Our daughter, Michelle, gets annoyed when I write about her, even when I write nice things like she's the world's greatest squirrel wrangler, or wranglette (I'm never sure) so I expect she'll be less than happily surprised I'm mentioning her today (I checked with her Mom on this because Adam isn't the only one whose natal anniversary goes aglimmering sometimes).
Michelle, who explains to people she has 'my father's wit and my mother's charm' has a birthday all of her own tomorrow. I cannot believe my itty-bit is an adult -from such small beginnings but she is and in hindsight, I'm thinking maybe she was born an adult intellectually and just grew into the size of one.
I can tell you we were NOT big fans of project day when one of us was enrolled in Buckingham School's Integrated Day Program. The teacher would videotape each child's presentation and the Q & A afterwards and Michelle's mother and I would take turns sitting in stunned silence as she departed from her carefully rehearsed script and descended into participatory educational chaos. On more than one occasion, I'm pretty sure I saw Conrad's Mister Kurtz, but it was awfully dark.
Michelle has a quiet intensity about her that can take you by surprise. She is in many respects, most especially intellectually and emotionally, a quiet riot and amazingly confident in her own judgements, actions and decisions. She may be wrong, but she is never in doubt.
She has a myriad of attributes and strengths from both the Schubert lineage as well as the Kenny clan but she is far more than the sum of her genetic inheritance or philosophic leanings and her character and intellect are very much her own. She celebrates her birthday tomorrow and you'd be well advised to join in, if you can or be prepared to explain why you didn't. And Mike, I went the entire column without mentioning the squirrels! Oh. Shi---HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
-dad
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
Child Is Father to the Man
I always tell people I learned patience from our two children. Before Patrick and Michelle were born I was the most impatient person to have ever lived. I have no idea how my wife could stand to be with me, that's how bad I was (actually she paid very little attention to me and encouraged others to do likewise-as a coping strategy. It worked for the most part).
As our children grew up, I learned the joys of explaining how to tie your shoes (I hate that whole 'the bunny goes' crap but I used it to make a point at a 'teachable moment' a term I didn't understand then and I don't get now at all), and mastering the art of buttoning your shirt (that one is still hard for me) and, of course, riding a bicycle.
Michelle was EXCELLENT at learning to ride a bike-she had marvelous coordination and had watched her mother, father and older brother ride for years before she got on the 'no training wheels' model and tore off down the street. Patrick was much too much like his dad in terms of patience and attention so the no training wheels phase of the program took a while because once he got going, he'd enjoy the sensation so much he'd forget to pedal or he'd get going so fast and realize I was struggling to keep up that he'd stop.
Our children survived my attempts at teaching, even when it came to automobiles. In both their cases, I had rehearsed my 'no one succeeds at everything the first time' speech and twice never needed it as they both passed on the first attempt. So, if you need a 'but you tried so hard' win one for the Gipper (next time) speech drop me a line and you can have one that was never used.
I mention all of this because when you're an adult and your children are small, you're the Master of the Universe. There's nothing you cannot do, from reaching things all the way on the top shelf, to carrying the really big box upstairs out of the basement to walking out in the street without mom yelling at you. You know everything and can do anything. You both get older-- the difference is you age and they grow up. You're not so smart anymore as they catch up and, in my case by fourth grade, pass and surpass you.
Patrick was over to visit yesterday and, as is the case every time he comes over, I had a list of things on the computer and on the smart phone, I needed him to show me how to do, or fix or unkluge from where I had already fixed them. He teaches very well, smiles a lot, explains things over and over again and has plenty of patience. All of that is obviously from his mother. I serve as a good example of a bad example and they are both welcome.
Speaking of thank you. I am putting this clip, here, because a line from it rattled around in my head all weekend, "you're hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell" and now it's your turn. Enjoy. I know I did.
-bill kenny
As our children grew up, I learned the joys of explaining how to tie your shoes (I hate that whole 'the bunny goes' crap but I used it to make a point at a 'teachable moment' a term I didn't understand then and I don't get now at all), and mastering the art of buttoning your shirt (that one is still hard for me) and, of course, riding a bicycle.
Michelle was EXCELLENT at learning to ride a bike-she had marvelous coordination and had watched her mother, father and older brother ride for years before she got on the 'no training wheels' model and tore off down the street. Patrick was much too much like his dad in terms of patience and attention so the no training wheels phase of the program took a while because once he got going, he'd enjoy the sensation so much he'd forget to pedal or he'd get going so fast and realize I was struggling to keep up that he'd stop.
Our children survived my attempts at teaching, even when it came to automobiles. In both their cases, I had rehearsed my 'no one succeeds at everything the first time' speech and twice never needed it as they both passed on the first attempt. So, if you need a 'but you tried so hard' win one for the Gipper (next time) speech drop me a line and you can have one that was never used.
I mention all of this because when you're an adult and your children are small, you're the Master of the Universe. There's nothing you cannot do, from reaching things all the way on the top shelf, to carrying the really big box upstairs out of the basement to walking out in the street without mom yelling at you. You know everything and can do anything. You both get older-- the difference is you age and they grow up. You're not so smart anymore as they catch up and, in my case by fourth grade, pass and surpass you.
Patrick was over to visit yesterday and, as is the case every time he comes over, I had a list of things on the computer and on the smart phone, I needed him to show me how to do, or fix or unkluge from where I had already fixed them. He teaches very well, smiles a lot, explains things over and over again and has plenty of patience. All of that is obviously from his mother. I serve as a good example of a bad example and they are both welcome.
Speaking of thank you. I am putting this clip, here, because a line from it rattled around in my head all weekend, "you're hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell" and now it's your turn. Enjoy. I know I did.
-bill kenny
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Moonwalk not likely
I fractured my right ankle last Tuesday night. I went out for a walk around the block after dinner, before it got dark and stepped sideways on some pebbles on a conceptual sidewalk (an inside $18 million dollar joke) and when I did heard/felt it give way, I knew I was screwed. I hobbled home after scaring my wife by calling her on my cellphone and not being able to hear her, while she could hear me. She had no idea where I was but knew I was in trouble. and when I finally did get home, I was in more.
I couldn't get to my orthopedic practice that next day (yes, I've had enough work done I qualify for my own practice; heck with pony rides, woot!) but they squeezed me in. I hadn't brushed up on my French and I feared my doctor might check me into the boards, but she is very kind. She made no mention of two years ago when I broke the same foot about how I stood her up for the last examination and simply went back to to my life once the initial diagnosis was made (and I had the clunkiest boot in Creation to wear for months that I really didn't).
In less than an hour, from the time I had signed in (I was my doctor's last patient-technically, the patient after her last one) I was getting fitted with a Curt Shilling sleeve, as I call it, and resisting the temptation to offer to drive Bobby Valentine to Logan and feed him to a US Air 767 intake. What I did do, instead, was the fault of the Imp of the Perverse.
The doctor had advised me that a fracture can be painful while healing and offered to write a prescription for a pain killer-I have a well-known reputation as having a high threshold of pain, of other people's pain (mine, not so much). I'm also weak-willed and the road to perdition in my case is an interstate so I heard myself assure her I would be fine. I knew as I said the words that it was a lie. I know me too well.
I started popping Ibuprofen and acetaminophen within an hour of coming home like they were Tic Tacs because the doctor was right, it did hurt. When the nurse assigned by my insurance company gave me a HUGE lecture Wednesday afternoon on the phone about telling my doctors about the pain, I decided to come clean with my primary care physician whom I was seeing on my birthday, Thursday, and ask for help in the pain management department.
He knew it was my birthday and he's a normally a pretty good guy, but Thursday there were no big shoes, no squirting flower or red nose.I never saw a bucket full of confetti as requested and as for tooling around the parking lot in a clown car, not a chance. It may have had something to do with the wicked cold he was nursing (makes sense-you don't see two dozen or more sick (one form of another) people every day and not catch something) or the fact that he has a whackadoodle for a patient.
He wrote me a prescription for a light pain reliever (I've never understood that-why not go MAX VOL and be done with it; instead, 'no thanks, just a little something to take the edge off, but leave the deep seated pain, thanks') and I called my orthopedist and left a message confessing I was the wimp we both know I am. I figure she's already counting down the days to July when I don't come back in for the follow-up. I am, if nothing else, consistent et incroyablement têtu et stupide.
-bill kenny
I couldn't get to my orthopedic practice that next day (yes, I've had enough work done I qualify for my own practice; heck with pony rides, woot!) but they squeezed me in. I hadn't brushed up on my French and I feared my doctor might check me into the boards, but she is very kind. She made no mention of two years ago when I broke the same foot about how I stood her up for the last examination and simply went back to to my life once the initial diagnosis was made (and I had the clunkiest boot in Creation to wear for months that I really didn't).
In less than an hour, from the time I had signed in (I was my doctor's last patient-technically, the patient after her last one) I was getting fitted with a Curt Shilling sleeve, as I call it, and resisting the temptation to offer to drive Bobby Valentine to Logan and feed him to a US Air 767 intake. What I did do, instead, was the fault of the Imp of the Perverse.
The doctor had advised me that a fracture can be painful while healing and offered to write a prescription for a pain killer-I have a well-known reputation as having a high threshold of pain, of other people's pain (mine, not so much). I'm also weak-willed and the road to perdition in my case is an interstate so I heard myself assure her I would be fine. I knew as I said the words that it was a lie. I know me too well.
I started popping Ibuprofen and acetaminophen within an hour of coming home like they were Tic Tacs because the doctor was right, it did hurt. When the nurse assigned by my insurance company gave me a HUGE lecture Wednesday afternoon on the phone about telling my doctors about the pain, I decided to come clean with my primary care physician whom I was seeing on my birthday, Thursday, and ask for help in the pain management department.
He knew it was my birthday and he's a normally a pretty good guy, but Thursday there were no big shoes, no squirting flower or red nose.I never saw a bucket full of confetti as requested and as for tooling around the parking lot in a clown car, not a chance. It may have had something to do with the wicked cold he was nursing (makes sense-you don't see two dozen or more sick (one form of another) people every day and not catch something) or the fact that he has a whackadoodle for a patient.
He wrote me a prescription for a light pain reliever (I've never understood that-why not go MAX VOL and be done with it; instead, 'no thanks, just a little something to take the edge off, but leave the deep seated pain, thanks') and I called my orthopedist and left a message confessing I was the wimp we both know I am. I figure she's already counting down the days to July when I don't come back in for the follow-up. I am, if nothing else, consistent et incroyablement têtu et stupide.
-bill kenny
Saturday, April 28, 2012
The King Is Dead
Maybe just me or do the new Burger King TV spots weird you out, too? I mean seriously. I watched one last night with Steven Tyler (whom I don't watch on American Idol). Steven looks like he fell out of the ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down.
Thirty five years ago, it wasn't that big a deal. Aerosmith was Boston's answer to a question never asked. Tyler was Jagger to Joe Perry's Keef Richards. Then they all got old. Now, I have no idea what Aerosmith, Inc, does but I'll bet they have a private jet and an army of accountants to help them do it. And now Steven does Burger King commercials and has a face that looks like a baseball glove.
The BK spot for something with chicken Mary J Blige did angered more people than putting a hoodie on Abraham Lincoln ever could have and the one with David Beckham and a strawberry banana smoothie was mawkishly amateur.
I thought the King character from their previous advertising campaign came to someone in a Quaalude lull and he always freaked me out and not because anything connected with him was original. This new effort to try to get BK back within sight of the #2 spot in slinging sliders, Wendy's is the new #2 behind Mickey D's (I'm guessing because they concentrated on food and not TV commercials), isn't motivating me to do anything other than speed past their joints on the highway. Sort of like Jay Leno, only faster, and a whole lot funnier.
-bill kenny
Thirty five years ago, it wasn't that big a deal. Aerosmith was Boston's answer to a question never asked. Tyler was Jagger to Joe Perry's Keef Richards. Then they all got old. Now, I have no idea what Aerosmith, Inc, does but I'll bet they have a private jet and an army of accountants to help them do it. And now Steven does Burger King commercials and has a face that looks like a baseball glove.
The BK spot for something with chicken Mary J Blige did angered more people than putting a hoodie on Abraham Lincoln ever could have and the one with David Beckham and a strawberry banana smoothie was mawkishly amateur.
I thought the King character from their previous advertising campaign came to someone in a Quaalude lull and he always freaked me out and not because anything connected with him was original. This new effort to try to get BK back within sight of the #2 spot in slinging sliders, Wendy's is the new #2 behind Mickey D's (I'm guessing because they concentrated on food and not TV commercials), isn't motivating me to do anything other than speed past their joints on the highway. Sort of like Jay Leno, only faster, and a whole lot funnier.
-bill kenny
Friday, April 27, 2012
Smells like Team Spirit
By many financial accounts the largest grossing (not necessarily profit making but money-generating) sports franchises in the world include Manchester United, FC Barcelona, Inter Mailand and the New York Yankees. I mention this last one not merely to annoy the Boston Red Sox faithful among us but to remind all of my fellow OFC Kickers anhanger wir sind seemlich weit von zeil. Ich fühle mich so allein.
Except maybe the cost of all this officialosity. Them logos ain't cheap my brothers and don't we know it. But what do we the grateful fans get for our devotion? The right to buy seat licenses in stadia built with our tax dollars in the first place. Tom Sawyer would drop his brushes over the chutzpah this takes, but we're just warming up.
Not too many years ago there was a movement afoot at ownership levels of Major League Baseball to work out a license fee structure for using team names, colors and registered trademarks by Little League teams. The Little League whose World Series (btw, Lords of Baseball it really is a WORLD series) in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, is a sell-out for every game, every year (and they give away the tickets for free); yeah, that Little League.
Money can't buy you love sang John, Paul, George and Ringo but Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith maintain a catalog of all the things it does buy and it's an awfully thick tome. Step right up and try the fragrance of 27 World Series Championships--New York Yankees Eau de Toilette and For Her Eau de Parfum. Did you think I was joshing (or does Beckett's agent have an option on that gerund?)-not at 62 bucks a bottle I'm not, bubbah.
Except maybe the cost of all this officialosity. Them logos ain't cheap my brothers and don't we know it. But what do we the grateful fans get for our devotion? The right to buy seat licenses in stadia built with our tax dollars in the first place. Tom Sawyer would drop his brushes over the chutzpah this takes, but we're just warming up.
Not too many years ago there was a movement afoot at ownership levels of Major League Baseball to work out a license fee structure for using team names, colors and registered trademarks by Little League teams. The Little League whose World Series (btw, Lords of Baseball it really is a WORLD series) in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, is a sell-out for every game, every year (and they give away the tickets for free); yeah, that Little League.
Money can't buy you love sang John, Paul, George and Ringo but Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith maintain a catalog of all the things it does buy and it's an awfully thick tome. Step right up and try the fragrance of 27 World Series Championships--New York Yankees Eau de Toilette and For Her Eau de Parfum. Did you think I was joshing (or does Beckett's agent have an option on that gerund?)-not at 62 bucks a bottle I'm not, bubbah.
If you thought we were talking about the aroma of neet's foot oil soaking into a glove with a baseball in the pocket and two sets of thick rubber bands wrapped around it and then jammed under the back mousetrap of a bike in the garage, au contraire mon ami. Who could afford that?
I adore the fragrances' descriptions because I'm addicted to words and may actually put some of the ones from Times' article in my resume. Who wouldn't want to be known as 'a sparkling gourmand with floral notes and flavorful muskiness.' Seriously. I left my decoder ring at home so I have NO idea what any of that means, except that I believe I just heard the approaching Horsemen, but it's a comfort to know there's also a body wash and a lotion. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.
-bill kenny
I adore the fragrances' descriptions because I'm addicted to words and may actually put some of the ones from Times' article in my resume. Who wouldn't want to be known as 'a sparkling gourmand with floral notes and flavorful muskiness.' Seriously. I left my decoder ring at home so I have NO idea what any of that means, except that I believe I just heard the approaching Horsemen, but it's a comfort to know there's also a body wash and a lotion. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.
-bill kenny
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Six Oh.
I haven't gotten it yet-expenses like rent and utilities payments have priorities but before too long I'm gonna have me a copy of Loudon Wainwright's new release, Older than My Old Man Now. I was this time last year, as well, but now I'm at a round number that feels very much like a wall but I tell myself it's a platform from which I can better see ahead and look back, all at the same time. I am a terrible liar.
6-0. In some states you can still drive that speed and maybe even faster but not in the state I'm in. I'm from the Land of Steady Habits by way of Land Hesse and the swamps of Jersey. I don't feel 60 but, I have no idea what it's supposed to feel like. I was talking to a young person hobbling on crutches because of a right knee injury and he told me the doctors are watching it carefully since "it's the same one I hurt back in 'o8 when I was in seventh grade." Please.
The tragedy of youth is that it's wasted on the young. When I was his age then, I didn't know anyone my age now. I don't think I even realized people could get this old and now that I have I don't see myself as old. Worn, yes. Beaten and broken, yeah. Old? Dunno.
Maybe you're the same? That guy I see in the mirror every morning must look different to me than to most other people I encounter the rest of the day. People who see that guy hold doors for him and they say 'sir' to him and they offer to help him carry things upstairs or out to the car. Okay, I have a shotgun, but I think there's more than just Al Capone's rule at work here. And no, I don't really.
I should feel something today, right? Except with 7 plus billion of us here on the ant farm I have no idea how many of us are celebrating the same Natal Anniversary. Yankee Stadium? The Super Dome? A small state of our own. I have no clue. Special is a tall order; I'll stick to being different.
Does this happen to you too? People congratulate me on my birthday like it was my idea. Sorry, no. I was oblivious to you (just like now) and to me, if that helps. Was everyone in the delivery room waiting for me to finish putting on my gloves and shirt? 'Will I need my sled?' I shouted before the delivery began. I think not. We all came into this world the way we're all going out. And all those years of possession by our possessions will be mist in a minute and then dust forever. Oh.
Memory must be the first thing to go because it was earlier this week, I swear, when I asked this incredibly beautiful girl to marry me (which she did; I probably should ask for a pony ride, considering my luck). And we have two kids, okay, they are grown-ups now with their own lives and I keep hearing Lennon's wry observation about life and realize the tighter I hold on the faster it slips away.
Through the love and sometimes other descriptives of my family to the kindnesses of randy and random strangers streaming through my life, from Elechester and Dinah Shore on TV to Belford, down the street from Aunt Anne and Uncle Chief, to Wannamassa, Franklin Township, to Somerset and up to Rhinebeck and Canal Road, a year on ice in Greenland and then vorwarts to Germany and now the Nutmeg State, it's been quite a ride.
I've had a window seat for it, to include the stuff I wish I hadn't, and I'm glad I remembered to wear trousers with pockets so I had some place to put all the memories and the fun. Thank you Mom and Dad, without whom none of this would be possible (or otherwise) and to Evan, Kelly, Kara, Jill, and Adam who've helped make it memorable (at least to me).
As for you, thanks for being here and sometimes being back there as well. Yeah, the first sixty went pretty fast and I'm sorry for being a poor companion. I will strive to improve and have every intention of doing some of this again tomorrow so if you're not doing anything you could come along and we could do it together. It's never too late to have a happy childhood, but it is later than you think. Trust me on that one.
-bill kenny
6-0. In some states you can still drive that speed and maybe even faster but not in the state I'm in. I'm from the Land of Steady Habits by way of Land Hesse and the swamps of Jersey. I don't feel 60 but, I have no idea what it's supposed to feel like. I was talking to a young person hobbling on crutches because of a right knee injury and he told me the doctors are watching it carefully since "it's the same one I hurt back in 'o8 when I was in seventh grade." Please.
The tragedy of youth is that it's wasted on the young. When I was his age then, I didn't know anyone my age now. I don't think I even realized people could get this old and now that I have I don't see myself as old. Worn, yes. Beaten and broken, yeah. Old? Dunno.
Maybe you're the same? That guy I see in the mirror every morning must look different to me than to most other people I encounter the rest of the day. People who see that guy hold doors for him and they say 'sir' to him and they offer to help him carry things upstairs or out to the car. Okay, I have a shotgun, but I think there's more than just Al Capone's rule at work here. And no, I don't really.
I should feel something today, right? Except with 7 plus billion of us here on the ant farm I have no idea how many of us are celebrating the same Natal Anniversary. Yankee Stadium? The Super Dome? A small state of our own. I have no clue. Special is a tall order; I'll stick to being different.
Does this happen to you too? People congratulate me on my birthday like it was my idea. Sorry, no. I was oblivious to you (just like now) and to me, if that helps. Was everyone in the delivery room waiting for me to finish putting on my gloves and shirt? 'Will I need my sled?' I shouted before the delivery began. I think not. We all came into this world the way we're all going out. And all those years of possession by our possessions will be mist in a minute and then dust forever. Oh.
Memory must be the first thing to go because it was earlier this week, I swear, when I asked this incredibly beautiful girl to marry me (which she did; I probably should ask for a pony ride, considering my luck). And we have two kids, okay, they are grown-ups now with their own lives and I keep hearing Lennon's wry observation about life and realize the tighter I hold on the faster it slips away.
Through the love and sometimes other descriptives of my family to the kindnesses of randy and random strangers streaming through my life, from Elechester and Dinah Shore on TV to Belford, down the street from Aunt Anne and Uncle Chief, to Wannamassa, Franklin Township, to Somerset and up to Rhinebeck and Canal Road, a year on ice in Greenland and then vorwarts to Germany and now the Nutmeg State, it's been quite a ride.
I've had a window seat for it, to include the stuff I wish I hadn't, and I'm glad I remembered to wear trousers with pockets so I had some place to put all the memories and the fun. Thank you Mom and Dad, without whom none of this would be possible (or otherwise) and to Evan, Kelly, Kara, Jill, and Adam who've helped make it memorable (at least to me).
As for you, thanks for being here and sometimes being back there as well. Yeah, the first sixty went pretty fast and I'm sorry for being a poor companion. I will strive to improve and have every intention of doing some of this again tomorrow so if you're not doing anything you could come along and we could do it together. It's never too late to have a happy childhood, but it is later than you think. Trust me on that one.
-bill kenny
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
The Past Is Gone
We can be a tough crowd around here. We are very often and very much the 'flinty New Englanders' from whom Nathaniel Hawthorne's Hester Prynne received a varsity letter of sorts. And sometimes, as popular as this is likely to not make me, we're still handing them out. We neither forgive nor forget so, instead of learning from our past experiences, we launch full-court presses to find the guilty and mete out punishment. And we have convenient memory as well as forgiveness issues.
It was less than six months ago, in late October, we filled City Council chambers and watched along at home as Winstanley Enterprises and their leasing partners, Silvera Asset Group, the new owners of what was re-christened the Norwichtown Commons, outlined the direction and speed they hoped to establish in breathing new life into what had been a moribund property. There were murmurings of approval and the following day the commentators and trolls for both local newspapers' on-line accounts seemed to be somewhat hopeful that, this time, "something good might happen." How soon we, and they, forget I guess.
Saturday morning when Sarah Clark and her staff joined with all the members of the current City Council to cut a pink ribbon marking the reopening of the new Dress Barn, there were eager customers galore but none of the voices so often heard and faces seen at City Council meetings who demand 'something be done' to stem the rising tide of higher property tax rates.
Maybe it was the first weekend of fishing season-perhaps that where everyone was, along the riverbanks in stylish waders with fishing tackle and ten pound line. Or not. I'm more than willing to bet the latter. A topic like 'economic development' is something we discuss at barbecues and at our kids' sporting events. It's better than talking about the weather because we can all be experts and have no expertise of any kind (and none of us will ever know).
Actually, it's even better because we've convinced ourselves we can't do anything about economic development and feel ourselves the victim of cruel and uncaring fate. We're also good at self-pity, if I hadn't mentioned that. You see, as unhappy as we are that 'no one ever does anything' we get even crankier when someone does. We would complain if hanged with a new rope (and yes, I thought about a different word instead of complained but then readers of this on the Bulletin's newspaper website would use that word to complain about my vocabulary choices).
The Dress Barn, one of only three in the state to boost the 'new look,' is a marvel-take my word for it. You see, I was in the Council chambers last fall and I was there at the Commons Saturday morning because I like a one-to-one correlation between beginnings and endings.
Despite what you may have heard about about a search for a black cocktail dress to complement fire engine red slingbacks, I was there to see what a good idea well-executed looks like up-close. Lord knows we haven't had all that many here in Norwich and somehow I knew I wouldn't have to worry about the size of the crowd or not getting a good view. That's the problem with being a pessimist; I can only be surprised- I can never be disappointed.
I see the Dress Barn as a demonstration of what the Commons' owners envision the process of reinvention to be. There were some cosmetic changes in recent months to include the removal of a lot of the dead brush around the perimeter of the property and new signage at the entrances. But now we are where the road and the sky collide, the actual creation of retail space for all of those who believe our best days are ahead of us. We're not always good at recognizing better things without a sign. I just hope we know how to read one.
-bill kenny
It was less than six months ago, in late October, we filled City Council chambers and watched along at home as Winstanley Enterprises and their leasing partners, Silvera Asset Group, the new owners of what was re-christened the Norwichtown Commons, outlined the direction and speed they hoped to establish in breathing new life into what had been a moribund property. There were murmurings of approval and the following day the commentators and trolls for both local newspapers' on-line accounts seemed to be somewhat hopeful that, this time, "something good might happen." How soon we, and they, forget I guess.
Saturday morning when Sarah Clark and her staff joined with all the members of the current City Council to cut a pink ribbon marking the reopening of the new Dress Barn, there were eager customers galore but none of the voices so often heard and faces seen at City Council meetings who demand 'something be done' to stem the rising tide of higher property tax rates.
Maybe it was the first weekend of fishing season-perhaps that where everyone was, along the riverbanks in stylish waders with fishing tackle and ten pound line. Or not. I'm more than willing to bet the latter. A topic like 'economic development' is something we discuss at barbecues and at our kids' sporting events. It's better than talking about the weather because we can all be experts and have no expertise of any kind (and none of us will ever know).
Actually, it's even better because we've convinced ourselves we can't do anything about economic development and feel ourselves the victim of cruel and uncaring fate. We're also good at self-pity, if I hadn't mentioned that. You see, as unhappy as we are that 'no one ever does anything' we get even crankier when someone does. We would complain if hanged with a new rope (and yes, I thought about a different word instead of complained but then readers of this on the Bulletin's newspaper website would use that word to complain about my vocabulary choices).
The Dress Barn, one of only three in the state to boost the 'new look,' is a marvel-take my word for it. You see, I was in the Council chambers last fall and I was there at the Commons Saturday morning because I like a one-to-one correlation between beginnings and endings.
Despite what you may have heard about about a search for a black cocktail dress to complement fire engine red slingbacks, I was there to see what a good idea well-executed looks like up-close. Lord knows we haven't had all that many here in Norwich and somehow I knew I wouldn't have to worry about the size of the crowd or not getting a good view. That's the problem with being a pessimist; I can only be surprised- I can never be disappointed.
I see the Dress Barn as a demonstration of what the Commons' owners envision the process of reinvention to be. There were some cosmetic changes in recent months to include the removal of a lot of the dead brush around the perimeter of the property and new signage at the entrances. But now we are where the road and the sky collide, the actual creation of retail space for all of those who believe our best days are ahead of us. We're not always good at recognizing better things without a sign. I just hope we know how to read one.
-bill kenny
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