A Loss for the Home Team

As a kid, professional baseball held an appeal for me that with nearly six decades completely run beneath the sun, I'm hard pressed to explain or even comprehend. I was such a dope when I was a kid. I'm so (much) smart(er) now but not smart enough to figure out why I'm not happier than that dope I used to be. Maybe you've been there?

As a Yankees fan, I rooted for Bobby Richardson but could be unswervingly loyal to Moose Skowron and Yogi Berra and dreamed of growing up to be Whitey Ford. That would have been a VERY neat trick as he was a left hander and I used my left hand basically to keep the blood in my left arm from dripping out at the wrist. They had names like no one else I knew, or would ever know, but they were my guys and I cheered them on against all the Joes and Jacks and Toms and Daves on everybody else's roster.

One of the guys, and ironically, he, too, had an out of the ordinary name, who'd hammer Whitey especially when they came to town to play the Yankees was #3, Harmon Killebrew. He moved with the then-Washington Senators to Minnesota and became a Twin, though thankfully (as a Yankees fan) there was only one of him. I have NO memory of "The Killer" (cool nickname, innit?) while he played in Washington. Jimmy Piersall going into the stands one afternoon (baseball played a lot of day games back then) and getting into a fistfight with a fan-him I remember.

Killebrew was an amazing player-he's still in the top twenty of all-time home run sluggers and he hasn't played in my childrens' lifetimes-and he was a great fielder as well and enjoyed a reputation as a gentleman. He was a classic craftsman who showed up every day and played to the best of his ability in the era before the love of money made players into millionaires, owners billionaires and fans disillusioned and bitter about it all.

I was shocked to see Killebrew's name back in the news yesterday for all the wrong reasons. His gallant and courageous battle against esophageal cancer is nearly over. Of course it was classy the way his news was reported yesterday. He was the epitome of suave and understatement all the years he played the game. Watching a news clip of the announcement made me sad because I saw The Killer but more clearly the man whose strength is nearly gone.

I was thinking of Dunbar in Catch-22 and his desire to live forever because 'what else is there?' He knew he couldn't and wouldn't, but still.... I don't know that there's anything beyond this life but fear the secret heartache to forever alive is how often you ache watching all you know and remember fade to leave you only memories as company for the rest of your journey. Everyone I know goes away in the end. Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear. You are someone else, I am still right here.

-bill kenny

Putting the Unlucky into Thirteen

Not very superstitious and yet, submitted for your consideration on this Friday the Thirteenth: At some point Wednesday (the 11th) afternoon, Pacific time, the good folks of Google, whose world wide web of intrigue and dominance includes the people who run 'blogger' the platform of this mass deception, spit the bit, seemingly.

What possibly happened (my speculation is as good as anybody's since Google is as close-mouthed after a meltdown as the Chernobyl Chamber of Commerce) is their host servers were taken off line for scheduled maintenance and, in this case, that was followed by unscheduled calamities in the process of trying to get back on.

Google got around to sharing its travails with its millions of perspiring and expiring artists and artistes about forty hours after the trouble started. It's kind of hard to send a note to everyone who uses your service since we all are on different schedules and use the tools in different ways. I suspect many of its customers won't ever realize they were/are off-line, while others, judging from some of the comments to the status board were hyperventilating.

One note I found amusing was a demand, more or less, "Fix this colorful expletive deleted adjectival descriptor now! My readers insist on my writings being delivered every day!" I'm thrilled to know there are people whose lives are actually more empty than mine--just wish I knew where they were so I could stand closer to them.

Anyway, at some point this afternoon (Eastern Daylight Time) all of blogger incrementally returned on little cat's feet. If you'd wondered 'how can I miss him when he never goes away?' Bad news, sweet cheeks. You blew your chance. See you in the next life-wake me up for meals.
-bill kenny

Never Used to Ponder on What Life May Hide

This Brave New World can attract and repulse in the same breath, or so it seems sometimes. We have ways and means to touch one another's lives that a generation ago didn't exist but we wear the thinnest of gloves to make sure we leave no fingerprints or other evidence of existence. I had a phone call yesterday from a family member of someone I knew a long time ago, (another) Bill, in another life, for both of us. The call was to tell me he had died.

I joke about my age (what else can I do?) while acknowledging that I have become a punchline. Hand on my heart, at 59, I don't see myself as old (I shave with my eyes closed) and am always unhappily surprised when I unexpectedly encounter my reflection in a shop window or elsewhere. I'm at an age where I don't say 'passed' anymore since, if life is, indeed, a test, then those who are dead have failed to stay alive. Nor do I think of anyone as 'expired' as in library card because Robert Klein disabused me of that notion. Dead is dead; damit, basta, ende.

I hadn't seen this other Bill in about thirty years and was unaware he and I lived in the same state (of blissful indiffference; population: all of us). I spoke (too) briefly to someone whom, I believe, was his spouse, though I didn't directly ask and she didn't tell-that wasn't why she called and that's fine.

She called me "Mr. Kinney" which didn't do much to leaven the air of surreality as the phone conversation went on, especially when, in response to my asking 'when is his funeral?' she didn't have an answer and seemed to be flustered at the thought and hurried to end our conversation long before I could get to the "why?" I've noticed I rarely get to that question any more, no matter the subject; I wonder when I'm the topic if there will be a "why?" or even a "huh?" And, true to form, I don't know why I don't know.

He had my name and work phone number in his wallet, she told me, but didn't mention how he came to have them or why (there is is again). I'd like to thnk had he ever called me we would have chatted but we weren't really friends nor were we merely acquaintances. We were,I guess, something in the middle, perhaps familiars, or, what years ago, I called KQ's (known quantities).

The advantage of KQ's is they're a handy reference and provide Dorian Gray snapshots, which, turns out is also the disadvantage. All the memories of KQ's are freeze-dried at a point in the past we've passed out of and so I thought today about AOB (another Bill) as I last saw him, which has even less to do with the here and now than is my usual wont.

After we spoke and she rang off, without ever leaving her full name or a contact number, I got to wondering why, if he had known how to reach me, he hadn't. Seemed an odd way to communicate, by NOT communicating, unless he had concluded we had run out of things to say long before we ran out of the time in which to do it. "And you've blown out all your candles one by one. And you curse yourself for things you never done."
-bill kenny

Start and Stop in a Single Sound

Words are powerful, typed or spoken. You can wound or win with a single phrase. Before the shots had been fired at Breed's Hill, the winter survived at Valley Forge and the surrender celebrated at Yorktown, there were pamphleteers across the then-Colonies, advocating and arguing for the protection of the rights of the colonists against the Crown creating an intellectual climate that led to a very hot summer in Philadelphia and some of the most powerful words ever assembled on one piece of paper, The Declaration of Independence.

In his way, Thomas Paine, author of Common Sense, was just as much a soldier as the "Father of his Country," George Washington or "Mad" Anthony Wayne wielding words as weapons in the service of ideas and ideals. It is after all, words that excite and invite each of us individually to dream and believe in values greater than ourselves and which incite us to actions to make those dreams real.

New England regards itself with no small amount of pride as a crucible of the American Revolution, contributing both warriors and wordsmiths in the Battle for American Independence. I mention this not (just) because we're nearing Memorial Day or to restart a discussion we all need to have about the importance of historic tourism as another aspect of the continuing economic revival here in Norwich, though both are certainly true enough.

I'm actually much more interested in having us become more honest in how we choose our words and in how candidly conduct our public conversations. In the not too distant past, we had open dislike on display whenever our City Council assembled and too many discussions on serious and important issues were colored by rancor and personal animus, rendering fair-minded and open discussion nearly impossible.

For one person to look good, someone else needed to look bad. Energy that might have been better used in building bridges to organizations and programs that could have enhanced community successes was, instead, expended in hurling invective and creating wounds that, to this day, are still healing.

I know a little about the pain that harsh words can inflict as I gave as good as I got in what I, and too many others, saw as a zero-sum game that was most certainly never played as a game but often waged as a war. I'm not apologizing and I'm not regretting; just strike another match, go start anew. Anything else is less than zero.

One of the more positive aspects of our current City Council, of whose seven members I voted for (no more than) four, has been their ability, in my view, to put aside personal prejudices and beliefs for a greater and more global fact-based decision model which they have adopted in the pursuit of enhancing both the quality of life across our city as well as the bottom line of the Grand List.

It’s not always easy and relies on us, too, to be honest in our interactions with them and one another, be it Council meetings, workshops or chance encounters. Words, ours and theirs, are too powerful to not use wisely and well. As Paine pointed out, "We have it in our power to begin the world again." All we need do is say the word and mean it.

-bill kenny

Two Hundred Solemn Faces

Coming back from a medical appointment yesterday (when you're the world's only living brain donor you spend a lot of time consulting with physicians) I passed a gentleman promenading in a full set of Harley Davidson leathers. Very nearly way cool.

I mean, I knew they were H-D authentics but old school HD because they were jet black and burnt amber in color, skin tight with baby killer shades, a Ben Davidson handlebar moustache (back when the Raiders didn't suck) and, with apologies to Warren, his hair was perfect.

Oh yeah, slightly discordant note. Easy Rider, make that Cool Walker (minus the Texas Ranger) was walking a shaved miniature french poodle, which is (I'm sure) a lovely animal-loyal, faithful, well-behaved (perhaps makes its own gravy) but in the pantheon of real dogs, actually isn't even close to being one (in my biased opinion). I don't how far they'd been walking but the dog wasn't, anymore. The guy was dragging it behind him and neither seemed too joyful at the turn of events. Ruined the whole 'dig me' effect, I thought, but then again what do I know?

Sort of like, as also seen yesterday (actually saw THREE of them after not having seen any for weeks and months), deciding a dumbly designed and whimsically engineered (on a good day with a tail wind) car is best called Smart. Probably just me, but I always expect to see Dr. Who stepping out of one as it comes to a rolling stop because I think his police call box inspired the design (and I don't mean as in from another dimension but thanks for the kindness of that thought).

I was hurrying to get back to work though by the end of the day in all honesty, I'd be hard-pressed to tell you why I thought there was any urgency. Just another hard habit to break, I suspect, nothing big and important.

-bill kenny

We can't even buy green bananas

I'm going to the library later today and I'm checking out as many books as I'm allowed to-and not because I just got new eyeglasses and I want to break them in. I'm picking out books I've always wanted to own, not just read, because not only do I have no intentions of returning them, I may not even have to.

If you have a couple of bills left to pay off and have been dilly-dallying around, you may actually be rewarded for your lackadasicality (assuming such a word exists) without any impact on your credit rating. And if lackadasicality isn't really a word, no worries and don't try lobbying to get it into the next Merriam Websters since I ain't here on business, baby, I'm only here for fun. Turns out you you are, too; we just didn't know it.

Yep, the morning of the 22nd, we may not be sitting here wondering what to have for breakfast after we come home from Mass (I'm thinking Egg McMuffin, but I'm a FARC). There are some who think nothing goes down better after the Body of Christ in the Holy Eucharist than a stack of blueberry pancakes from IHOP. Go tell it on the mountain if you're so inclined. And assuming we survive Saturday, May 21st maybe we'll all see you there. Or not.

We may wish we were Gary Vollmer who, I certainly hope, is using annual leave to spread the Gospel of Put a Fork in Us rather than his sick leave (because Federal employees earn both; I am a font of knowledge but you better ask your questions now and avoid the rush since I stop taking requests after noon next Thursday, the 19th) as he follows the teachings of Harold Camping.

I grew up not that far from Piscataway Township; actually, you drive through it when you're on 287 (it's a lot bigger now it seems. Bet they have indoor plumbing and everything). I hope my brother, Adam, won't be in a big hurry to get to work that morning, not so much because of the traffic (it will be a Saturday after all) but because of the Rapture. I just realized he just bought a new tire for his car....!

From what I remember of Piscataway, they could have End Times there starting forty-five minutes ago and nobody in Highland Park (Remind me, to tell you about this place; I am thrilled it still exists) would notice or care. But of course, this time we're talking King Size Kalamity so I've already started putting my name in all my underwear in permanent ink. I figure shirts and slacks will be in abundance in The Hereafter but I don't think you can have enough changes of undergarments.

If you've been putting off making that bucket list, bunky, you might want start because we are so burning daylight starshine. I gotta tell ya, I've made some good progress on mine just by steadily plugging away at it one item at a time. Let's see, I've been loved and put aside, I've been crushed by the tumbling tide and and my soul has been psychedelicized. Check. Still need to find out what time the library opens this morning.

-bill kenny

An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy

At least that's what the proverb says and with it being both Mothers Day and a Sunday (when all manner of clergy are walking the earth) I couldn't resist. After all, I am my mother's son, as well as the husband of my son's mother (and of my daughter's mother as well, but I was on a roll and wanted to balance the sentence).

I read someplace "The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." And the image that came with that quote is a beautiful bonus, like one of those 'it came with the frame' pictures we all have in our homes.

Families look to the mom the way the fingers on the hand look to the thumb (said the middle finger of our family, me) so I hope wherever you are today you can reconnect with your family, however you see them, and celebrate both mothers and Mothers Day. I have one, my Mom, in Florida, or at least I think she is (the last time I looked that's where she was) and one, my wife's Mom, in Offenbach, Germany.

Each of their husbands passed away years ago after being married to them for what seemed like forever leaving them alone but never lonely and even from the long distances we are from them, I can feel their attention, their concern and their love in every waking moment. I see in their eyes what I see in my wife's eyes when she speaks of our children and know that all mothers' hearts are the same, not just on this day but on all days, everyday. Happy Mothers Day.

-bill kenny