A Ray though Not of Sunshine

Eighty-one years ago today, the United States dropped a plutonium atomic bomb nicknamed "Fat Man" on the Japanese port city of Nagasaki. Exploding at 11:02 a.m. at a height of about 500 meters, the blast killed an estimated 40,000 to 75,000 people instantly, with the total death toll reaching roughly 74,000 by the end of the year.

Today is as logical a choice, as any day this month to mark another anniversary: when Ray Bradbury first offered this short story in 1950: "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains."

Then it was fiction.

Now, we have global warming, famine and disease across many of the Third World countries; hatred of others unlike ourselves all across the globe, warfare and destruction from the Strait of Hormuz to the Crimea, and greed and cupidity fueling ignorant arrogance everywhere in the land of my birth. 

We're on the path of perdition, paved with perfidy, and don't seem to know or care.
-bill kenny

It's Only Water in a Stranger's Tear

I had someone once explain to me, as if I were not aware of it, that 'Norwich is not ...' (a town in this region known for having Julia Roberts work in a pizzeria). 

The person making that observation looked nothing like Carmen San Diego, who would know these things, but I've lived in southeastern Connecticut long enough to recognize the truth in that statement. 

As a matter of fact, the list of other places that Norwich is NOT is longer than my arm, but I think that's part of the problem that residents, old and new, have with our city and with one another.

"How can we be in if there is no outside?'
We need to agree on definitions of who we are, as residents and neighbors, and why we are here. I will concede some people have settled in Norwich as a result of losing a bar bet; we can probably remove them from this discussion, but everyone else, old, young, male, female, whatever color in the rainbow you choose to be, all the rest of us are in this together, some more so than others.

And if I may, let's define ourselves in positive terms.

As a parent of two young children, when my wife and I settled here in the fall of 1991, neither we nor Norwich are the same as we enter early August of 2026. What we are looking for now, a small city with interesting places to meet and restaurants in which to eat, is different from what those with school children seek, or those working shifts at one of the casinos, or those who lived their lives here and are looking forward to a quiet retirement. 

And all of us look to those who lead the city to deliver to each of us what we want.

Those who have been here for decades have memories and meanings that those who've arrived more recently can't comprehend or understand. Long-time residents look at downtown and see the ghosts of Norwich past and fear that none of what once was can ever return. 

Others, driving through the same downtown to work beyond the city, see potential and promise all along the route even if it's not 'textbook downtown,' while still others see only empty storefronts and defeat. 

Our challenge is not that we each see a different Norwich but that each of our visions of where we live shares a common theme that has us as victims who are powerless to change our own story.

That's where we need to accept that change begins with us and moves from house to house, street to street, and across every neighborhood. We've tried countless variations of "help needs to come from Hartford or Washington or from the lone developer on the grassy knoll." And when all is said, nothing is done. 

Some of us seem to think we must do everything ourselves and wait, somewhat aloof, until the world is ready to find us. Except Norwich has always been at its best when it has been a part of the bigger world. It's when we've retreated into our separate villages and eyed those approaching from beyond our borders with suspicion and distrust that we have failed. We've spent so much time waiting for a moment that we cannot even define, much less recognize.

It's what we do in the space between our birth and death, choosing to be an exclamation or an explanation, that matters. We have become a city of cynics who know the price of everything and the value of nothing. Every new idea, every different proposal, is examined to see what benefit 'they' derive at 'our expense.' How about this: who f'ckin' cares? 

Some of us think squabbling is dialogue; it's not, but it is destructive. When we talk to one another, not at each other; when we choose collaboration over confrontation; no matter who we have been until that moment, we all become citizens of the same city, the city we each call home, no matter our language, culture, or color. Let's face it, literally: we are Norwich
-bill kenny

She Was Easily Undone

There are some people you always remember the first time you met them. In my case, my wife and, of course, my two children. I knew the first time I saw her that I'd marry my wife. 

And I tease our children that thanks to technology, I knew who they were long before they knew me (I sometimes wonder if they could have, would we have still met, but I see no reason to start down a path whose twists and turns, and ending, I cannot foresee). We had names for them months before they arrived, and I took enormous comfort knowing I wasn't bringing a stranger into my home from the hospital.

Now, in an era where so much social media and technology have supplanted person-to-person, it's different in terms of 'the first I read your tweet' or the first 'like' someone placed on an image you'd posted. 

I sat alongside someone at an event recently who very politely made it clear as we spoke that Facebook, LinkedIn and Blue Sky were all fine but he still preferred the knock on the door and the 'hello, may I please introduce myself to you?' routine.

As Dylan observed in another life, those who are not busy being born are busy dying, and today will be another busy day here on the ant farm. All mouths, no ears. 

Some blame the pagers and cell phones. I think it's the batteries. Without them, we'd have none of our current devices unless we could accommodate the tether. But perhaps we could, since not even the birds are free; they are chained to the sky.
-bill kenny  

All in All

Our two children were raised on Duplo and Lego. 

This was PPC, pre-personal computer, of course, and the other competitive and complementary activities were books, board games, television, and the Outdoors.

Their minds grew, and imaginations flourished as they manipulated the brightly colored bricks and blocks. Somewhere in our basement, we have boxes full of the bricks, including the pirate ship and the space shuttle, but those two I can remember. Truly magical toys that are something new every time out of the box.

I don't think you or your children had to have ever played with any of that to be impressed by all of this. Just sit back, enjoy, and near the end is a menu of all the others that exist so you can go from one to the other. 

The video takes about forty minutes, and you already know you don't need to ask me how I'd know that, right? Absolute rubbish, laddie.
-bill kenny

Well, The Telephone Was Ringing....

I have the good fortune of rarely remembering my dreams, which would be a disappointment to oneirologists everywhere if I were a public figure of any import whose existence mattered to anyone at any time anywhere.

I say 'good fortune' because I'm wrestling with one I had recently, which I remember all too well and that disquieted me a great deal. My wife and I were home in her country, though I don't know where, and I actually don't know how I know that, as in the dream we never left the apartment where we lived with a third person whom I never managed to identify.

In the dream we had no children-just one another though I have no memory of whether we were young(er) or old(er) than we are now. And everything in the dream was in shades of brown.

I'm not sure in the dream if I realized it was a dream, which, I'm assured, in itself means something though what or why I do not know. That I could have a dream guide on my cell phone 24/7, iPhone or Android, is curiously of little solace to me but does speak volumes about the entrepreneurial spirit and greed of code writers here in what I fear is becoming the last century.

Nothing looked familiar to me, causing me to wonder if I'd become Pirate Prentice as I kept looking to the skies for Gravity's Rainbow, somehow feeling better that if I had seen it but never heard the roaring across the skies, I was safe until Tyrone Slothrop returned from an outing. And even then it could be a stairway to the stars.
-bill kenny

Bloom Where You're Planted

Each of us can summon a hundred reasons in an instant on why things in our lives haven't gone to plan. But the bottom line is that if you want something badly enough, you'll find a way. If not, an excuse.

Be an exclamation, not an explanation.
-bill kenny

Comcast & the 8th Amendment

 

US Constitution

David Figueroa may not be a Constitutional scholar, but he has some real-world experience with cruel and unusual punishment that they never mention in law school. 

Hopefully, he gets his just desserts.
-bill kenny

Beneath the Bottom Line

Someone told me the Good Book cited money as the root of all evil. I figured that made me a Saint, New Orleans or otherwise, but the real eye-opener was the discovery that it's the LOVE of money that's really at the root. 

Internationally, nationally, regionally, and locally across this country, we've gotten ourselves jammed up trying to understand what happens after you throw money at problems that don't go away, and then you run out of money. 

Many of us are living in spaces and places where there are a lot more for-sale signs on front lawns than vote-for signs across our towns as we head into the last month of summer and towards the post-Labor Day Election Scuffle and Shuffle. 

It's not your imagination; we're living in a hellscape, and if the experts are to be believed, it's not going to get noticeably better any time soon.

We're going to elect 435 congressional representatives, 33 Senators, and 39 Governors come November. I'm guessing those CNN poll-takers opted for 'unseat' because 'running out of town on a rail' wasn't an option. More's the pity.

I'm not sure at the macro level; it's not unlike attempting to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. And with all due respect to those in the political prognostication business, a shift in a seat here or there may mean little more than we've traded up for a tablespoon. 
-bill kenny

August Already?!?

Today marks the start of the eighth month of the year.  I can still recall looking forward to the beginning of 2026. Actually, that's a lie; I dreaded its start. I had just begun kidney dialysis and was struggling with it very much, and feared I was nearing the end of my rope.

Winter passed and then spring, and now we're in the last full month of summer. Much of my life has adapted and adopted a new routine that revolves around a cycler for ten hours or so every day (evening). 

I'm grateful I have health insurance to pay for the bulk of all of my treatments and confess to not knowing how people who have no or only a little health insurance can manage to stay alive if they get sick. I'm aware that for many black-hearted and red-hatted fellow Americans, that worry, among others, makes me a Lib.

Challenge accepted.    
-bill kenny

You Make Your Own Chains

"There are those who think that
Life has nothing left to chance
A host of holy horrors
To direct our aimless dance."

"You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears, and kindness that can kill
I will choose a path that's clear, I will choose free will."

-bill kenny

Microphone Check, One-Two, One-Two

Do you hate waiting in line more in hot weather than in the cool of the Spring or the Fall? Me, too-not sure why, but I sure do. And once I get steamed, emotionally and physically, it carries over into everything I do for hours afterwards. Talk about all revved up and nowhere to go. Need to learn to savor the flavor while I still have a sense of taste.

It's been a free-for-all weather-wise this summer. We've had low water levels in our rivers, lakes, and streams, but we're not farmers around here, so it's not as critical as in Idaho and Nebraska. Here we have crunchy forests because it's so dry, not dust storms that blow lives and livelihoods away forever.

When I want to feel sorry for myself about how unhappy waiting for anything makes me in the heat, I think about how much closer to the end of my life I am than to the beginning. Especially with a phalanx of physicians and a dialysis machine that I'm on. What if, despite my obstinacy, there is a Hereafter and I'm a walk-on in that movie?

In light of how I have felt about Him for lo these many decades, how can I expect The Lord of All Creation to react to my arrival, probably on a very hectic and crowded day when I'm at my most snippy (rhymes with Skippy) (inside joke).
-bill kenny

Grifters, Grafters, and Circus Clowns

We are having weather in my neck of the woods with the edges still on it. That is to say, in years (and decades) past, we'd have gradual warm-ups or cool-downs and rain and snow in measured and moderate amounts. And not just here, but everywhere. 

I'm familiar with those who argue climate change has been a fact of life since before there was life on this orb and there's a certain amount of truth to that statement of fact, but also true is that we, heedless of the consequences to ourselves and others across the planet have been abusing Mother Nature to the point where she has been striking back here and around the world.

In the United States, we're repealing ecological safeguards and guardrails in the name of 'freeing up capitalists to do what they do best,' which is to poison our waters and pollute our air. For those who think the outbreak of cyclospora is some kind of coincidence, think again. Elmo Musk's DOGE eliminated almost twenty percent of the workforce at the Centers for Disease Control, the people tasked with guarding our health. And yet the tainted lettuce and resurgence of measles come as a surprise to so many. Seriously?

If you like to swim in the ocean and think it feels a little warmer than in past years, be grateful you're not a fish or any other marine life because our oceans are taking the brunt of the heat that greenhouse gases have been allowing to pass through the atmosphere. I'm not a fan of seafood, but even I can see when our food is being poisoned. 

Brain Food

"Anybody here see the noise, see the fear and commotion?

I think we missed it.

Anybody here see the love, see the hate being motioned?

Don't give me no hand me down shoes.

Don't give me no hand me down love.

Don't give me no hand me down world.

I got one already."

-bill kenny

Already Worrying about Winter

I am very much a whiner. I have a natural talent for it and after seventy-four years on the ant farm, I've developed a better than rudimentary skill set for it as well. I have a strong sense of self-a very powerful sense of personal hurt (real and/or imagined) and finely honed feeling of outrage about everything in the universe that's just not working out for me (whether it was supposed to or not).

I am a natural victim and the reason you may not have noticed is because you're one, too, in all likelihood. No shame, my brother or sister-it's what we do and how we roll. Besides, who has time for all this happiness anyway? Don't they say Misery Loves Company? And who of us wishes to be alone?

I offer this as my best effort at a cheering thought because we here in the Northeast and, it turns out across the country, are getting steamed and baked all at the same time this summer. Lovin' Spoonful were right on the money and John Sebastian knew whereof he spoke/sang. 

It's almost August. Six months from now, at least in this area, more likely than not we'll be up to our keisters in snow and ice and these days of what feels like a hundred degrees will seem like fever dreams. Except dreams don't leave footprints in snowdrifts. 

Those are mine and mine alone and while you can't see it from that picture, the snow was about twenty-six inches deep before it stopped. Guess what I was thinking about while slogging through it all? Yeah, you're right, that was too easy, wasn't it?

-bill kenny   

"We Are What We Pretend To Be....

I'm fixated on how we seem to be DEvolving rather than evolving. We're louder, less kind, meaner and actually dumber (in my opinion) than the previous one and we 'r not troubled enough about any of it to change direction. 

I think we're well on our way to being a nation of impatient mind-readers. Don't furrow your brow or make that face (I know 'what face? I wasn't making a face!' Were, too.). 

You may phrase it more elegantly (I would certainly hope so) but, with apologies to Beckett, we're NOT Waiting for Godot but rather hoping the other one shuts up real soon so we can talk.

It's taken me forever to warm to texting on my cell phone. I get hung up on spelling all the words with all the right letters in the proper places with capitalization and punctuation for all. 

Such fastidiousness can make you roadkill with hair on the human highway and more often than I'd like, I've been reminded that he who hesitates is lunch.

I've had follow-up texts as I've been struggling to frame a response to an earlier note. It's hard to count to ten and get a grip on your annoyance while holding a piece of plastic with more computing power than our first three home computers had, put together, while some touch typist is kicking your thumbs.

We're about the same in person-to-person communications, too. Those Sunday morning public affairs programs the major TV networks used to have so the FCC would cut them a break at license renewal time, have evolved into snarkfests where folks who remind me of terriers in need of Ritalin just yap at one another when they're not shredding some 'guest' like an old chew toy.

We're all rushing to get someplace other than here and once we're there, wherever 'there' is, we're off again. My German wife calls it kein ruhe im arsch and she would know as she's married to one (mit ohren).

When you next converse with a real, live person try to listen to the interaction between you, not just to the words but to the silences as well, and you may be surprised at how little of the latter breaks up the stream of the former.

I used to tease acquaintances and associates, disquieted at how rapidly I spoke, that people from my home state of New Jersey couldn't afford a pause to catch our breath or collect our thoughts, because with so many in such a small state, if you stop speaking you won't be heard from again for years. 

So now we talk, type and (for the most part) think in shorthand delivered in staccato, acronym and emoticon all masking, while masquerading as, meaning. Instead of technology and our tools helping language and literature to flower as arts and culture flourish, we've continued to dumb down and throw majesty and meaning over the side.

I came across a quote from Indianapolis' #1 Son, Kurt Vonnegut that makes me smile and think every time I read it. If it does half as much for you, it's worth the inclusion, "...do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college."
-bill kenny (Class of '74)

A Blast (Albeit Mild) from My Past

I wrote this over a decade ago and have thought about it on more than one occasion. At the time I called it, 

Probably Legos or Farts

I have had a rather hectic last few days (I know, 'welcome to the club!') and have ended up in places with thoughts not unfamiliar to me though the circumstances by which I've arrived at them this time often is. 

I caught myself yesterday afternoon thinking back to the most amazing moment I have ever had with our son, Patrick Michael, whose birthday was earlier this month.

He would not have been much more than two at the time. And he sat in his car seat in the back seat of our car, a white, four-door BMW 518 (not available in the USA) at a traffic signal by Der Grosse Friedhof (the Big Cemetery) in Frankfurt am Main near Eschenheimer Landstrasse.

"Weiss du," fragte er, als wir miteinander blickkontakt hat in dem ruckspiegel im auto, "wenn Mom jemand anderes geheiratet, wurde ich einen anderen Vater hab?"
"Do you know," he asked waiting for our eyes to make contact in the car's rear-view mirror, "if Mom had married someone else, I would have a different father?"

Not only did I not know that then, or now, I could not even begin to trace the logic process that produced such a question. 

As I learned not that as long ago as I'd like to think, kids and human curiosity are the two greatest engines for change in the world. And one always accompanies the other, though how I would know that to be true is something I am not prepared to answer at this time.
-bill kenny

Illegitimi non Carborundum

If your mind is made up, then don't let yourself get confused with facts about the proposal to bond fifty-five million dollars to construct a downtown police station in Norwich, Connecticut. 

The voters rejected a similar proposal, albeit without having a specific location, for forty million dollars about a decade ago. The discussion at the last City Council meeting precipitated some lively, and borderline illiterate comments on that News Service for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Think for Themselves, Facebook.

The station, finished in the late Seventies while lacking a disco ball, was very much a project of its time-built in the moment and for the moment with little thought given to expanding requirements and future needs and is inadequate according to the people who work there, whom, I assume should know. The Facebook Did My Own Research crowd seem to be unmoved. 

Many of the (mostly anonymous) Facebook experts' comments mention how high their property taxes are while opposing any initiative to make Norwich more attractive (to include downtown police station).  

So many 'not now!' comments. Okay. If not now, then when? 

For decades, the police like other aspects of the municipal workforce were encouraged to improvise and adapt with their present resources whenever budget hearings rolled around. Norwich never has the money for what we need but finds the money for what we want and too often, creates the need after the fact (yes, I'm speaking about the Intermodal Transportation Center among other built projects in search of purposes both in downtown and beyond).

We're talking a lot of money here and we should think about we want and what we'll get for those dollars. In order for the police station to play any significant role in the rebirth of Chelsea and a renaissance across Norwich, let's hear a detailed vision by our elected leaders of what they see our city looking like in a decade, in a score and in a generation. In a perfect world we could all benefit from a dialogue with our elected officials and police station advocates to help us make an informed decision. 

The exigent circumstances that precipitated the original need for a new station have only kept growing for the past decade that we've been 'discussing' this. Closing our eyes to a problem doesn't solve it. 

No one wins unless everyone wins and, in this town, we're still caught up in a zero sum 'for me to look good, you need to look bad' loop that will destroy us all. And then we wonder why we fail....

We can do better, and today (actually this week and I'm not sure why), because I'm feeling revitalized, I refuse to allow us to go down without a fight or at least an intelligent conversation. Illegitimi non carborundum. do NOT let the bastards grind you down.
-bill kenny

Happy Birthday, Kara

Today is my sister, Kara's, birthday. You can be forgiven for not knowing this but only just barely. The world is a much better place because Kara is in it and our family is fortunate that she is our relative even if, as Albert Einstein predicated, everything is relative. Could that mean everything is Einstein? I'm asking that because it would explain the bramble that is so often my hair when I awaken.

Kara and I shared a small overlapping childhood as I was transitioning away as she was becoming her own person. And in a sense, I suspect, she sees herself more often as Jill and Adam's older sister than as the younger sibling of our sister, Evan and brother, Kelly, with whom I spent far more years (but only because their luck wasn't as good as Kara's).

Kara and her husband, Russ, had their own family with RJ, Randy, and Jordan all men in motion and on a mission, in different directions at maximum velocity and then last year Kara suffered the loss of the love of her life and there's a hole in her heart that will never heal.

Kara should actually be our ambassador to the United Nations as she has a genius for talking people into doing things they would otherwise never, ever consider and, while so doing, convincing them that it was all their own idea in the first place and she is just pleased and proud to help them.

She and Jill can probably actually pull off the Tom Sawyer painting the fence trick, but it's Kara who organizes the trip to the hardware store to get the brushes and the drop clothes. And she'll even help you muscle them into the van. Meanwhile, it's Jill who collects the money and, sorry, even though it's a quarter for a chance to paint and you gave her a dollar, she's out of change.

I wasn't around when our mother was a kid, or a teen, or a young woman. I caught up with her as a young mother (and was, technically, the first reason why she was a young mother) but I've always thought Kara most resembles what Mom must have been like when we were too small to really remember.

You cannot help but smile when you are with Kara-I am smiling now as I type this, thinking of her because she is relentlessly cheerful no matter the situation. Her children reflect the values she and Russ instilled in them and have improved the world on their own terms just as their parents, but most especially my sister, taught them to do.

Happy Birthday, Kara!

-bill kenny

The Faces of the Stranger

Crossing the street the other day, I passed two people deep in discussion with one another walking in the opposite direction and heard one of them say to the other, 'and all of them are either midgets or morons.'

I confess to NOT looking around to see if the circus was in town (Congress is back from vacation, so that might be the confusion) as I knew the speaker was offering some pejorative characterizations of people with whom he disagreed and was exercising his vocabulary skills to characterize them.

But reducing the world to two sorts, that's a sweeping statement, when you get down to it. Everyone (else) is a whatever we dislike. Not you and me, mind you-those other folks, whoever they are. What John Kennedy Toole called "A Confederacy of Dunces". And maybe it captures who we are as a species among all the others on this planet.

Heck, for all we know, maybe every life form looks at every other life form as a midget or a moron and behaves accordingly (cats come to mind immediately). All of our lives are alliances of one kind or another, some more fleeting than others. In the primary grades we had a partner for the bus #2 to go home; in high school, we had lab partners, in college, perhaps, study buddies, at work a mentor or someone we regard as one and in our private lives, someone we come home to.

And in each of those situations, we create egoisme a deux, which is how we make our way, forming and breaking bonds every day until a moment the clown car comes to a screeching halt in front of someone we thought we really knew and then how surprised we are as we step out of the back seat to see the look in their eyes and realize we are, sadly, a little too tall to be the former.

-bill kenny

Forget Sheep

Do you have trouble sleeping? I do, at least I have trouble falling back to sleep after I've been awakened. I fell across a trick from Google Health Coach that has me use the word "STAIR" to think of as many words that start with each letter as I can.

After I've exhausted my vocabulary with words beginning with the first "S" I move on to the "T" and so on. To my knowledge I've yet to ever get past the "A" before I've nodded back off (perhaps I just know really boring words?)  

As kids, who among us hasn't tried counting sheep. I mean why would our mothers lie, right? 

But I've come up with something perhaps more state of the art and very definitely more amazing. Enjoy.
-bill kenny

Thinking About Bob

The last friend I was to make as an adult in this life passed away twelve years ago today. I still have the hole in my heart our often-aimless conversations used to fill.  There's a lot of space there now. 

At the time of his passing, I offered words I'm sharing again here. I called them:

The Death of Someone Is Like Reading a Book

We exchanged notes electronically more often than we spoke on the phone, probably about every ten days for the last ten-plus years. 

I met him about eighteen years ago when he was becoming the 'military beat' reporter for The Day newspaper, a daily based in New London, Connecticut, a town across the river from this country's oldest submarine base.

I had nothing to do with submarines and almost as little to do with the training of the contents of them, and yet he always checked in or listened to an idea for a story I was struggling to pitch and more often than not made something out of what we both knew had started as less than nothing.

He was an extraordinarily fair person who not only believed there were two sides to every story but who strove to make sure he had shared ALL sides of every story. He always succeeded. From the first time I met him, I felt like I'd known him my whole life and that we would always know one another.

In a way, we did.

He and I had exchanged notes about a week and a half ago on yet another matter of grave national import; those were the tangents I sent us off on and always did, which was capped by some down-home wisdom as a man who was both a contemporary and a confessor always managed to bring our discussions back to family and futures, home and hearth.

I'm sitting here now typing these words, struggling to remember his, saddened to tears that there will be no more words to ever remember, as my friend Bob died yesterday morning in his home, at the age of 57.

I'm a better human-a husband, a father, a citizen, what-have-you, for having known him. There are no words I can offer to his children and his wife that will ease the hurt they will feel every day of the rest of their lives. I stole this thought and offer it as all that I have or ever will be able to offer: "Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal."
-bill kenny