The Savagery of Nature

This is more observational than possessing an actual point (I know, "what's new about that?" Words hurt, smarty-pants and sometimes sting). I was in my office this past Sunday attempting to get ahead on a project I've been fitfully working on for awhile but as closing time nears and I worry about hearing 'last call,' I'd like to get it finished or at least leave it in decent enough shape so that someone coming along doesn't mistake it for the dog's breakfast. 

Leaving the building shortly after noon I watched two blue jays battling over what at first I thought was a strip of roofing tar paper, or the like, on the sidewalk about fifteen feet away from the front door. As I approached, the birds fled (I like to think it's my superpower being able to frighten birds. Since it's worked for over six and a half decades, change my mind), dropping the tar paper into the grass as they flew away. 

Roofing tar paper, not an actual baby bat

I thought there might be a light breeze as the tar paper kept flipping but a check of the tree leaves and the absence of their movement caused me to look closer. The tar paper was, in fact, a small, I guess baby, bat with outstretched wings, struggling to flip itself over and not be at its most vulnerable on its back.

Perhaps it fell out of the tree (I have no idea where bats live and am hoping they have no knowledge of my domicile's location either) and the blue jays were fighting over which of them would make a meal of the little guy (or gal). The bat was no bigger than my thumb and was thrashing around attempting to defend itself. Since to my understanding bats eat bugs and fruit while blue jays eat anything that doesn't eat them, the bat was at a severe tactical disadvantage.

It was so young/small the only noise I could hear was a barely audible (to me) high piercing squeaky sound (maybe to another bat, it sounded more like Pavarotti). I wanted to help the bat but didn't trust myself or it enough to grab it with my bare hand by a wing (it was Sunday so prayers were sold separately) and place it under one of the ornamental shrubs, someone, thousands of years ago thought would look nice bordering the building (they were utterly wrong by the way).

I suspect to the bat, I was no different than the blue jays though from a distance I more closely resemble Ozzy Osbourne (we both come from a long line of mumblers). Actually, I interviewed Ozzy a long time ago and a long time after he bit the head off a bat so I found a small branch with some other smaller branches forming a near-fork shape and used that to lift the bat off the ground and carry it to one of the bushes where I placed it as deeply in the center, under the bush in the hopes of protecting it from the birds, as possible. 

Having done my good deed for the year (I try not to overexert myself) I headed home and when I returned on Monday morning, the short branch was still under the bush, but the bat was gone. I told myself he flew away and have decided that's the version of this story I want to tell. And if you have a different idea, you are wrong. And that's all I have to say about that. 
-bill kenny                 

Benson Is On to Something

It looks like all the April rain (and sleet and snow) showers have resulted in some serious blooming happening along lower Broadway, below City Hall, as you head to Main Street. 

If you’ve convinced yourself that nothing any good ever happens anymore in Norwich (suggested sound effects include loud lamentations and the rending of garments), this might be a good time to double click to some online classifieds and check out that special on size 44 Triple E jump boots because you will not appreciate what follows here. And that’s fine because it just means more for the rest of us.

If you haven’t walked lower Broadway in a while, it’s bustling with activity. There are all kinds of construction going on, on both sides of the street, flanking Billy Wilson’s and at the Fairhaven, courtesy of the Stackstone Group who put their money where our mouths are and have invested heavily in places to come home to in downtown.

Next door to the Donald Oat Theater and Norwich Art Council is some serious renovation going on from I don’t know who, as they are reviving a long dormant and forgotten property and adding some sparkle to Broadway.

But those are works in progress and since we are a city notoriously short of patience, (except when we're not, I guess)  I wanted to highlight another positive that happens when you get involved in helping out on weekend community aside from the glow from within. It’s how community economic development achieves Critical Mass. 

As you (should have) read in Monday’s Bulletin, the long-awaited (and not just by me) ‘downtown coffee shop’, Craftsman Cliff Roasters, opened to great rejoicing and is, I believe, a signpost of where downtown is heading when we too often prefer to sigh about souvenirs of Norwich’s past. 

Crazy socks face the window while ties go to the runners.

I and many other volunteers had already enjoyed a taste while we were sprucing up downtown during the First Saturday of May and stopped in to recharge. And while some were waiting for a cup, I strolled to the intersection of Broadway and Main, crossed the street (at the crosswalk after looking in all directions to include skyward) heading for 27 Broadway and the even more newly opened Monocle on Broadway.

They were just beginning their Saturday workday but they’re open every day (Sunday, Wednesday, and Saturday, 10-2; 10-5 on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday, and on Thursdays from 10 until 7). 

I took a quick look around before getting back to the clean-up and the next time you’re “Puttin' On the Ritz" you should stop in. They have suit and tuxedo rentals and sales as well as assorted menswear. And they have unique cufflinks, ties, shirts, belts, cologne, crazy socks (I’m told a huge seller), as well as dog ties and kerchiefs (for the canine who already has everything else I suspect). They even have dress uniform items such as parade gloves, patent leather shoes, etc.

Monocle Max dressed and ready.

Even if you’re a water-drinking nudist (there’s a mental image you will not be easily rid of, and you’re welcome) you should be delighted that more entrepreneurs and businesses are staking a claim in Norwich to make a living for themselves, adding to the City’s Grand List, and making a positive difference in our community’s quality of life.

Shopping local is really the new black (and green as in dollars), with a creative, transformative rainbow spreading to and through Broadway and beyond. And as they say, there’s magic in the air. All you have to do is enjoy it.       
-bill kenny  

Strangers on this Road

We'll all seen people with sweatshirts or tee-shirts that say 'ask me about my grandchildren.' At some point in the past unknown to me I was fitted with one that says 'tell me all about anything, I don't mind.' 

I was at the local grocery yesterday afternoon grabbing some sports drinks as if what I attempt now in the mornings could ever be confused with physical exertion. Humor me, okay? If I want to think it's a workout, what's the harm in letting me have this little fantasy?

It isn't really a workout and if cornered I'd probably admit it, but I do get winded and a bit sweaty and parts of me hurt until the Tylenol kicks in. Plus I look cool with a multi-pack sports drink in my hand as I stand in line. I get almost as much of a work out carrying that to the register as I do on the treadmill. 

I wound up behind a fellow carrying a lot of stuff in his bare hands, without the benefit of a shopping cart or a basket. I've had that happen, where I get ambushed in the baked goods department by freshly made oatmeal and raisin cookies while I have my hands already full (one of those reach exceeds grasp kind of moments). Have there been times I've parked the item I originally came into the store to get and bought a lot of other stuff, taken it all out to the car and then returned for the original item? Yeah, guilty as charged.

Not sure what happened with this guy. He was pushing a bag of charcoal briquettes in front of him but did not seem to have any kind of meat you would normally associate with grilling in his hands (and I don't care to imagine where else he might have put it). I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I've never been hijacked by briquettes when I'm Lost in the Supermarket, so I didn't have the highest regard for this patron.

When he started mumbling, from where I was behind him (I scrupulously enforce that ATM space rule when I'm in line. It will never be my hot breath you feel on your neck and vice versa) I thought he was talking to the scandal magazines alongside the gum and candy. One of the most sobering aspects of growing old is as I've aged, how less and less of the headlines or pictured celebrities mean anything to me at all. 

One of magazine covers had someone who is so famous she only has a first name, and a TV show I think, but I have no idea who she is or the name of the show. Marty Mumbles, as I dubbed him, seemed to be talking to the magazine with what looked like Mel Gibson and (maybe) his girlfriend as a thumbnail-sized photo on the cover, but I was in error. 

I looked up to realize, as he stacked his stuff (and '12 Items or less' became a suggestion, exactly when? I missed that memo) as high as he could on the smallest possible amount of space on the conveyor belt, he was actually talking at me. There was a reasonable amount of frantic head nodding and eye-blinking, not a lot of contact, which was of no help at all in understanding a single word of whatever he was, or wasn't, saying. 

All the while the cashier was scanning his stuff, he had his back to her, addressing me. I always get these guys so I just bided my time. When she announced the total, I had to point him, using the smile and nod technique (and NO sudden movements), in her general direction so that he realized the ride was just about done. 

Of course, he wasn't prepared to pay and went through his pockets looking for cash, paper, and coins, before defaulting to a credit card, shuffling off with enough plastic bags to choke a landfill all the while jabbering away to anyone (else) who made eye contact.

When I handed the cashier my sole item, she remarked that she hadn't seen me 'in here with that guy before' as if I made it a practice to collect strangers in the night. I thought about telling her just that and then decided silence, in my case, was golden. Besides, if I dawdled, I'd be late for the cookout, and that would never do.
-bill kenny

I'll Have to Owe You

View of the Norwich Free Academy from Chelsea Parade

The better of our two weekend days, weather-wise, was yesterday, Mothers Day. I'm not necessarily suggesting cause and effect but your other choices are 'sheer coincidence' and 'sorta spooky so don't think about it.' Yeah, cause and effect it is, at least for me.

(Not named for Terry) Bradlaw Building

I went for a walk, admittedly not much of one but, on the other hand, I'm not much of a walker either, so it all sort of works out. And if you're not impressed with the pictures I took with my cell phone camera, please remember I could have always decided to describe the places where I was standing in tortured and extensive detail and you know how much most gooder I am with words, right? 

Slater Museum

You're welcome.

Everything's in bloom at the Park Congregational Church

-bill kenny 

Neither a Card nor a Moment

I figure everyone with a pulse, or an approximation, is waxing poetic today in honor of Mother's Day, as well we should. This is my first Mother's Day without Mom who passed away almost a year ago but who is always and often in my thoughts. These are a few of them from a really long time ago. Miss you, Mom.

When I was a kid, Mom was more than unflappable, she was a force of nature and in the nearly three decades since the death of her husband, her children, joined by grandchildren and now great-grand children have watched her lead the life she wishes after taking care of so many of us for so long. Mom came to visit Sigrid and me and our two children when we all still lived in Germany.

She and Franz and Anni Schubert, Sigrid's parents, got along wonderfully well even though they shared not a single syllable of a common language. Sigrid's mom was a Rubble Woman upon whose back the Federal Republic of Germany became the economic engine of Europe in the decade after World War II. Anni's husband passed some years ago. The two women took, and take, no shit from anybody and raised children pretty much who are the same way.

My sisters, Evan, Kara and Jill are accomplished, masterful and successful. They take care of their own families with the same devotion and also the same discipline (no feet on tables, no glasses without coasters) as their mother did them. Glenn (Evan's late husband), Russ (Kara's fella) and Joe (paired with Jill) are fortunate to have them in their lives and smart enough to know it.

I and my two brothers, Kelly and Adam, are married to women, Sigrid, Linda and Margaret whose Moms raised them to give us the confidence every day to go out into the world and try to reinvent it in our own image and, when we come home at the end of each day, oft defeated but never undaunted, to convince us we can begin again on the morrow because of their love and support. I think at last count we have collectively two point three boxcars of children, some with families of their own.

I realize you may fear with my diabetes, being so sweet puts me in grave danger of being terminally mushy. No worries, I'm not, as I choose to invoke the deathless words of Ray Wylie Hubbard to close. Love ya, Mom(s), all of you.

-bill kenny 

Hannes and Siggy Have Yet To Be Heard From

I have a great deal of respect for any and all firearms. I served in the US Air Force for eight years and grasped the concept of weaponry and its applications very early on. There was never any need to know the text of the Second Amendment to the Constitution. 

Here it is in Thomas Jefferson's own handwriting.

Maybe joined together writing is a little hard to read and let's face it, that is a little faded after all this time. Let me help. "A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." 

Don't wish to get in the middle of any discussion (started to type "argument") over baring arms or arming bears but I think maybe we spend way too much time fixated on the clause following the comma after "a free state." 

And you can call me crazy but I'm also thinking Balew is not what TJ had in mind. 
-bill kenny

Best Part of Waking Up

I get up early on weekday mornings. Admittedly nowhere near as early as my rise and shine younger brother, Mr. Chariots of Fire, but early for me (though for much of this past week, owing to later in the previous evening's activities, I've been getting up a half hour later) and it's so early that I'm mostly sleep-walking for the first thirty minutes or so after my feet hit the bedroom floor.

That usually works out okay as much of my getting ready to head to the gym, or to work or to just simply greet the day, is a routine that I help out by organizing the evening before. I lay out my morning medications, not meditations as auto-correct keeps trying to suggest, next to the nasal spray which, in turn, is next to the glucose meter which is always to the left of the sphygmomanometer. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Some mornings I get up, slap on gym clothes, carry my work clothes on a hanger and head to the gym, drive to work, shower and get dressed for whatever adventures lie ahead. Some mornings, like yesterday, I shower at home and get dressed for work before heading there. 

About four times a year, for no actual or particular reason, I stop shaving and then, after a couple of days, tell myself  I'm growing a beard (because technically I am). I pretend that this time, I'll look dashing and debonair. Sort of like Brad Pitt meets Antonio Banderas. Instead, I always look more like the bear, Ben, in Grizzly Adams. 

Actually, that's a vast overstatement. I look like a 'pennbruder' (a hobo) says my wife and she's being kind. I resemble that guy on the corner of Main and Water Streets with the dirty rag and the squeegee bottle who wants to clean your windshield for a quarter while you're waiting at the light. And, be warned, I don't have change for a five. 

Anyway, yesterday morning after showering and shaving I was ready to brush my teeth (I can skip shaving for weeks at a time but I have to brush my teeth at least twice a day because, well, because I have to). I keep the toothpaste standing on its head in the short plastic 5-ounce cup that holds the dental rinse I start with followed by the actual tooth brushing (teeth brushing?). For whatever reason, instead of putting the rinse in the cup, I used the Stetson aftershave I keep on a shelf beside the shower. 

Unscrewing the cap, pouring the aftershave into the cup and lifting the cup to my mouth set off no alarm bells at all. My nose, fortunately for me, was way more awake than any other body part it seems and got a big whiff of the Stetson stuff and kept slapping at my front lobe until the rest of my brain went 'whoa!' and I caught a look at myself in the mirror looking sheepish (and unshaven). I then smiled because I had the gums and teeth to do that, safely, at least once more. Good morning, indeed.
-bill kenny