Losing My Tradition

Traditions come in many varieties and serve many functions. Some people get together at Christmas time for public tree-lighting ceremonies; others get together for ritualistic observations of birth, marriage, and death; and some people get together to discuss shared interests such as books, art, and social issues. But whatever the reason for tradition, the one constant is people. People getting together. People staying connected. And that is why you should hold on to your traditions with both hands.

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This Thanksgiving weekend, my Stoneham High School class of 1983 will gather for its 25th reunion. And while class reunions are a popular form of tradition, they play only an incidental role in this story. My friend, Chris, who was our class president, asked for my help in locating missing classmates. During my search, I came upon a website dedicated to Stoneham’s class of ‘82. Having known many members of that class, including my oldest and closest friend, Michael, I took a few moments to look in on people I once referred to as upper-classmen.

Among the site’s features was a slide-show displaying images from their 25th reunion. There were photos of people dancing, drinking, socializing, and posing in groups. I recognized many of the faces, though it seemed various degrees of age-advancing make-up had been applied since the last time I’d seen them. One of the group shots showed eleven smiling women standing side-by-side. I recalled a few of the names and remembered sitting beside one of them in history class during my junior year, but what struck me more than their apparent closeness was the caption below the photograph:

This group gets together once a month

Then, in case you were inclined, as I was, to re-read what you thought you read, the captioner emphasized:

- yes, once a month.

It also mentioned that one woman was missing from the picture bringing the total number of women who meet once a month to twelve. That’s twelve women meeting twelve times a year.

I wondered what they could be doing. They have enough women for a full-court basketball game with two referees. They are a jury of their peers. Maybe they sing, each lending their unique voice to songs like The Twelve Days of Christmas. Mostly, I wondered how they pull it off. To me, holding once-a-month gatherings of a group that size is a remarkable achievement in tradition-making. Perhaps it’s easier for women. I was once part of a meaningful tradition that, as time went on, became harder and harder to maintain.

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I played varsity football during my senior year in high school. Members of the team were expected in the locker room early Thanksgiving morning to prepare for our annual game against Reading. That meant we had to obey a strict curfew the night before. Michael was on holiday break from college, and to make sure I would be home in time for a possible bed-check phone call, we went to an early showing of First Blood at the Showcase Cinema in Woburn. We didn’t know it then, but that ordinary trip to the movies began a streak of Thanksgiving Eve reunions that would grow in both membership and significance, becoming a tradition we vowed would go on forever.

The early years of the tradition were all about partying. Michael and I, and several close friends would converge on Faneuil Hall Market Place in what was basically a continuance of the disorderly drinking and carousing of high school. We usually ended up at Clarke’s Turn of the Century Saloon and quickly discovered that the idea of a reunion at Thanksgiving was not our’s exclusively. Several groups from previous graduating classes had already laid claim to the tradition. Perhaps it was embedded in Stoneham’s genetic coding to drink all night and attend the Thanksgiving football game with a head-splitting hangover.

By the time we reached our mid-twenties, a core-group of four had emerged. Michael and I were joined by Chris and an older friend named Bernie - class of ‘78 - and the tradition became more than a simple beer bath. It was an event we anticipated eagerly throughout the year.

We began kicking off the evening with dinner at the Kowloon restaurant on Route One. Flaming pu pu platters were picked clean as we took time to catch up with each other’s lives. Conversations revolved around work, school, girlfriends, and family, before moving on to more pressing matters like movies, music, and sports. I wish I could say it was a sign of maturity, this settling down to catch our collective breath, but we still ended up at Clarke’s clinking glasses with old friends, pledging allegiance to our annual renewal, before freezing our asses off at 3am on Revere Beach with a Kelly’s roast beef sandwich.

As we approached our thirties, attrition began picking apart the congregation like a downsizing social virus. Many from the group at large had gotten married and were unable to convince in-laws that a drunken promise of loyalty superceded the vows of marriage. Others simply grew weary of the crowds and partying. But the thinning of the herd did not effect the inner-circle; Michael, Chris, Bernie and I remained true to the cause. Even during the few years I was forced to work Thanksgiving Day at the post office, I stayed out until 3am, punched in at 7am, and suffered through a six-hour shift, all for the sake of tradition. It was that important.

When we reached our mid-thirties, Michael got married and moved to Maine after accepting a position as assistant basketball coach at his alma mater. I thought the tradition was doomed, but in an impressive display of commitment, and despite a round-trip commute of three hours, Michael stayed on for five more years. The first three years, he made it into Boston for drinks, but the following two years saw him head back to Maine after dinner. When his wife, Kim, gave birth to their second child - both late November babies - it was time for Michael to sacrifice tradition for practicality.

During Michael’s transition, my brother, John, joined the group, and Instead of Faneuil Hall after dinner, we began hitting The Lizard Lounge on Mass Ave in Cambridge where local musician Dennis Brennan played his Wednesday night residency. There was a change of personnel, as well as a change of venue, but the tradition was alive.

In January 2004, at the age of 38, I gave up drinking. It wasn’t a New Year’s resolution. There was no twisted car wreck or need for a twelve-step program. I just quit. What remained to be seen, however, was how my social life would be effected by the absence of alcohol.

Turns out, music clubs with live bands still provided a great night out, but standing around a tavern without entertainment while other people got drunk was an assault to my sensibilities. The designated driver role, while admirable on paper, gets a little old in the harshness of last-call lights when you’re circling the bar rounding up friends who "Just wanna finish this beer". I hung in with the tradition during my first three years of sobriety, but Chris lost interest, leaving me and Bernie as the only remaining members of the original four.

Last year, as Thanksgiving approached, I found myself pressing to finish a story I’d been working on. When Thanksgiving Eve arrived, I decided to stay in and write while John, Bernie and a few other friends met in Cambridge. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. I was doing what I wanted and wasn’t aware of any sense of loss. For me, the tradition had followed an orderly progression; it took off like a comet, then reached a comfortable cruising altitude before touching down quietly in repose. At least, that’s what I told myself.

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This year, as October segued into November, I again found myself planning to stay home on the night before Thanksgiving. Then, while helping a friend search for missing classmates, I saw the picture; eleven women, plus one, getting together once a month, yes, once a month.

Perhaps they sit around splitting twelve-packs of Budweiser. Maybe they’re making plans to produce their own swimsuit calendar. Whatever they do, I imagine they enjoy themselves in the comfort of their ritual. They look happy to pose for that photograph. Happy to get together.

Seeing the picture made me wonder why I gave up so easily on something so important. I still see my close friends on a regular basis throughout the year, but we rarely get together as a group. Once a month with everyone would be an unlikely scenario, but I’ll gladly take once in a while with a few of them over not getting together at all. The tradition hadn’t really touched down, it continued on without me after I had bailed-out.

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Today is Thanksgiving. Last night, John and I joined Bernie and another friend in Cambridge. We listened to The Dennis Brennan Band. We talked about our lives. And as we raised our beer bottles - non-alcoholic, for me - in ritualistic fashion, I said a silent thank you to twelve women for their inspiration.

It felt good to get together.

It felt like tradition.

What MLK had in Mind

I was 4 years-old in the summer of 1969 when I landed in the hospital after falling six feet from the top of the slide at our local playground. I escaped significant injury, but was kept for a long weekend of tests and evaluations.

There were five or six children to a room on the pediatrics ward, and the beds were arranged against the wall around the perimeter.

On the second day, shortly after visiting hours, a new boy was brought in and placed in the bed across from me. My parents had just exited the room and I was feeling terribly lonely when I looked over at my new roommate. He was smiling warmly through the protective bars that surrounded his bed. His skin was the color of chocolate ice cream, and his hair, also dark, was short and kinky. I was curious about the way he looked, but I hadn’t yet developed a definitive sense of my own physical appearance, so I saw him as another sick child and a potential ally.

His name was Christopher and we played together whenever we were allowed out of our beds. We shared each other’s food at lunchtime even though we were advised not to. We must have presented quite a contrast, me with my fair skin and towhead-blonde hair, and him my physical opposite. We didn’t know that Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy had been killed the year before or what their deaths signified. We hadn’t yet heard of Vietnam or civil rights. He was the first black person I ever met and since we had not been preconditioned to behave any other way, we became friends.

On Monday, I was discharged and happy to leave. I missed Christopher at first, but I was a young boy and easily distracted, so after a while I didn’t think much about my comrade from the hospital. I never saw him again, but I haven’t forgotten.

Looking back, I know that my friendship with Christopher was formed over three days in a fish bowl. No one came into that hospital room and whispered to either of us that maybe we shouldn’t be spending so much time together. We weren’t tested by society or peer pressure. I’m glad it didn’t come to that, I love the memory just the way it is. It remains beautiful in that it stands as an example of my once limitless potential and tolerance, and, I think, the potential and tolerance of all children. We hadn’t yet been poisoned by the opinions, experiences, and prejudices in the world. Just two children making the best of a difficult situation. It is one of the few memories I have of my own pureness and innocense, and I pray that as I get older time does not rob me of it.

Forecast calls For Pain

March 2008

Please don’t let me get pulled over. A field sobriety test would most definitely result in failure. It’s dark out. I’m driving with the controlled intensity of a criminal en route to a safe-house. I wear sunglasses, not as a disguise, but for protection from the severity of oncoming headlights. My knitted winter hat feels like a tourniquet around my throbbing head. The commute takes twenty minutes and I hope to complete it without having to pull over and throw up. I probably should’ve paid closer attention to the warning signs and left work earlier. After all, migraines don’t exactly come over me all at once like an avalanche. They creep in like a slow moving cold front, allowing me plenty of time to think about what may or may not happen to me.

I’m not sure what caused this particular migraine. Known as triggers, the list of actions or conditions that can set a migraine in motion is long and varied: fluorescent lighting, spikes in barometric pressure, aerosol fumes, chocolate, dehydration, depression, even worry over getting a migraine. I’ve had so many migraines under such contrasting sets of circumstances that I’ve given up trying to figure out what provokes my attacks. Every new day seems to bring with it the possibility for a migraine.

Earlier this afternoon, while performing my job as a dispatcher at the post office, I felt a mild current of activity in my right temple. Like a single snowflake, the sensation can melt away harmlessly, or signify the start of something substantial. I rubbed the area; it was tender and sensitive to pressure. Uh-oh.

I kept working, trying to convince myself that the tension building behind my eyes would ease if I stayed busy. But, as the trouble in my head continued to mount, it became obvious that a choice would have to be made. Like a school superintendent who wakes to falling snow, I must decide quickly whether the threat of accumulation is enough to order a complete shutdown.

When used as directed, my migraine medication usually eases the intensity of an attack - the caveat being that it must be taken at the earliest sign of encroachment to be effective. Along with the possibility of relief, however, comes a host of unpleasant side-effects - muscle stiffness, dizziness, fatigue, skin sensitivity - which must be endured lying down, at home. I took my pillbox from my backpack and considered the small triangle-shaped pill, then put it back. Instead of cutting my day short, spurred on by a mixture of duty and denial, I decided to gamble in hopes that my vexation would not escalate. It was the wrong move.

I no longer follow the word "migraine" with the word "headache" in conversation. Calling a migraine a headache limits the focus of its impact zone. The National Weather Service states that a snow storm becomes a blizzard when sustained winds of 35 mph or more reduce visibility to1/4 mile or less, and last at least 3 hours. Similarly, certain criteria must be met before a headache can be positively identified as a migraine. I was already dealing with throbbing pain, decreased peripheral vision, and rising irritability when my stomach began to get sick. With the arrival of nausea, my prognosis was no longer in doubt. This was not just a headache. I did indeed have a migraine.

The time was 4:30. Drawing on my vast experience with migraines, I figured I’d have about two hours before total incapacitation. My shift would end at 6:30. It was going to be close.

My torment intensified as I prepared the mail for the day’s final dispatch. The harder I worked, the faster my blood flowed, delivering swift concentrated punishment to my head and stomach. I was forced to stop and wait for things to calm, but that only served to throw me off-schedule. Surrender was imminent; soon I would need someone to drive me home. I left work shortly after six.

Having made it home without incident, I enter my apartment at 6:30 with a singular goal; get to my darkened room and into bed as soon as possible. My brother is working out on his Nordic Track in the front room.

"Can you feed the cat?" I ask him as I pass through. "I’ve got a migraine. I’m going to bed."

He nods and keeps on striding; he knows there’s nothing more he can do. I stop by the kitchen, grab two cold packs and a Tupperware bowl deep enough and wide enough to catch vomit hurled from a distance. My head is heavy and I stoop as though the ceiling has been lowered since this morning. Kozmo the cat weaves spirited figure-eights through my legs in an attempt to prevent me from exiting the kitchen, but I step over him and into my bedroom closing the door behind me.

I slip under the covers and place a cold pack on my neck, the other on my forehead. I close my eyes. Blue and gray spots appear out of the blackness, growing larger, they bleed into one another like a psychedelic screen-saver, colorizing my pain. I search my pillow for a location outside the migraine’s path of aggression and for a moment find peace. But before I get a chance to exhale, I’m buried under another wave of brutality. I wince and let out a wounded moan, a single tear rolls sideways down my face. It’s as if the pain is being administered by twisting throttle. There is a pulsing in my stomach, a reminder that digestion has shut down and is looking to reverse its usual order. I’m in the eye of a perfect storm; a swirling tempest of pain and suffering.

Sleep appears to be my only escape, but it’s hard to quiet my mind. I wonder if the guillotine was invented strictly as a device of execution or as an eighteenth century curative for migraines. I think of people I know who also live with migraines. Like survivors of calamitous events, we talk in closed circles about what we alone can understand, and find comfort in our shared suffering. I remember weddings, concerts, and holiday gatherings cut short - ghosts of migraines past. I recall some nightmarish road trips; startled chambermaids in Cleveland and New York, who entered darkened hotel rooms to find me motionless in bed; a sympathetic desk clerk granting an urgent plea for a late checkout in Toronto. When you travel, your migraines go with you.

Somewhere around 9 o’clock, I fall asleep.

When I open my eyes, the clock reads 12:02 am. Time for an inventory. I rotate my neck and lift my head off the pillow - no painful backfire. My stomach is settled and demanding food - another encouraging sign. I reach over and switch on my bedside lamp. The light irritates, but doesn’t hurt my eyes. I swing my legs out of the bed. My feet land amidst a pile of rumpled work clothes, lukewarm ice packs, and empty Tupperware. I’m exhausted, relieved, and resentful. It’s Friday night, just after midnight, I have to work in the morning. I didn’t get to workout, didn’t get to read or write, didn’t talk to anyone on the phone, couldn’t have visited a friend if I wanted; I dropped out completely. My brother has gone out. I feel like I should call someone, let them know I’m okay, that I am back. I did not bleed or break any bones, there are no outward scars. When it’s over, the migraine is simply a nasty thief of time. I can’t get even, and it’s pointless to hold a grudge, so I go to the kitchen for something to eat.

The next morning I’m back in my car heading to work, sunglasses on warding off daylight. Physically, I feel like a piece of wreckage in the aftermath. Mentally, I’m a little worried about a repeat of yesterday; sometimes these spells hang around like threatening clouds in a holding pattern. I’ve got the radio tuned to an all-news station. I reach down and turn up the volume as a man’s voice says, "A new study in the Journal of the American Medical Association finds frequent migraines are associated with an increased likelihood of brain lesions and may lead to brain damage." Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me.

*note: I have suffered from migraines since my mid-twenties - nearly twenty years. In August, 2007, I began treating them with acupuncture. Since then I have had exactly one disabling migraine, the one you read about here. I used to experience spells of up to three days about four times a year. As a result of my acupuncture treatments, my migraines are less frequent and less severe. This essay is intended not as a cry for help, but as an illumination of a horrendous malady.

74 Thank You’s

For my dad on his 74th birthday
(December 2008)

*Thank You for teaching me to fish
*Thank You for taking us to Disney World - the trip of a lifetime for a ten-year-old
*Thank You for teaching me which curse words were best by forbidding me to say them
*Thank You for teaching me to water ski
*Thank You for letting me drive your snowmobiles
*Thank You for your diced potatoes
*Thank You for trying to make ice cream, once
*Thank You for driving us to PEI every summer so we could spend time with Gramma & Grandpa
*Thank You for subscribing to Sports Illustrated and The Hockey News
all those years
*Thank You for knowing how to tell a joke - I’m terrible at it
*Thank You for bringing home that 8-track - phonograph - Hi-Fi system way back when, it got me started as a rock’n’roll fan
*Thank You for having the good sense to propose to Ma
*Thank You for giving me my first job at the gas station - I know, I hated it, but it gave me the opportunity to see how hard you worked
*Thank You for teaching me to drive at Servomation
*Thank You for not smoking
*Thank You for quitting drinking
*Thank You for having Sandy Ruggles play Santa Claus for us when we were young
*Thank You for doing your part in providing me with a sister and two brothers
*Thank You for always feeding the birds
*Thank You for sharing Papa’s war diary with me
*Thank You for making us do our own laundry when ma got sick - it was long overdue
*Thank You for letting us set up a weight room in the cellar
*Thank You for making me a bruins fan
*Thank You for always being prepared
*Thank You for never complaining about work
*Thank You for earning everything you have
*Thank You for teaching me that it is bad form to call in sick to work when you’re not - I know, that one took awhile
*Thank You for the fireworks displays at Bow Lake
*Thank You for teaching me about loyalty
*Thank You for paying me 10 cents a bag to rake leaves so I could buy baseball cards
*Thank You for driving us through saugus to view the Christmas lights each December
*Thank You for bringing home real Christmas trees
*Thank You for returning with me to Brown’s TV when the owner refused to refund my money for that cheap Walkman and for telling him what a "piece of shit" it was
*Thank You for always preaching safety
*Thank You for being punctual
*Thank You for buying me expensive shoes designed to support my flat feet
*Thank You for taking me to my first Red Sox game on July 12, 1974 - a 7-0 loss to the California Angels
*Thank You for taking me to my first Patriots game on October 12, 1980 - a 34-0 loss to the Miami Dolphins
*Thank You for giving me a last name that the Stoneham police regarded as a get out of jail free card
*Thank You for loaning me the money for my first car - a maroon 1975 Chrysler Cordoba
*Thank You for widening the driveway when we all started driving our own cars
*Thank You for sitting with me at the circus when I was afraid of the lions
*Thank You for warning me of the dangers of credit card debt
*Thank You for taking over the preparation of Thanksgiving dinner after Nana lost her touch
*Thank You for always making more than enough food
*Thank You for teaching me that it’s easier to line a baking pan with tin foil rather than spending half an hour scouring it after
*Thank You for not making me adhere to any strict curfews growing up
*Thank You for installing a pool in our backyard
*Thank You for your homemade Italian salad dressing
*Thank You for liking cats and dogs
*Thank You for letting me play your drums and providing me with rhythm so I could make some sense of them
*Thank You for letting me miss Sunday school so we could go to the Aquarium
*Thank You for staying home from Aunt Shirley’s Christmas Eve party to take care of me when I was sick
*Thank You for not golfing
*Thank You for making sure I got to see Bobby Orr several times during the 1974-75 season, his last great year
*Thank You for always being so generous when it came to my friends, which was the same as being generous to me
*Thank You for holding my hand while crossing busy streets when I was a boy
*Thank You for taking me to the emergency room when I split my chin on the ice
*Thank You for reading my writing
*Thank You for cooking something special for Ma so we could eat more unusual foods
*Thank You for providing me with my own room growing up
*Thank You for all the lobster feeds
*Thank You for not judging me an embarrassment those few times the cops came to the house
*Thank You for letting me live at home until I was ready to leave
*Thank You for filming my football games senior year even though I hardly played, at least my teammates enjoyed them
*Thank You for handing out rolls of quarters to, not just me and John, but to our friends, Hank and Harry, so we could all play the arcade games at Weir’s Beach
*Thank You for welcoming me home and helping take care of me when I got out of the hospital several years ago
*Thank You for stressing the value of honesty
*Thank You for cutting my hair when I was young, and for letting me cut your hair now that I’m not so young
*Thank You for teaching me to root for the underdog - unless they were playing against the Celtics, Bruins, Red Sox, or Patriots
*Thank You for taking all those priceless 8mm home movies back in the 70's
*Thank You for being such a great cook
*Thank You for mellowing with age
*Thank You for doing your best

Bearing Witness, the Second Time Around

"Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation."
~Lois Wyse

April 2006

(another of my earlier stories)

I am 40 years old, and I love being an uncle. I have two nieces, Ashley is nine and Hannah is six. They are my sister Margie’s daughters. One of the pleasures of being an uncle is that I get to watch my parents being grandparents. Recently, Margie suggested that we start a tradition of having a family dinner on Sundays - nothing formal, just a way for us to get together more often. It has been great. Seeing my nieces on a regular basis is a treat, and they give me an excuse to act like a kid.

Usually, during these Sunday get-togethers, the rest of us are acting crazy while my dad is doing all the cooking and prep work. It can be challenging for him to get things ready and not be too distracted by all the revelry. So mostly I get to see my mom interacting with Ashley and Hannah, but seldom do I get to see my dad in that role.

Today is Wednesday, a day off for me. Earlier, I stopped by my parents’ home to pick up a video tape. Margie had emailed me that Ashley and Hannah would be there when I arrived. Margie had turned her ankle, and my brother-in-law was taking her to the hospital to have it x-rayed. I took this to mean that my folks would be babysitting when I stopped by.

When I entered the house, it was quiet, which is unheard of when my nieces are over. Then I heard some hushed voices coming from the kitchen, I figured they were hiding in ambush, waiting to spring a trap for me. That wasn’t it at all.

Upon entering the kitchen I witnessed a most poignant scene. Around the table sat my dad and my nieces. The girls, under my dad’s tutelage, were making things out of rocks and sea shells by gluing them together. One of my father’s hobbies is polishing stones and making jewelry out of them. My dad was the teacher and the girls were the willing students. Maybe this happens more often than I am aware, but I hadn’t witnessed it before. My mom had a doctors appointment of her own, and dad was flying solo.

I felt somewhat like an intruder. I knew that my being there could potentially be a distraction, but everyone appeared to be unfazed by my arrival, which was good. They were immersed in their activity; if I sensed that my presence was diverting the girl’s attention, I was prepared to make an excuse to leave. I didn’t want to upset the dynamic. I didn’t want to leave either, so I went into the adjoining room to work on a jigsaw puzzle that my mom had begun. However, my thoughts were with what was going on in the kitchen.

The girls were well-behaved. They asked questions and addressed my dad as "Papa" like they always did. It just sounded different spoken softly. My dad answered with tenderness and patience. The girls seemed to understand what was required of them to help keep order.

My dad is hard of hearing, and on Sundays when things get loud and boisterous, it can be difficult for him to keep track of all that is being said. His handicap was not a factor here, though. When the crowd is kept small, and the decibel level is low, the likelihood of distraction is minimal.

Every so often, one of the girls would call to my attention what they had created. Satisfied with my quick and economical reaction, they would return to what they were doing. I too, knew what was required to keep order. I would do whatever was necessary not to disturb this delicate scene. It was like I was watching a rare bird through a window; I could do many things to make the bird fly away for good, or I could choose to stay quiet and out of sight, so I could go on observing as long as the bird wanted to stay.

I was trying to contribute by not contributing. I said very little and stayed out of the way. The scene was all about circumstances and opportunity.

The circumstances were that both my mother and my sister had medical needs to attend to at the same time. The opportunity was twofold: for my dad to be in charge of the girls and for me to be there to witness it. If either my mother or sister had been there, the setting would have been completely different. I’m thankful that it wasn’t different as a result of my being there.
Eventually, things broke up in the kitchen. The girls can only conserve their energy for so long before having to burn some of it off. I got what I needed, though: a small bit of grace in what started out as a routine visit.

Driving home, I was thinking about what I had just witnessed; my dad was doing just fine as a grandfather. I was also thinking that, when I was young, he did just fine as a father, too.

Today, through my nieces, I was reintroduced to the man who taught me how to fish and water-ski. The man who took me to Boston Garden to see the Bruins when Bobby Orr was king and they were the toughest ticket in town. The man who taught me that honesty and trust are the greatest virtues. The man who taught me that, even though someone may have a handicap, they can still contribute and live a full, meaningful life.

It has been said that parents get a second chance with their grandchildren. Maybe, through grandchildren, we all get a second chance. A second chance to recapture faded memories too precious to forget. And a second chance to relive what was so important the first time around.

When Worlds Collide

How John Henry influenced a memorable rock and roll show that did not take place at Fenway Park
(May 26, 2006)

Pearl Jam fans are a lot like Red Sox fans. Both indulge in their passions with obsessive fervor, and both have exceedingly high expectations when it comes to their band and/or team’s performance. Over the past few years, it’s been the best of times for those of us who are members of both camps here in Boston.

Pearl Jam has played seven Boston area shows in the last three years. Three of those shows were in Mansfield during July of 2003, where they played 94 different songs over three nights and wore out their welcome by breaking curfew on night three. By deliberately extending the final show of the stand, the band was subsequently banned from ever playing The Tweeter Center again. Unprecedented setlist variation and civil disobedience-what more can you ask for from a rock and roll show? Thankfully, all future "Boston" Pearl Jam shows will be played in Boston.

At the end of September 2004, as the Red Sox were gearing up for their historic playoff run, Pearl Jam was slated to play six shows as part of the pro-John Kerry Vote for Change Tour. The shows were scheduled in so-called "swing states," and were designed to encourage voters to support Kerry in the impending Presidential election. As a tune-up for the mini-tour, the band played 2 fabulous shows on September 28th and 29th, in Boston at The Fleetcenter.

Last night, Pearl Jam played the 2nd of 2 sold-out shows at The TD Banknorth Garden (formerly The Fleetcenter). Both shows were more than memorable, but last night’s show was transcendental. It was one of those rare musical experiences where the band and the crowd were one. The show reminded me of what The Edge said during U2's induction into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2005; he stated that, "Rock and roll, when it is great, it is amazing." And so it is.

Late in the show, during the second encore, Red Sox general manager and die-hard Pearl Jam fan, Theo Epstein, joined the band for an epic version of Neil Young’s "Rockin’ in the Free World." It was at this point that I realized what an important role Red Sox principal owner, John Henry has played in this most recent chapter in the Pearl Jam-Boston love affair.

John Henry?

Yes, John Henry.

You could make a case that, if it weren’t for John Henry, none of what happened during that amazing 2nd encore would have come to pass.

Let’s review the highlights:
The fun started when Eddie Vedder responded to a girl holding a request sign asking for the song "Smile" from the 1996 album No Code. Eddie invited the girl on stage so she could present him with a bouquet of flowers in exchange for granting her request.

Then things got very interesting. Before the next song, "Indifference," Eddie mentioned that a percentage of the proceeds from the shows were going towards Horizons for Youth-a local charity geared towards helping homeless children. Lots of cheers. He followed that up by mentioning that a local gentleman and his cohorts were going to match the band’s contributions, dollar-for-dollar. "We’re extremely proud to know a man of such, not just intelligence, but heart," said Vedder, "and you may know him, cause his name is Theo Epstein. And we thank him, very much." (Huge applause)

After "Indifference," riding the wave of rising momentum, the band played "Leash," from 1993's Vs album. The song hadn’t been played since 1995, and it was clear that, although the song had been sound-checked as recently as Wednesday night, the band had not intended to play it last night. Fans could plainly see Vedder, rushing from band member to band member, making sure that everyone was on the same page before launching into a number that hadn’t been attempted before an audience in over 11 years. The result was stunning.

Then came "Rockin’ in the Free World." Theo looked very much at home with Vedder’s Fender strapped over his shoulder. There was no hint of timidity as he interacted with band members and even shared the mic with Vedder during the the last few choruses. Of course, people who have attended Peter Gammons’ Hot Stove, Cool Music benefits at the Paradise over the last several years would not have been surprised by Theo’s seamless transition from baseball executive to rock and roll sideman.

It should be noted too, the fact that Theo was having such a great time on stage, pretty much guaranteed to those in attendance, that the Red Sox had beaten Tampa Bay earlier in the evening. If the Sox had lost, Theo probably would have been forced to go home, lest he be lambasted by the local media and sports radio jocks for having a passion outside the Olde Town Team.

The band finished the set with traditional show-closer "Yellow Ledbetter"-complete with a Jimi Hendrix-style "Star Spangled Banner" coda by the brilliant Mike McCready.

So why does John Henry deserve credit for influencing a concert that he wasn’t even at?

Theo Epstein left the Red Sox after last season. There was a great deal of speculation and mud-slinging in the local press as to why Theo vacated his "dream job" at a time when the franchise’s popularity was at an all-time high. On October 31st, just when it seemed that he was about to sign a contract extension, he was gone. Some people blamed an internal power struggle between Theo and team CEO Larry Lucchino. Others claimed it was money. I’m not going to debate that here. The fact is that he was no longer a part of Red Sox nation; and I was worried, not only about the Sox, but about how this would effect Pearl Jam’s future visits to Boston.

I’ve found that when a band has ties with a community, that go even deeper than the usual fan-band bonds, it’s reflected in their great performances in those cities. U2 and the Irish tradition in Boston. The Rolling Stones fascination with the many wonders of New York City. Pearl Jam’s friendship with Theo Epstein can only enhance the band’s already strong Boston connection.
Red Sox slugger David Ortiz said it best when he opined, "We need Theo. Hopefully, they put it together to keep Theo." Amen, big fella!

This is where John Henry comes in...

85 days after Theo quit, the Red Sox announced that he would be returning in a "full-time baseball operations capacity." John Henry is a very smart man. He realized that he needed the main architect behind the Red Sox three straight 95+ win seasons, and their only World Series title in the past 87 years. Red Sox nation and Boston’s Pearl Jam fans could breath a collective sigh of relief. Theo was back!

Yesterday would have been an entirely different day if Pearl Jam didn’t know Theo Epstein. The band’s day began with batting practice at Fenway. Then, they played the incredible show at The Garden. After the show, Theo accompanied Eddie to Porter Square in Cambridge, where they each performed with local rock veteran Bill Janovitz at a tiny club called Toad.

You could claim with a great degree of certainty, that none of what I just described would have been possible, had Theo Epstein not returned to the Red Sox. No batting practice. No announcement of Theo’s donation to Horizons for Youth-resulting in raucous applause and possibly leading to the spontaneous playing of "Leash." No repeat version of "Rockin’ in the Free World," which had been played the night before. And certainly, no late night trip to Toad, resulting in a once in a lifetime surprise for a handful of very lucky music fans.

The special bond that Pearl Jam has with Boston goes back to their show at Axis in 1992 where the crowd was so enthusiastic that the band was fearful of their equipment getting destroyed. In April of ‘94, immediately following the death of Kurt Cobain, the band played two intense shows at the old Boston Garden. At the end of the second show, Vedder smashed a hole in the stage with his mike stand. The hole was so large, he was able to exit through it. During the aforementioned 3 night Mansfield stand, during the summer of 2003, the band attempted an "experiment" where they attempted to play every song performed on the tour with no repeats-they almost pulled it off. There’s no denying the mutual devotion of the band and the fans.

Much like Bruce Springsteen’s relationship with Philadelphia, Boston is Pearl Jam’s second home. Springsteen plays countless shows in his home state of New Jersey, many of them are among his best ever played, but something extra special always happens when he plays in Philly. The same can be said of Pearl Jam and Boston. Seattle is their home, and they have always played fabulous shows there, but Boston continues to receive the best the band has to offer.

So, while Red Sox yahoos may criticize the team for trading pitcher Bronson Arroyo, who leads the national league in ERA, rational Red Sox fans understand that there’s a better than average chance that if Arroyo had remained in Boston, and pitched against the Yankees and Blue Jays 4 or 5 times each, along with the rest of the American League line-ups, his stats would be far inferior to what they are in the National League. At the same time, intelligent Pearl Jam fans must recognize the fact that, had John Henry’s level-headed thinking not prevailed in the re-hiring of Theo Epstein, the Boston-Pearl Jam tradition, while still legendary, would be slightly less rich than it is today.

Thank you, John Henry, for helping to preserve three great Boston traditions: winning baseball, old school rock and roll, and the resulting harmony when those two worlds collide.

Brotherhood

"The mystical bond of brotherhood makes all men brothers"
-Thomas Carlyle

(in memory of Thomas Seibold)

I am in front of the casket. As is usually the case when someone so young is taken from us, the line of mourners is long. The casket is closed. Next to the casket is a framed picture, a young and vital version of the man being mourned. It is a reminder of the life that has been lost. It was cancer that dealt this cruel hand to this son, this friend, this father, this brother.

Everywhere you look, there are flowers. As I wait my turn to pay my respects, I am aware of the presence of the man behind me, my older brother. He and the man in the casket are the same age. They attended school together and are both looked up to by their younger brothers.

I’m moving from the casket to the receiving line now. I’m trying to piece together what I might say. What will be appropriate? I rehearse in my mind, but you cannot practice these lines. I’m not sure where to put my hands. I express my sympathies to the parents. My heart is heavy as I embrace them knowing that they have suffered life’s greatest tragedy. They have out-lived their child. I think of my parents, and hope they never have to stand opposite of where I stand now.

I move on to the oldest brother. He is a giant of a man, though his size is somewhat reduced by this devastating twist of fate. His shoulders slightly slumped, he nonetheless remains large in stature. My hand disappears in his, and I see the pain in his eyes. I see his pain, and I feel it, as my younger brother’s face flashes in my mind’s eye. What a blow it must be, when your younger brother is suffering, and you are powerless to prevent it. He could not stick up for him this time.

I’m with his sisters now. They stand dignified, and force smiles that reflect the toll that such a loss inflicts on a family. For they, like my own sister, while outnumbered by brothers, are the glue that binds the family.

I’m at the end of the line now. I’m with the younger brothers. They are twins and they are my friends. We went to school together and ran with the same crowd. We were a crowd of brothers. We laughed like brothers. We competed like brothers. And now, I mourn for them, and their brother. They’ve lost someone who, along with them, spoke a language foreign to any other. The language of brothers.

As I walk from the funeral home, I contemplate my father’s somewhat strained relationship with his brother. I reflect on my mother’s unmatched loyalty to her brother. I consider my oldest and dearest friend, who is his parents’ only son, we are as close as any two brothers could be. Mostly, I think of my brothers, one older, one younger, both very different, we are blessed and bound in brotherhood.

A Real Family Tree

(Mother's Day 2006)

"One is wise to cultivate the tree that bears fruit in our soul."
-Henry David Thoreau

Throughout history and literature, trees have both stood and fallen as symbols; George Washington and the cherry tree, the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the Garden of Eden, and, of course, the Christmas tree. But, to my mom, those trees have nothing over the magnolia tree in the front yard of the house my family lived in at 96 Oak Street, Stoneham MA.

In the northeast, magnolia trees don’t stay in bloom long - usually from late April through early to mid-May. Like a roman candle, it bursts to life in spectacular fashion. All too soon, though, it sheds its petals, and goes back to being a regular old tree until the next spring.

I remember once hearing my dad proclaim that the magnolia tree should be cut down. To which, my mom protested vehemently. She stated that the tree reminded her of when my sister and I were born. It may be an exaggeration to say that mom would have chained herself to that tree to prevent its destruction, but she was serious about its preservation.

My sister was born on May 3, 1963, and I came along almost two years later, on April 30, 1965. The magnolia was announcing spring’s glorious presence, in grand fashion, as we were brought home from the hospital.

I’ve experienced few things in nature as vibrant and fragrant as magnolia blossoms in full bloom. When the tree sheds its dense petals, however, they soon turn mushy on the ground, their texture not unlike that of overcooked pasta. If the leaves aren’t raked up and disposed of in short order, things can get mighty slippery under foot.

I recently asked my dad if he ever really wanted to get rid of the magnolia tree or was he just teasing my mom. "Yes, it made a mess," was his reply. That tree was preventing my dad from obtaining the thick, well-cared-for lawn he always desired. The magnolia blocked out enough sunlight to produce a bare sphere on our lawn that defined the arc of the sun’s daily journey; no grass was going to grow there.

Once, my dad hired a landscaper to remove the crabapple tree that occupied a spot across the yard from the magnolia. When the topic of the magnolia came up, my mom was there again to protect it. She may be the least confrontational person I know, but she meant business when it came to that tree. The foreman of the landscaping crew sensed this immediately and excused himself from the discussion.

My dad’s sense of order was clashing with my mom’s sentimentality. Both instincts are strong, I know, because the two are often in conflict within me. There had to be a compromise. My dad couldn’t win this one. He knew better than to mess with a mother’s maternal nature. I guess that, after forty seven years of marriage, you learn which battles you’ll win, and which ones you’ll lose.

My mom is a deeply rooted person. When my parents sold their house in 2003 she had been dreading the move for some time. Last Sunday, my sister and I celebrated our 43rd and 41st birthdays, respectively. We observe the days together as it’s easier to get the family together once, rather than twice, in a three day span. We celebrated in my parents half of my older brother’s house, where my mom has adjusted nicely to her new surroundings.

Earlier that day, on my way to go food shopping, I drove by the old house on Oak Street. I was a little shocked at how impressive the magnolia tree looked. A dominating feature in the neighborhood, it was in full bloom, and looked much larger than I remembered. Its velvety purple-pink and white leaves were stunning in the spring sunshine.

As I drove on, I was thinking that it’s a shame that a tree does not possess a conscience. It would be nice if the magnolia could know what I know - that we have been fortunate to have my mom around, providing wisdom and keeping us upright.