HAWMC - April 20 - 22 The Empire Strikes Back

I have a rotator cup injury, as if I was a big (or little or minor) leaguer or something.  But its as close as I'll get.  Fine.  But I get rehab, like a ballplayer (for physical injury, not the other kind of rehab).

Let's see... Travel April 20.

I would love to go to England or France, or even Russia.  But as close as I'm going to get is Disney World.  I want to take my wife to the Mall of America. Don't know about that.  I promised her a trip to Europe, but its going to be Disney World.  I get tired, exhausted, and having a tough time breathing  after just a short stroll (this may be medication issue) and that's not even great at Disney World.

The old line is familiarity breeds contempt, but I look at it as familiarity breeds content.  At Disney World I know where to go and what to do, so the basics are set. Busses (or the Monorail) do most of the traveling for us and we just get off and go where we want and do the same things each year, with a little variety in resorts we visit (such as Beach Club or The Floridian) and have all the wondrous foods.

The long trips are short ones now, day trips, bed and breakfasts, and back.  Know your limits.  If you are planning to do a lot on your trip, I'd rate the activities on a list of musts, maybes, and probably nots, and do the list.  If you get past the musts and are feeling decent try another but do not overdo it, and learn what overdoing for you.  The medical issues we face renown with one rule - "Slow down or we will slow you down."  Taking your time allows you to view the world.  Remember the Zen rule: Pay attention.  See it. Take it in.  Breathe it in, because (Next rule: Everything is changing) it might not be the same next time.  But take heart in that (next slide, please) everything's connected.

April 21 Reflection.

I admire folks who really can advocate for those who can't.  Working in poverty programs for near on 30 years, I've seen a lot, some good, but more bad.  Before that I took care, as well as I knew how, of my father, who had the same disease as me, so I got a preview of coming distractions.  If nothing else, you learn either total cynicism or compassion.  I know I go between the two, but find more hope in the latter.  Or maybe a compassionate cynic.  I don't expect much from humanity, so I can be pleasantly surprised when the better angels of our nature can win through.  For a species that has the ability to destroy itself a hundred times over, it can still do Mozart, Monet, Ghandi, Lincoln, and Monty Python.  Hope - I am a Mets fan, after all.

April 22 Hobbies

Baseball, the watching and history of it. Cooperstown and just was at Fenway for Opening Day.  As I said above I am a Mets fan, but I have a very deep love of the Boston Red Sox.  Both teams are steeped in history, both have a knack of frustrating their fans.  But we don't win every day either, and if have neuro problems or other invisible (to the world) challenges, a lot of days we don't even want to compete, or show up.  But when you open your eyes, just think "Maybe I can win today." Baseball is the only sport that if you are successful even only 30% of the time, you are consider one of the best.

Tons of books, history, mysteries, baseball stories, baseball cards (Mom didn't throw them out - didn't even know they were there!) and a dice baseball game that I've played for over forty years.  And the computer version.  It's given a lot of enjoyment for a long time, either on my own or with friends.  I dive into the history of the season and what the world was like in that time.  I've developed a deep appreciation of the Negro Leagues, and have met quite a few of the actual players.

Which brings me to the writing.  One of the stories I'm working is about the 1921 Cincinnati Cubans, a group of Havana ballplayers invited to play in the Negro Leagues.  They arrive in the US and and try to adapt to a very different culture, and outside temperature.

And all the other writing. Like this.  Thanks for reading.

Goodbye, Derek Jeter....

Last Thursday we tossed caution to the wind and went down to Yankee Stadium to watch the Bombers play the Tigers in an afternoon game.

That is, we tried. Or I did, anyway.  My wife and I have an agreement on trips like this.  I handle the tricky stuff (like actually the twist and turns of the city we're going to) and she handles the maps and the straight drives of the NYS Thruway/Northway/[fill in your favorite road here].  There are a few coffee stops and we try to build in time to get lost - which is becoming more of a thing now, you see.

I used to be able to drive for hours, get us there in good time, and whenever we returned to the destination, knew right what to do when, right into the parking space.

That's something that occurs more often now. Yousta.

I yousta drive better.

I yousta remember why I went into rooms.

I yousta remember what I did yesterday.

And, once, I could sit out in the bleachers on a beautiful warm sunny day.

We were in the fourth row.  I lasted three innings.  By the time we got to the main level, I could barely breath, sucking in air by the buckets, as I went down to my knees.  Eventually I got up, and we stayed in, away from the sun.  I must now live in the shadows.  Oh, it got better. We had Nathan's burgers and fries, cold drinks, and watched the game at the standing bars around that level.  We hit the Yankee stores and saw all the Yankee/Jeter let's-cash-in-on-this stuff.  I picked up a t-shirt that hand the right color and print of the old Yankee road jerseys.

Nice.  And all it took was a ride down the NYS Thruway to Poughkeepsie and grab the train there that would drop us off at Yankee Stadium.  It only took a half hour driving around P-see, trying to recall landmarks and get us to the train station.  But all that came to me was the I had to go near the river.  So once we arrived in the city, my wife asked if I knew where I was going.  "Sort of," I said. The directions provided by Apple Maps were somewhat looney, and I do apologize to Google for straying.  But the instinct was dow to the water.  As long as I was going downhill, no matter what street, I knew the station would be there.  Sure enough there it was.  We got on the train, and headed south, entertained by a group of five year old girls singing songs from "Frozen".

We were glad to see this:

Now we are not Yankee "fans".  My heart is for the Boston Red Sox, and my soul is with the Mets, the two teams most bedeviled by the Bronx Bombers.  I don't root for or against the Yanks (my wife is slightly more biased to the anti-).  I just love baseball, and the Yankees have so much history that I enjoy watching them, at least since the Torre era.  They are mostly guys who love the game and play it with a passion.  They've won more of everything than my other two teams combined.  Fine.  We are not all winners in life.  Like it says in the ballfield where the old Stadium was:

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains. (Bull Durham)

Since I can still read, I've got shelves of baseball books.  Dice baseball game that I've played for 40 years, by myself and with friends.  My wife and I had hoped to hit every major league park after retirement.  That ain't happening, obviously.  But there are some within reach, and we'll do our best.

After the game we took the train heading back to Poughkeepsie, but each railroad car had full seats, and I sat on the floor and waited, then got to my feet, always good for a laugh as I lunged about, collapsing in a freed up seat.

We lost our way around the train station, and sometimes we just have to smile about it. This is just the way it is.  When we got to our car, there were no signs to tell us where to turn, and the directions were a waste of time.  But one thing that I did know.  I could see the bridge that spanned the Hudson River.  I just had to go up. The streets did not matter, as long we went up the hill, and then took two lefts, we'd be on the Thruway and headed home.  Just keep going up.

Derek Jeter did not play in the game nor did Mr. Cabrera of the Tigers.  The Yanks took the game 1-0.  Fine, whatever.  Exciting game.  We tipped our Yankee caps to the players.  Mr. Jeter played havoc with my Mets and Red Sox.  Don't get me going on the 2000 World Series.  But he was class, and he did the best he could with talent he had.  That's what we all try and do, acknowledge the Youstas and keep on going with what's left until the game is over.

I see we are slowly creeping up 10,000 visits. Many thanks and hope you enjoy the stories.

The Fenway Fall

It's about 75 degrees as we walk into the coolness and shade of Fenway Park last Sunday.  The Sox are out of town playing in Houston and the previous year's Championship Season is just a nice memory.  But that afternoon we were there to watch the Lowell Spinners (Red Sox minor league team) play the Mahoning Valley Scrappers (Cleveland Indians minor league team).  The idea is to see some young guys play in the beauty and serenity of Fenway and you can get seats that are like this:

Fourth row on the aisle right behind home plate.  Oh, yes.  Tommy was a happy boy.  We moved down the steps, and my right leg just went boink, and by the time I stopped rolling down the walkway, I had landed in the lap on a eight year old boy, actually on his water bottle (by the sound of the plastic crinkling) and the first view I saw was:

which was actually pretty neat because, well, I'd never been that close behind home plate (but the day before we had taken the Fenway Park tour, and the first thought that came into my already fractured brain was "Hey, I was up there yesterday.  Sat in those seats and could look down on to the field:

But for now I just apologized to the family and slowly skulked over to my seat.  We watched the game and the minor league hi-jinks on the sidelines (Suggestions for minor league teams - have a "Baseball Only Night" - no t-shirt giveaways, no mascot races, no dogs catching frisbees, no walkup music - just the game, and the food, of course). 

We shared a Cherry Coke and watched a very tight 1-0 game.  At the same time I could feel my leg muscles tightening up like plaster of paris, so that when we stood for the seventh inning or the excuse me-pardonme-sorry families to go by us to get in the aisle and dash for yet another soda and do the whole thing again. I was actually waiting for the family the next row over to explode with their group 33rd hot dog triggering the deluge of consumed weeniers, sodas, cotton candy, popcorn would flow unencumbered over the backstop and onto the field, stopping the game before the Spinners' relief corps would do their own exploding in the ninth.

Final score: Spanners 6, Spinners 1.

We stayed awhile after the game as the Red Sox showed "Field of Dreams" on the big screen.  I just took it in - those seats and watching the movie - OK, actually, I didn't want to make the walk back to the hotel. My legs had stiffened right up, my right leg more of a wood post.  Is this how Long John Silver felt in Treasure Island?  Step, clop, step, clop.  Arrrr, matey, get me to me ship. Can't remember where I put it.  Arrr.

Tuesday I stopped over at the library and dropped off a due book.  Before leaving, I walked over to the shelves that held the free books, and there's always a surprise or two.  It was down on the bottom shelf.  So I got down there, slowly, using my left leg to support, and my right on an angle for stability.  As I stood up, the right leg gave out and I fell on to the shelf, trying to grab it for support, but the shelf gave way, spilling me and the books on the floor.  Get up. Put the books back on the shelf.  Okay, skulk out.

I went home where I can fall over any time I want.  The Boston trip set a good frame of reference. I can walk as far as I wish, as long as I wish the place to be about a block away.  What is needed? The Acceptance of pain, treat when you can.  We did everything we planned to in Boston, and a few things more. But stairs are just, uh, no. One or two, fine. Anything more? It better be worth it.  We shopped on Newbury Street, and many stores are one floor up or down from the street. Sometimes it was.  But Boston is always worth it.  We've talked about moving there. If you want life filling culture and history, and beauty, I recommend the Dirty Water City. And the Red Sox. And Fenway.

And as Dylan said, "you better walk right." Doin' my best.  Thanks for reading.

Shipping off to Boston - Not

In one of these posts I may have stated that I am a fan of the Boston Red Sox baseball (and to my readers in the Ukraine, baseball is an American sport where a player throws a hard ball 144.84 kph at another player 18.47 meters away who must then attempt to hit the ball and run to three bases, 27.4 meters from each other in a square, hoping to return to "home" plate where you began, another 27.4 meters away.  In the meantime, nine other players are trying to stop you from doing that.  Really, you've got to see it).  The Red Sox won the World Series last week, crowning them the best team in baseball, at least the version we play here. I was quite happy for that and gave a tip of my Red Sox cap to the City of Boston, as they deserved some good news.

The Red Sox had not won a World Series from 1918 to 2003.  They did in 2004 (Cool fun factoid - in 2005 a movie called Fever Pitch was made and it starred Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore in a story of these two Bostonians falling in love during the pennant race of 2004.  The script had called for the Red Sox to be beaten out by the NY Yankees, because, well, that's what happens. Alas the Sox shocked the movie producers [and everyone else] by winning. So they changed the script and followed the team to St.Louis to win the series in four games. Here's the fun fact - Jackie and I are in the movie, well, our voices are.  On a day we went to Fenway was one of the first days of shooting, Opening day re-enacted.  Big Old Glory on the Monster in left, bands, and throwing our the first pitch, Stephen King.  So that cheering of 30000 fans includes my wife and me).

When the Sox grabbed the title in 2004, they had a parade in Boston with the players, families and staff of the Red Sox rolled through Beantown on Duckmobiles like this:

They bring you to historic and interesting parts of town, and then hit the water so you can see the skyline of the city. We've done it a number of times, but oddly not in Boston.  (Another odd thing - we had duck boats in Albany until a few years back, and whenever the boats would go by the welfare office where I worked, the host/hostess on the boat would have the tourists look to the other side of the street, and shun the building where all the poor people went to get help.)

So anyway, there was the 2004 championship duck boat parade and Jackie and I rose up at about 4:30  AM, and got on a local bus charter and made it to Boston to see the parade and revel with everyone.  

We enjoyed the time hitting pubs and having a great lunch while watching the duck boats splash in the Charles River, and the Sox players waving the Championship trophy. My wife has always told me it was one of her favorite days, ever.

And the real reason we could go? The parade was held on Saturday. We couldn't do anything about the 2007 World Series win because they clinched on a Sunday, and the parade was Tuesday or Wednesday.  Nope. Still working.

So here it was again, our big chance. I called and got reservations for the trip to Boston on 11/2/13.  I told Jackie, who was pleased and raring to go. Until Friday. That was when the slight cold she'd had had erupted into a very bad cold.  Immediately I got buyer's remorse.  In '04, we could trail the team, following the Ducks, and running all the ups and down of Boston hills.  Hills, there are hills in Boston.  Get up at 4:00 AM? No.

That bird has flown the coop and slammed into a brick wall.  I called and canceled, and even verified it with the bus driver when he called me at 5:00 AM Saturday from the bus to ask if we were coming. We watched on MLB.tv.

Next month we've got a bus trip to Radio City.  We leave later and cannot stir too much as we have the show in the middle of the day, so limited walking.  

My wife said "We have to put a little more thought into these trips."  I must agree.  I could get around Disney World well enough because there was no time limitations.  There's always another bus, and Space Mountain won't fall to dust. Relax. Missed the parade? OK, we'll do it again in a few hours. 

Long trips with a lot of driving are just out, the agreement being that I'll do the beginning and the end, and Jackie does the middle. We adjust.

But so help me (deity), if the Mets ever win the World Series again, I demand they thaw my body out at the cryogen stasis lab and plop me in a wheel chair, so I can see one more.  For now.....

And in memory.......

If you have ever wondered where those single socks go that never seem to come back out of the washer or dryer and you are sure you put them in there (after all, you know your socks, right?). Well, rest easy.  They are all in my sock drawer.  Until about an hour ago.

 

 

I have taken the liberty of disposing of a number of pairs of socks today - if I find any of yours, they will on Ebay shortly.  I've been retired now  for two and half years and have discovered that, aside from two weddings and one funeral, I do not need 18 pairs of dark colored socks that can reach halfway to my knee.  I took a whiff of some of them. They had a slightly dusky odor, the smell of the streets of Albany, New York.  They picked up the scent as I walked from my car to work, and then back to my car, with maybe a stroll at lunch. Dead cigarettes, black gum cemented to the sidewalks, weeds and car exhaust.  Nope. Long gone.

I've kept a few business oldie shirts and ties (including Mickey Mouse and Jerry Garcia versions) for the wedding and funeral days, plus slacks so that I can quickly respond when Jackie asks me "Oh, you're wearing that?" when a more formal outing has been announced.  Otherwise for the last 30 months it's been t-shirts-sweatshirts-shorts-or jeans in some combination with ball cap that corresponds with team logos.  One pair of boots for winter shlogging, and "nice shoes" for the more formal days (see above question). Jackets for colder days, hoodies on others. There is Tom's fashion sense.  Oh, and sneakers. Not no athletic shoes, running shoes, or trainers, nothing endorsed by any athlete.  If they fit, they're fine.

Thoreau was right: Simplify.  And when your lesion filled brain is making everything just a little harder, the less you have to concern yourself with on the outside the better.

Clothes get donated to the Salvation Army and the odd bins you see all over that ask for clothes and shoes which are sent off to who knows where by unknown people who may or may not be making profits on it. The local media checks on this stuff on slow days.  I just hope that somewhere some child in a Third or Fourth World country is wearing my Saturday Night Fever t-shirt with the upside down logo.

Stuff, like people, TV shows, and poorly maintained cars come and go in your life all the time. Some things do stay, like my wife, some friends, and autoimmune diseases.  I treasure them (not the diseases per se yet they remind me time is short), but there are pieces of clothing I have that I shall try my darndest never to part with:

My Mets Jacket from 1986.

 

 

My Jean Jacket from High School with the Apollo 13 logo I sewed on it, and this was long before any Tom Hanks movie.

 

 

This is the actual Mets uniform worn by a pitcher named Tom Martin who played for the Mets in 2001. The best time with this was standing on the place where the pitching mound was in Shea Stadium and throwing a fastball to my nephew catching behind home plate. OK, it may have bounced and rolled to him, but it got there.  The other Tom M is long retired and involved in business with present day big leaguers.

 

But as nice as that is, nothing compares with this:

 

My sister Barb made this jersey for me. It's just a grey jersey but she asked me once about the history of baseball and she knew I was a Mets fan, of course, but I did say I always liked the Washington Senators.  This was in the mid 70's when both Washington teams had absconded for more lucrative areas.  No professional baseball for the Washington until the former Expos of Montreal moved there last decade. The capital region has a long history of baseball, the main one being the Albany Senators.  We've got an A-ball franchise of the Astros here now, and their season starts this Sunday.  So anyway, Barb took the time to make this and give it to me, and I treasure it even though it's not really all that comfy to wear.  Alas, I can not get in my Star Trek uniform, either, having gone the route of William Shatner.

 

The baseball cap is an actual Senators cap from the late 1960s.  The present day Washington Nationals have a cap with the same design, but this is the real thing bought at the store across from Fenway in 1977, along with a Senators logo plaque that the guy was kind enough to rip off the wall for me.  The plaque has a hole in it where the nail was pulled out.  Still hangs in my den, the plaque does, not the nail.

 

Sometimes on your journey, the inanimate objects that travel with you tell more about you than most people can say.  These help mine.  Think of what you have or no longer have and what they mean do you.  Recently I built a model of the Frankenstein Monster, the same one I had made during the first Nixon administration but had lost to time and the foolish thought of what mattered and didn't.

 

The monster is back, along with other nicer memories than I can no longer place on my body, but fits fine on my soul. And the monster on the outside can't hurt me.

 

 

 

 



Summertime and the living is...

Just absolutely ridiculous with this heat!

I know, I'm supposed to be Mr. Buddhist here and "it is what it is" and all that, but damn, Sam,  there's one thing that really can ruin an MS person's day (aside from falling, forgetting where your house is, and who is that person is smiling at you?) and that's heat.  In fact I'm writing this in the air-conditioned bedroom far from the kitchen where its only 86 degrees.  Now there are plenty of good places to get info on MS and heat like here.  While Julie in the article talks about how MS sufferers have to resign themselves to sitting in dark rooms typing on their laptops, hoping the air conditioner will keep cranking, and we sit reading books (honestly not that hard), we miss the bliss of the outside.

Back when my hair was short, or rather long, or really, back when I had hair I'd be outside in this weather playing baseball for hours, and later I'd watch other people play baseball, and then go home, grab a shower and a cold Coke and watch baseball on TV.  Now I can barely make it watching one game before I doze off.

But like I'm supposed to say, it is what it is.  Looking at the other world, there's been a few studies that may link weather and bipolar disorder, but nothing definitive, so you can Google that at your leisure.  What matters is that I can get crabby (or crabbier) in this heat.  I am fortunate that my wife is also not a big heat person.

The only reason we like summer, aside from baseball, is that the next season is autumn.

Relief will come again, I know.  Meantime, I can finish that Regis Philbin autobiography.