development it's hard to remember it's also where people live and work. Too many of us use the Chelsea District as a shortcut to get us from one place to another. Too late we discover we're nowhere at all.

And sometimes, we're so focused on just downtown that it's hard for someone who lives on Jail Hill or in Taftville (to name just two places) to believe anyone, anywhere cares about his street or her neighborhood. Sometimes we really are ten villages in search of a city. And sometimes we get tired of trying to carry everyone on our back and forget we don't have to do it alone. That's why we've chosen to live in our city, so we can help one another.

A lot of what needs to be done takes resources we don't have (right now), and figuring out how to acquire them will be a critical part of that job. Many cannot happen overnight but will take months, and in some cases, years. But some things in the immediate here and now only take a minute, if we have the time and the desire to help.
-bill kenny

Torrents of Words

I've been hurling words, dangling participles/split infinitives/transitive and passive voice abominations for over seventeen years. If you've been reading them, it probably feels a lot longer. Ouch! 

My bruised and battered feelings aside, I can write for the next seventeen years and never approach the brilliance of this. Enjoy.

“The Way It Works” by Charles Bukowski

she came out at 9:30 a.m. in the morning

and knocked at the manager's door:

"my husband is dead!"

they went to the back of the building together

and the process began:

first the fire dept. sent two men

in dark shirts and pants

in vehicle #27

and the manager and the lady and the

two men went inside as she

sobbed.

he had knifed her last April and

had done 6 months for that.

the two men in dark shirts came out

got in their vehicle

and drove away.

then two policemen came.

then a doctor (he probably was there to

sign the death certificate).

I became tired of looking out the

window and began to

read the latest issue of

The New Yorker.

when I looked again there was a nice

sensitive-looking gray-haired gentleman

walking slowly up and down the

sidewalk in a dark suit.

then he waved in a black

hearse which

drove right up on the lawn and stopped

next to my porch.

two men got out of the hearse

opened up the back

and pulled out a gurney with 4

wheels. they rolled it to the back of the

building. when they came out again he was in a

black zipper bag and she was in

obvious distress.

they put him in the

hearse and then walked back to

her apartment and went inside

again.

I had to take out my laundry and

run some other errands.

Linda was coming to visit and

I was worried about her seeing that

hearse parked next to my porch.

so I left a note pinned to my door

that said: Linda, don't worry.

I'm ok. and

then I took my dirty laundry to my car and

drove away.

when I got back the hearse was gone and

Linda hadn't arrived yet.

I took the note from the door and

went inside.

well, I thought, that old guy in back

he was about my age and

we saw each other every day but

we never spoke to one another.

now we wouldn't have to.

If you learned to read for no other reason but to read this, be glad you did.
-bill kenny

Rethinking 'Deus Ex Machina'

Since I don't suffer from an irony deficiency, I find it nearly humorous when interacting with devices connected to the internet to have to prove to their satisfaction that I, Mr. Flesh-and-Blood Stumblebunny, am really not a machine, to what is really very much a machine.

I'm not sure if I'm auditioning for something or jockeying for a pole position as the machines create a Colosseum for their own amusement (I'd like to be Team Bread, preferably rye with seeds if that's possible). 

I may be the only one disquieted by this type of stuff-no one else I've encountered in the humansphere has voiced any misgivings so, lemming that I am, perhaps I should shut my yap and hold on tighter to my flotation ring as I edge inexorably towards the cliff.     

But, remember you read it here, well, not exactly first that's for sure....all of this now also involves God which makes a great deal of sense to me as a Fallen Away Roman Catholic. The Lord and I have a strained relationship though not necessarily the one Voltaire seems to have had. 

Sacré bleu! If there is a God, that might explain all the 'Il fait vraiment chaud ici !' that François-Marie Arouet is shouting, especially as The Lord is moving in slightly less mysterious ways beyond His current Invisible Friend status according to this Associated Press report is to be believed.

No matter your language or profession of faith (or lack thereof), kneel to confess and then rise cleansed and sanctified. It might remind you of a modern-day literature classic though we've made learning to read optional. Based on recent events, we've already done that with thinking.
-bill kenny

(Be)Spoke

Some days, this is simply too easy. Seriously. 

From our 'Things not Jason' Collection

Like this item, starring Jason White of North Stonington, Connecticut ('C'mon Down!'). Remember those Radio Shack ads, "You've Got Questions. We've Got Answers." Indeed.

The news account reads like an entry in 'Hold My Beer.' Or is that just me?

Between Jason's explanation to the police for his headwear, "he 'was attempting to recreate the German helmet that his grandfather wore during World War II.'" I'm guessing Grandpa was on the Eastern Front as he wouldn't have lasted two minutes at the Atlantic Wall.

But wait, there's more:
"Police said they have been called to White’s home nine times between September and November, responding to complaints about White riding his bicycle naked with a cowboy hat, altering state signs with offensive language, or retrieving items from his neighbor’s yard while naked." 

Technically, if he's wearing a hat, he's not naked. Not sure he should bring that up in court but if he does, I'd suggest wearing the cowboy hat rather than the bicycle helmet. And, word to the wise, leave the bicycle locked up in the bike rack in front of the courthouse.
-bill kenny

Parting Should Be Painless

The Germans have an expression I very much enjoy "Lieber ein schreckliches Ende als Schrecken ohne Ende." Better a horrible ending than horrors without end.

We here in Norwich, Connecticut, having endured a years-long kabuki theater involving the (now incarcerated) manager of our public utilities, annual trips to the Kentucky Derby, and a stunningly appalling lack of ethics, have almost concluded another installment in another long-running almost-soap opera.

We recently terminated our association with our Superintendent of Schools for a school district with about 3,400 students, and no high school to speak of. I assumed we hired T. S. Eliot to handle the separation process as it ended, 'Not with a bang, but a whimper.' But he was either unavailable or more likely, unaffordable. 

That is, there was a settlement to our now-former employee who had been on administrative leave (with pay and benefits, and I'm guessing the car that was in the original contract) since the middle of September 2023 so we could conclude 2024 without them. 

Even before the settlement was announced, our Mayor was using it to berate the current Board of Education whose majority membership is NOT from his party, even though only one member who approved hiring the now ex-superintendent in the spring of 2019 is a member of the current board. Some people believe they help best by drilling a second hole in the boat. Shiver me timbers, mateys.

As a homeowner whose mortgage payments increased by over three hundred dollars a month due in no small part to the increase in my property taxes, an increase driven in part by education expenditures, I have skin in the game when it comes to funding the education all of our children will need as the 21st Century continues.

Defining outcomes and the methodologies and resources to achieve them, including choosing the next Superintendent (someone with corporate leadership experience rather than education background; they won't be teaching but managing a multi-million dollar enterprise) might be worth exploring. We too find blame like there was a reward for it and forget the problem remains. 
-bill kenny 

Can't Look At....

There's a thing I call 'Car Crash Fascination.' 

It's actually more than just car crashes, it's any accident or incident with calamitous or catastrophic outcomes. As a species, we're not drawn to them so much as we can't seem to look away from them.

They exert what Bowie (in a different context) called 'Strange fascinations,' and he was/is correct. I'm not sure anyone has ever figured out why it happens. I don't think it's in our biology since for the most part, we seem to run from and not towards danger or conflict. Why we react the way we do, as inexplicable and/or unexplainable as it may be, may well be part of why we are who we are.

All of which is my way of attempting to explain why I am sharing this with you.  

Hey! I did (sort of) try to warn you. You assumed I was not waving but drowning.
-bill kenny