And there's Still All Day Sunday

This has been a brilliant weekend, nearly incandescent in terms of delight and bedazzlement. Spent some time traveling as The Connecticut Kennys to Central Jersey for the marriage of Suzanne, Adam and Margaret's oldest child, to Ryan in a wonderful ceremony as Friday afternoon ended and dusk approached.

We traveled back to The Nutmeg State at mid-day on Saturday with time enough to spare to catch a good part of a great time, The Taste of Italy, Norwich Style at Howard T. Brown Park at the Norwich Harbor.

And today, the Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I could squeeze in a pony ride or two. Or three. Or just sleep in. Perchance to dream.....
-bill kenny

Should Have Gone with the Chicken

The expression goes “practice makes perfect” (shouldn’t it be “perfect practice makes perfect”?) which is why when someone asks about my religious beliefs I usually respond with ‘a Perfect Catholic’ (because I’m no longer a practicing one).

I grew up in a church that required you to abstain from eating meat on Fridays and not being a fan of seafood I developed a still-firmly-held fondness for grilled cheese sammiches and a wary regard for what I assumed even as a child was a very powerful fishing lobby.  The distinction between star-struck and Star-Kist wasn’t lost on me.

It seemingly escaped the notice of Howard Cosby, nearly a neighbor but actually a resident of a correctional facility down the road in Uncasville which is sort of midway between right here,  and New London.

You might assume people who live in New England, and Howard does live in New England, might have some knowledge of and/or affection for seafood, but I’m a fish sticks guy and have learned to live with the askance looks that I get so I’m giving him a mulligan on not knowing fish was a meat. It can happen.

I was assured by Jacques Cousteau in confidence many years ago during a dream one of us was having that sharks refer to fish as ‘the other white meat.’ That was a revelation that left me very uneasy to this day which is why I never apply tartar sauce before swimming in the ocean. And if I get sunburn, I get sunburn. You have some dill on your eyebrow. Just sayin’.

I’ve been reading this story in a variety of news outlets and a shared commonality (what other kind are there, I wonder, aside from ‘shared’?) is in recounting the why he is an inmate part of the story, as a reader, what I always call ‘the compulsory program,’ (Dick Button would be so proud) the mention of the nearly two decades of sentence he has for sexual assault catches my eye. It’s heartening to realize anyone can change, or attempt to at the very least.   

On the other hand, he may well be hedging his bets against a future life where his skandha takes the form of a flounder fillet as part of a less than Good Friday incarcerated kitchen combo platter. Probably tastier than roast dukkha with w(h)ine sauce.  

-bill kenny

The Fundamental Things Apply

Here's a fact, Jack(t) [didn't know how else to get it to rhyme], on average in these United States 542 people get married everyday (I am assuming to each other; otherwise the math is terrifying). 

Here's another fact, today I do not care about 541 of those pairings. Sorry, I simply do not care. 

This evening Adam and Margaret's Suzanne weds Ryan and Happily Ever After begins immediately. Congratulations! 
-bill kenny

Weather or Not

I tend to tread lightly this time of year. No, not to impress the Jolly Old Elf before the Christmas List Proof-Reading of Good Boys and Girls happens, but because on the Eastern Seaboard we’re, in theory, up to our hips in hurricane season. 

That, some years we’ve been up to our necks is always a cause of both gratitude and a source of concern for me who, as an oldest child, has elevated fretting to an art form.

Actually if the International Olympic Committee were to make fretting a competitive sport, you’d see me on the medals podium probably fretting about the size of the sash on the medal. As women have insisted for eons, size really does matter.

But that’s not why I’m pussy-footing about as September skies cloud over and the sun and fun of summer days fades like a bad burn from Ocean Beach. 

This has been, so far, a very quiet hurricane season, one might say delightfully quiet (not that anyone was complaining), or it was until these blabbermouths decided ‘gee, what a swell idea for a story even though we’re thousands of miles away from any worry about this.”

I’m fretting that now, like the sports announcer who extols the long range field goal kicking ability of Billy-Bob from State U just before he shanks four attempts into the crowd to include those in the other end zone and dooms the kid to swing shift at the Gas ‘n’ Go Car Wash, we could have ourselves a heckuva of a remainder of the hurricane season.

Thanks KOAA, for painting an orange bulls-eye on the backs of folks from The Keys to Kennebunkport. Bozos. I hope Ralphie (IV or V) shows up at your station Halloween party and is so pissed that he had to run almost a hundred miles to crash it that he stomps your wicker pic-a-nic baskets flat level with the ground. 

Wait until I tell him you were having hamburgers….

Worrying about hurricanes almost drives me to drink-and I don’t want another drink. I only want that last one again.

-bill kenny

Being the Change Rather than Just Hoping for It

Shana Tova to those who will celebrate Rosh Hashanah beginning at sundown this evening. The seasons are starting to change, summer is ending and fall beginning and with it a rush to ready ourselves, especially here in New England for the winter we so often fear and never quite fully prepare for.

But before we get there, there are some loose ends, at least in my mind to tie up, and one, much like the fresh start and celebration of Rosh Hashanah involves a quiet shift we felt and saw in the last three weeks here in Norwich. 

The visible, to all and sundry, is the magnificent wall-size mural created by Faith Wibberley on the previously blank brick wall of the Spirit of Broadway Theater on Chestnut Street. 

Susan Gale, one of the most relentlessly optimistic people on our planet once suggested "(a) fresh outlook is like a fresh coat of paint. It doesn't cost much, but sometimes it makes a huge difference."  

I find it delightfully ironic that a fresh coat of paint on the Spirit of Broadway was happening, literally, as the organization's against-all-odds $30,000 fundraiser for the World Premiere performance of their musical "Benedict Arnold" was crowned with success.  

As I read the calendar, while many of us will be enjoying the Taste of Italy, Norwich Style, at Howard T. Brown Park or the Greek Festival on Washington Street this Saturday, others of us, with their theatrical noses to the grindstone will have their first rehearsal with an orchestra and a week from today will be the first public performance.  

Thank you to the Spirit of Broadway for creating an opportunity and a project which transcends personal and/or political differences, allowing us as a committed community to rally round for a greater good which hopefully serves as a fulcrum to finally launch historical tourism as a viable regional pursuit and job creator, for so many disparate voices to be heard in a meaningful (and financial) way saying 'yes' to the heritage and history of Norwich, even the parts with blemishes and warts (perhaps especially THOSE parts).

In my opinion, it's another example and amazing proof of what you can get accomplished when no one cares who gets the credit and that takeaway could and should be a teachable moment for all of us, especially for those who are registered Democrats as next Tuesday is a Democratic primary selection for candidate for Mayor. 

As promised/threatened here some time ago, I will not offer you, as a fellow-registered Democrat, an opinion about for whom you should vote, except to insist you owe it to yourself and to the rest of us as a registered voter to find your way to a polling place between the time they open and close next Tuesday. No excuses.

I'm tired of elections in Norwich coming down to a choice between Ignorance and Apathy-the dynamic duo of "I don't know" and "I don't care.' We spend more time deciding on what to order from a fast-food menu than we do in analyzing the qualifications and abilities of the neighbors who choose to run for public office. 

But don't we love to howl when "they" turn out to not be like "us?" Except, of course in a democracy, especially at the local level, there is no "us" or "them" just we the people. 

So with so many marvelous things happening incrementally across Norwich, these are truly the days of miracles and wonders, invest in yourself and in one another, and be an exclamation and not an explanation.
-bill kenny 

Lessons from the "Baby, Ride Easy" School of Social Intercourse

Welcome back to the real part of the calendar. Summer's not only done, it's over. If you have children, they're off to school. At work, there's no 'real' holiday until we get to November and Veterans Day-don't hand me Halloween, please. Grown-ups have usurped it as another excuse to get our drunk on, but it was a children's holiday and in my heart, shriveled and cold as it is, so it remains. 

On my walk in honor of Labor Day yesterday, which bore a striking resemblance to all the other walks I take and make throughout the year, I encountered a young person (in my case anyone younger than 50 though in this specific instance more like 16 based on the clothes) who was kind enough to allow me first passage on a wide-enough-for-only-one-person path way. 

I've lost a reasonable amount of weight in recent months as part of my escape plan (yet to come to fruition) and no longer need a flagman with a placard reading 'wide load' to walk ten paces in advance of me, so it wasn't courtesy motivated by size and mass. Rather, the young man, demonstrating (I thought) he wasn't raised in a barn allowed his elder to proceed first. 

I was (and still am) grateful for the kindness and then, within seconds, assured everyone on earth he'll probably never do it again. I had headphones on since I prefer listening to what I perceive as 'my music' over anything happening in the real world. If I could afford prescription mirror shades, I'd wear them as well while walking but I can't so I wear very dark sunglasses so as to better be an island in the stream of humanity.

As I passed the youngster, I said aloud 'thank you' and looked at his face as he mouthed, 'no problem.' I stopped, turned and removed my ear buds and somewhat shrilly asked him 'what did you say?' He repeated 'no problem' and discovered to his dismay and chagrin just how wrong he was about that.

If, like me, you're a codger and a curmudgeon, the good news is, I suppose, that we had a good day yesterday as I schooled a youngun' on the acceptable verbal cues of successful social intercourse. I really hate the use of  'no problem' instead of 'you're welcome.' Truth to tell, I'm not especially fond of the contraction but accept it with a sigh of resignation and a five minute tirade. 

The sigh was the same sound I made when, as I continued on with my walk in sanctimonious smugness (and red New Balance sneakers, to match my eyes (you were thinking of another body part, weren't you?) I realized with a shock, short of calling him a whippersnapper and demanding he stay off my lawn I had become 'that cranky old guy' that every neighborhood has. 

The difference between steadfast and stuck gets more difficult to distinguish, much less explain, as the years go by. And often, it's impossible.
-bill kenny

Selections from the Governor Scott Walker Songbook

There once was a union maid, she never was afraid
Of goons and ginks and company finks and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid.
She went to the union hall when a meeting it was called,
And when the Legion boys come 'round
She always stood her ground.

Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the union,
I'm sticking to the union, I'm sticking to the union.
Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the union,
I'm sticking to the union 'til the day I die.

This union maid was wise to the tricks of company spies,
She couldn't be fooled by a company stool, she'd always organize the guys.
She always got her way when she struck for better pay.
She'd show her card to the National Guard
And this is what she'd say

You gals who want to be free, just take a tip from me;
Get you a man who's a union man and join the ladies' auxiliary.
Married life ain't hard when you got a union card,
A union man has a happy life when he's got a union wife.

Now I'm a union man, amazed at what I am. 
I say what I think, that the company stinks. Yes, I'm a union man

When we meet in the local hall, I'll be voting with them all.
With a hell of a shout, it's "Out brothers, out!" and the rise of the factory's fall.

Oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
Until the day I die. Until the day I die.

The union has made me wise to the lies of the company spies
And I don't get fooled by the factory rules 'cause I always read between the lines

And I always get my way if I strike for higher pay
When I show my card to the Scotland Yard and this is what I say:

Oh, oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
Until the day I die.
Until the day I die.

Before the union did appear my life was half as clear
Now I've got the power to the working hour and every other day of the year

So though I'm a working man I can ruin the government's plan
And though I'm not hard, the sight of my card makes me some kind of superman

Oh, oh, oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
Until the day I die.
Until the day I die.

You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
You don't get me, I'm part of the union.
Until the day I die.
Until the day I die.

Labor Day 2013. 
Robber Barons, Mega Banks and Wall Street: too much; 
Working Poor, Middle Class and Main Street: not enough. 
-bill kenny