Chance?

I was taking my daily bicycle ride, doing my local training loop because it's predictable and on this day I had someplace to be, so time was a factor. It's a 20 mile up and back course on roads that are very familiar to me; I recognize each and every crack in the pavement as it passes on the ground below. The spot where I had an early morning crash trying to avoid a van a couple years ago is on this loop. In that accident I suffered a busted rib and gashed my eyebrow, an injury that required twenty-two stitches.

I completed the up portion of the loop and was heading back, when, up ahead, some 75 yards away, I could see what appeared to be a couple of wild turkeys making their way across one of the most dangerous three-way intersections in town. No one comes to a complete stop; they just slow down a bit and then continue on their way. They do it coming from all directions too, which makes it all the more challenging.

As I held my focus on the two waddling objects I could see the color pink... Now my eyesight hasn't improved any over the years, so I squinted to get a better look. I remember laughing to myself and thinking “who the heck would dress up a wild turkey?”

When I was close enough to see more clearly I discovered that these two waddling objects clad in bright pink were not wild turkeys... They were twin, blonde baby girls wearing matching pink outfits wandering alone through the dangerous intersection. I dismounted my bicycle at once, allowing it to come to a gliding stop on its own on someone’s front lawn. I saw that a car was stopped and the woman driving was trying to talk to the two baby girls through her rolled down window. I quickly asked if they were her children. As she was saying “no”, I was scooping up the one who was closest to the middle of the intersection. The women in the car immediately got out and grabbed the other. We looked at each other shocked! “Whose adorable little girls are these?” we wondered. And, “what are they doing here, in the middle of this dangerous intersection, alone?” The woman's son, who was about 13 years old, agreed to walk over to the nearby houses in search of their parents...

Meanwhile, the baby I'm holding is wet and crying. I'm wearing a wild looking, futuristic, bright-colored, aerodynamic cycling helmet, some narrow wrap-around, extremely dark sunglasses, and a multicolored Lycra cycling jacket. I look like an Alien and she's frightened!

All of a sudden, a hysterical blonde women starts across the street, but is unable to complete the walk without stopping several times to compose herself. She didn't immediately grab her children from us; it was obvious she was having a difficult time. When she did reach out, she took the child I was holding and gave her a tremendous hug, wrapping the baby girl's little body in her anxious arms. Several other adults from neighboring homes made their way slowly across the intersection and watched the mother and child reunions.

Once both children were safe from harm and back in the arms of their mother, the woman who had stopped in the car, her son, and I, walked slowly back towards our vehicles in total disbelief of what just happened... I got on my bicycle and pedaled away to the sounds of jubilant crying and a chorus of "thank-you".

As I rode off into the sunset feeling pretty good about myself, I thought about CHANCE... How that woman in the car and I just happened to be at that spot, at that particular time... I realized in that moment chance had very little to do with it. There was a much bigger power at work here...

I've always been a believer and now I had one more reason. (make that two more reasons…)

Leadership: "Broadway Joe"

When I think of all the leaders that have influenced me over my lifetime, as a native Bostonian this is hard to admit, but my first recollection of admirable leadership was of Joseph William Namath, quarterback of the New York Jets from 1965-1976.

Joe was a charismatic leader whose bold prediction of Super Bowl victory over the heavily-favored Baltimore Colts in 1969 proved inspirational to his teammates who willingly became his effective followers en route to victory.

Joe had all the leader traits; he was driven, motivated to lead, had proven the correspondence between his actions and his words, displayed self-confidence, was an eloquent speaker, was people-friendly, and had a complete understanding of the game of football, including the skill levels of his teammates and the strategies of his opponents.

Namath once said about leadership, "To be a leader, you have to make people want to follow you, and nobody wants to follow someone who doesn't know where he is going."

The respect he earned allowed him to lead at times, in an autocratic style, making certain decisions on the field of play where there isn't time for democratic leadership. Joe's situational approach to the various defenses he came up against established him as an analytic type who was capable of reacting to any given situation in a cool, calm way that is still legend.

Back in 1969 Joe Namath effectively aroused a "sense of excitement and adventure" in all who followed. His bold prediction of Super Bowl victory supplied his teammates and followers with a vision they would rally behind. Joe's charismatic style packed an "emotional wallop beyond the ordinary", and as a result he has continued to be an inspiration to many young gridiron leaders in their quests for victory long after his retirement in 1977.

In a speech given by a motivational speaker Mark Ernsberger titled: “Leadership: It is not for the faint of heart", Ernsberger concluded with his description of a great leader: " Having the depth of spirit and character to emerge from the masses, take the helm, take the heat, be the example, and take the responsibility to unite and motivate your followers- " He may just as well have been talking about "Broadway Joe" Namath!

Eddie's Diner

It was the summer of 1974 and every room was smoke-filled and every empty glass was being refilled in a hurry. It seemed we couldn't get enough, or at least we set no limits to just how fucked-up we could get. Not really sure what our problem was, or if we even had one, but our addictive personalities made us slaves to our demons. The availability of drugs and alcohol, even to minors, made it easy to stay inebriated, high, or both. I really don't understand how we all managed to stay alive and out of jail, but we did. It must have been that everyone was doing the same things and so the blue uniforms just pulled you over and made sure you got home...

Walking in at 3 a.m. was easy when your father was living in New York City and you lived in Massachusetts with your mother. First he'd come home on weekends and then every other weekend...

I became a loose cannon, partying my ass off and disobeying any and all forms of authority. And I wasn't alone. There was a  group of us that partied until long after the lights in most homes had been turned off. We cruised dark, empty streets listening to hard rock playing on noisy eight track tape players shimmed with matchbooks to work properly. The music was rebellious and along with the drink and the smoke, we were always fueled up for trouble...

Occasionally we'd get hungry late night or early morning depending how you looked at it, and Eddie's Diner was open all night. For $1.10 you got two eggs, two strips of bacon, and two slices of buttered toast, with coffee. We used to double it up. Eddie's Diner was a small railroad car, more like a caboose, that was set on an empty lot on Route 1 in Walpole near Sharon. It had already been there a long time before we discovered it. The parking lot was dirt and not very well lit. During peak summer months and in the absence of rain, when you pulled in the dust hovered over the entire place for a few minutes. Once inside it was comfortable. A low, chrome-trimmed, white Formica counter faced the grill and there were small booths around the perimeter and a few in the middle. Eddie always worked the grill and he was a real short order cook, old school. White tee shirt, full-length white apron, a white cap and he could keep hot food coming.

We had gone to the El Bolero in Wrentham for drinks, live music and the opportunity to meet some young ladies. When all we found was alcohol we went looking for trouble. After cruising without any purpose except bad intention, we decided to get some breakfast. It was around 2:30 a.m.-

Eddie was still cooking and his little diner had several empty booths. Ellie immediately chose one in front, next to a window facing the door and he sat down in the middle of the red vinyl bench seat that looked to be original to the railroad car that was the diner. Tommy and I shared the bench across from him. Ellie couldn't handle his booze, at all. We were hoping he'd get lucky at the Bolero, but instead he drank too much and scared any available women away from all us. So, there we were, sitting in Eddie's Diner at  3 a.m., just starting to eat breakfast.

In walked three kids our age, two guys and a girl. She was a "hippie-chick", and nice-looking too. They sat down a few booths closer to the door, middle of the diner, closest to the grill. Ellie saw them walk in and he followed them with his eyes. This was not our first rodeo and Tommy and I looked at each other knowing that this was not going to end well. The eggs were hot, bacon was crisp, and the toast was buttered, but we never got to enjoy it-

One kid, the tall thin one, was wearing a Yarmouth tee shirt. He looked like any other kid during those times. He needed a haircut and better fitting clothes. Maybe it was that those two guys seemed happy and were with an attractive girl that pissed Ellie off. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe a combination of everything in his life. After his parents separated and divorced a few years earlier, Ellie developed some real anger issues. He was a good size kid, good looking, heavily muscled, dark skinned with blonde hair and of Latvian decent. His father had a temper and those of us close to Ellie saw that firsthand. Ellie was a fighter and Tommy and I saw it coming even before we decided on Eddie's Diner. We were hoping our intuition was wrong and that a good breakfast would sober him up and we'd all get home without incident...

Ellie looked over at the table where these three kids were sitting and made a real funny face and then he read the wording on the tee shirt out loud, adding his own unique twist to the pronunciation of Yarmouth. At first it looked like he was just going to act goofy and read the tee shirt. He spoke loud so everyone could hear "Yar- mouth". Then he added "sucks dick!" Uh-oh, there's gonna' be a fight. Forks down, backs up. Ellie got up, walked towards their table, and lunged across it and punched the tall thin kid in the face. Eddie jumped over the counter and stopped the fighting and forced all six of us out of his diner and into the dirt parking lot where Ellie immediately got into an aggressive posture, fists clenched, hands up, circling the tall thin kid wearing the Yarmouth tee shirt. Tommy and I are good size and so the other kid stood back and we could see by the expression on the hippie-chick's face that she wasn't very happy. Just as the fight was about to start, through a fast moving cloud of dirt, headlights appeared and a car full of their friends pulled up awkwardly, like a drunk desperate to make last call. Five guys got out of the car in a hurry, headlights still on. The odds had suddenly changed. We were outnumbered.

All of a sudden the kid got into a Karate stance and faced Ellie. Ellie laughed and got into an exaggerated Karate stance of his own, thinking it was a joke. Then without warning, the kid executed a perfect round-house kick that landed hard on Ellie's jaw, stunning him. Nothing we could do but watch Ellie get his ass kicked, not that he didn't deserve it.

Fortunately Eddie had called the Cops and they arrived just in time to save Ellie from getting his drunk ass kicked all over the dirt parking lot by this kid who we found out later, was a third degree black belt.

On the way home, seated in the back of Tommy's car, Ellie hung his head and didn't say much. We dropped him off at his house and with the night finally over, Tommy and I agreed that was the last time we were going out with him. I had been friends with Ellie since first grade, our birthdays were a day apart, but he had turned into trouble and I can't say that it was all his fault. There was no one to help him with his anger or his demons. Eventually his addictive personality took its toll and Ellie was never able to come out of it like the rest of us.

He died before he turned 30 years old...

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Understanding Team Dynamics

The use of teams in the workplace has impacted tremendously the way work gets done. It is believed that "through interdependency of the parts greater productivity is achieved through the whole". Tasks that at one time were handled individually are now being completed using work teams. Keys to developing high performance work teams include effective communication, commitment, and collective accountability. There are many advantages to using teams in the work place; this article will attempt to discuss what they are and how a work team transcends into a high-performance work team.

First and foremost, members of high performance work teams must be able to communicate effectively. Whether in person, via e-mail, or over the phone, team members must have the ability to maintain an open and honest dialogue. High performance teams cannot be fearful of open and honest communication. High performance team members consistently listen to the opinions and points of view of others in an effort to arrive at shared understandings. They speak their own opinions and are open to those of others in an effort to arrive at a decision they can all support. It is through the open expression of honest opinions that teams are able to build productive and trusting relationships within their members.

Michael Josephson, President of the Character Counts! Coalition and Josephson Institute of Ethics believes "a healthy relationship also needs to grow in the soil of kindness, empathy and compassion- qualities of caring that make another person feel valued", and that these interpersonal relationships will help teams accomplish "higher productivity".

Establishing positive interaction involves a commitment to each team member's personal growth and success. In Poet Rudyard Kipling's book "The Second Jungle Book" (1895) the poem "The Law of the Jungle" acknowledges this behavior with the verse, "For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack." Uniform behavior, common goals, common objectives, and commitment are the driving forces behind high-performance work teams.

"A dynamic process reflected in the tendency for a group to stick together and remain united in the pursuit of its goals and objectives" is cohesion. Cohesion is the bonds of trust between members of a high performance team. It has been referred to as the glue that holds the team together. In highly cohesive teams, role clarity, role acceptance, and role performance is higher. Cohesive teams demonstrate trust, respect, shared responsibility, positive energy, synergy, and unity; maintaining well-defined roles and group norms, good working relationships, and a willingness to cooperate. Cohesive teams also openly display pride in their membership and a positive team identity. Team relationships that have earned trust through a history of honesty, those that are nurturing and supportive, recognizing the importance of cohesion; they will ultimately be productive, effective, and lasting.

Having the right mix of skills is very important to the high performance team. If a team is to be successful it must be able to recognize the talents of its members and be able to utilize them in a way that benefits team productivity. Although teams whose members are alike in areas of age, gender, race, experience, ethnicity, and culture are quicker to bond, diverse teams offer a healthy mix of information, talent, and differing perspectives that increase the performance levels long-term. When a team's expectations are limited to certain ideas and beliefs, the creative process can be reduced and certain type of memberships restricted. An individual who displays visual and or cultural differences may find their membership not fully accepted by this type of team. In contrast, a high performance team is one that embraces demographic differences and cultural diversity in its membership, understanding that the team will benefit, grow, and increase both its creativity and long-term performance. When workplace diversity is properly managed, a workplace setting in which individuals of all backgrounds feel both valued and accepted is created.

Successes and failures are shared outcomes in high performance teams. The weak link does not take the blame for the team’s failure just as the strongest member does not take the glory. There is a collective accountability that distributes the outcomes amongst all its members. There is no "I" in a high performance work team. Strong core values, creativity, and the ability to turn purpose into specific performance objectives are all part of a high performance team.

Effective communication, commitment, and collective accountability all impact the team's performance. High performance teams possess strong core values, specific performance objectives, the right mix of skills, and embrace a diverse membership without bias, openly displaying creativity without fear. A diverse membership may require more time to bond, but the outcome increases performance levels long-term. The difference between a group and a high performance team appears to be the commitment level of its members. High performance teams are committed to excellence, have a common purpose, and are collectively accountable.

Teams seeking high performance results must be willing to work towards continuous improvement. High performance results are born out of high performance efforts that require patience and time. There is no substitute for experience and teams with the ability to remain focused, flexible, and not fearful, will be able to effectively communicate with other team members and establish productive relationships. High performance teams are not too unlike high performance machines. With the right mix, the end result is greater than the sum of the parts.

This just in...

Once considered the "best pound-for-pound sailor" in the USA, new evidence confirms "Popeye the Sailorman" may have been taking performance enhancers since as early as 1932. In a statement read by his Lawyer, "When Popeye lost his right eye in what he has termed "the mos' arful battle", his Doctor started him on canned spinach, not realizing at the time, what the product actually contained".

In his last fight with the bearded bully Bluto, Popeye apparently inhaled a can of the leafy green vegetation known as spinach, through his corncob pipe just moments before pummeling the much larger sailor.

Recent pictures of the sailorman inhaling the leafy substance through his pipe have some wondering if his extraordinarily fast swimming (usually with the aid of his pipe as a propeller) was done while under the influence...

Even after a full public apology, Popeye lost several of his endorsements, but says he "hopes to continue to appear in comic books, television cartoons, arcade and video games, movies, and hundreds of advertisements".

In a brief statement, Bluto referred to his nemesis as a "one-eyed runt" who has "cheated his way through life". He vowed revenge and finished his statement by adding "Wait until Olive hears this!"

J. Wellington Wimpy, a hamburger-loving moocher who was often seen eating for free, had only words of praise for his sailor friend. When asked about the free burgers, Wimpy claimed he "always paid for his meals on Tuesdays"...

Popeye's longtime "goil", Olive Oyl, is not in the clear herself. Over the years her appearance has changed dramatically. Once thin and shapeless, she looked full-figured and glamorous in last years "Sailor's Girl" calendar, causing some to wonder. She has been known to eat spinach, and on more than one occasion, beat up her sailorman boyfriend...

During a television interview with a prominent, longtime sports writer, Popeye denied knowledge of the illegal substance and after several "under-the-breath" mutterings, kept repeating "I yam what I yam..."

Sam I am...

I met Sam Trainor when I was just knee high to a grasshopper. He was my father's best friend. An imposing structure at six foot five and some two hundred and forty pounds, Sam could devour an entire pizza pie with ease. I was impressed! He was an electrician by trade, a mechanic by nature. Sam loved a mechanical challenge. And when he solved a problem he always offered a lengthy explanation. His enormous knowledge of all things mechanical along with his incredible size, kept many a person captive for much longer than they could stand. I always enjoyed his enthusiasm and his willingness to share his knowledge. He offered advice freely and had a whole list of proverbs to quote from. "A smart man learns from his mistakes, an even smarter man learns from the mistakes of others" was one of his favorites.

He was the most comfortable in work boots and Wrangler dungarees. Leaving his house however, was a big deal for him. He was a homebody who was forever tinkering around the house. Cars were just one of his mechanical interests. He dug and finished a pit in his garage so he could do automotive work without having to lie on his back. It was a fine pit too! If you asked he would let you use it. Along with the use of the pit came the use of his tools and of course, Sam himself. You would start off doing the work yourself, but before you knew it Sam was doing it and you were watching the master at work. It was then that the twinkle in his blue eyes was most noticeable.

It seemed tall, large bodied guys were always expected to carry heavier things, do more back breaking work than the rest of the normal sized population. Somewhere in his forties this responsibility took its toll and Sam found himself with a chronic back problem that eventually put him out of work and on long-term disability. He would be a full time homebody from that point on.

When I first entered the trades I would frequent his house to talk shop. I remember him talking about the spring and how it had been his favorite time of year to work. He meant it to. Because of his disability his work had now been reduced to a hobby. He continued to search it out though, and enjoyed every part of it, bad back and all.

Sam's advice to me, a young apprentice at the time, was that I should take the part of my job I have the most difficulty with and become the very best at it, that this would make my life easier. I always think of him when I find myself mastering a skill that I once despised. He was right, it did get easier. He also told me that when I misplaced a tool to look up high, that's probably where I'd find it. So many times I find my tools on top shelves or on sill plates in basements.

Sam had two of everything. He was always prepared for a failure. When he bought a T.V., he bought two. Everything he could afford to, he bought in duplicate. I thought about it and realized that Noah had taken two of every animal on the ark. Sam was on a similar kind of mission...

I remember one afternoon visiting Sam and him slicing the two of us some cinnamon crumb coffee cake. I wolfed my piece down with a milk chaser. Sam meticulously carved small pieces out of his slice and made it last for what seemed like hours. When he was done, using only a single prong of his fork, he picked up every last morsel until the plate was so clean it looked like it belonged back in the cupboard. He was patient. He was stubborn. And he was fussy! When he was older he once set up a transit and watched some "young fellas" side his two story house with clapboards. They were much kinder than they wanted to be. Sam was uniquely genuine and hard to dislike.

Sam was one of the first people to get cancer that I knew. I would go to his house to visit him then and I'd be amazed at how even after the cancer had taken its toll, Sam still dwarfed a full size bed.

One afternoon I sat in a chair next to his bed and he asked me if I wanted to be the busiest plumber? "Of course" I said. He said "Come closer" I moved a bit closer to him. He said "Closer". I inched even closer. That wasn't enough. He demanded that I moved even closer. I was so close I was looking down his throat when he finally spoke these memorable words, "Work for nothing!" Totally shocked I pushed myself back and thought how the cancer must be doing a job on him. Then with the same enthusiasm he had spoken with for so many years, he repeated, "Work for nothing! You'll be the busiest Plumber!" It was then I realized Sam's genius was still at work. He was right again. He calmed a bit and went on to explain the fine line between being busy and earning a living.

I don't remember seeing Sam again. He succumbed to cancer.

Every spring when I'm working hard in beautiful weather, I think of Sam. When I find a lost tool in a high place, I think of Sam. Whenever I see a hot pizza pie being pulled from an oven, I think of Sam.

I'll just bet that if I look long and hard enough, I'll find Sam in a very high place too...

Calling Dick Tracy

You go to your bank to make a deposit. The newly renovated drive-through is 30 feet from the glass window the tellers are seated behind. The small speaker comes to life- “Hi”. You respond, wondering if you’re being heard. You stick the deposit in a plastic tube, position it inside a tube launcher, and press SEND. The electronic door closes slowly and there’s a blast of air that carries your transaction to the teller. You wait. When the deposit slip arrives back, you assume the muffled sound you hear is a “thank you”…

You walk into Dunkin’ Donuts and stand patiently at the register. An employee wearing the familiar brown and orange walks by and says “Can I help you?” You respond with “ I’ll have a large regular with two sugars and a …” but before you can finish you notice the employee is not talking to you, but talking into a headset and helping someone in the drive-through. You feel stupid, embarrassed, and powerless…

You’re in a line at the movies and see someone you know. They say “Hi, what’s up?” You begin to respond, but they spin around, continuing their conversation into their cell phone. It’s awkward and humiliating…

You pick up your son or daughter from school, excited to hear about their day. As they approach the car you see their right arm is slightly bent and tilted down at their side, hand at their hip, fingers busy, they almost bump into the car door. They smile, but not at you. They’re text messaging a friend who might only be 25 feet away…

Welcome to the “New World”! It’s an impersonal place not dependent on actual human interaction for its survival or its kicks…

For those of us old enough to remember, there was the radio character (1934), comic strip (1947), and cartoon character (1960), who was a plainclothes police detective named Dick Tracy. The cartoon animation I remember was bland, straight line stuff, but the unusual technology was amusing. Tracy wore a wide brimmed, yellow fedora hat and matching trench coat, had thick eyebrows, sharp facial features, and narrow blacked-out eyes.

Created by cartoonist Chester Gould and appearing as a comic strip in The Detroit Mirror in 1931, Dick Tracy was the first to introduce raw violence to comic strips, reflecting the violence of Chicago during the 1930’s. The villains were based on real-life gangsters.

It was in 1946 that inventor Al Gross aided Gould, who didn't retire until 1977, with the introduction of the two-way wrist radio Tracy would use to communicate. A character named “Diet Smith”, an eccentric industrialist, developed most of the futuristic equipment, but it was Smith’s blind son, “Brilliant”, who invented the wrist radio. In 1964, the wrist radio became a wrist TV, and then during the late ‘60’s, in keeping with the times, Gould equipped Tracy with atomic-powered gadgets and a spacecraft with a magnetic propulsion system.

Over the years, Tracy confronted the criminally insane “Selbert Depool”, freelance hitman/ infamous enemy “Flattop Jones” and his revenge-seeking, psychopathic daughter “Angeltop”, fugitive “Crewy Lou”, and Al “Big Boy” Caprice, a revenge-seeking gangster based on Al Capone. Other seedy characters included "Itchy Oliver", "Mumbles", "Pruneface", and "Littleface Finney". The character “Mr. Intro” never appeared except as a disembodied voice seeking world domination. Tracy annihilated Intro using an atomic laser.

Fast forward to 2009… A lot of Chester Gould’s visions have become harsh realities. The cell phone may have evolved from Dick Tracy’s two-way wrist radio and web-cams from Tracy’s wrist TV. Text messaging has taken communication one step further into the obsessive and impersonal. People 15-35 rely totally on the text message for their communication. There is no live voice, only a short script, but none-the-less texting is the communication of choice for this demographic.

Texting has become a real addiction for some teens who are unable to go as long as 15 minutes without a text message fix. They’re good at it too. They can do it riding a bike, inside their pockets during school, even while driving a car. They use it to cheat on tests, spread gossip; even break-ups have been reduced to words on a small, pocket-sized screen.

Is texting a problem? Certainly in areas where other forms of communication are not available, text messaging can be very useful. But for young adults who live to communicate minute to minute, unknowingly, they are living in a distraction and missing out on life around them. They are totally absorbed in the craze and the addiction is as consuming as nicotine, alcohol, or drugs.

Unfortunately, text messaging cost as little as ten dollars a month for unlimited usage and that has helped make it as popular as it is. At schools, where cell phone use during school hours is not allowed, disciplinarians regularly confiscate cell phones and other electronic devices, but are unable to significantly reduce overall usage. Disciplining repeat offenders is time consuming, disruptive to the goals of education, and in the end, costs taxpayers money.                                                                                  

“Calling Dick Tracy! Calling Dick Tracy! There are disembodied voices everywhere!" Maybe Diet Smith has the answer to reducing cell phone use and text messaging. I hope he knows that using atomic lasers would get him in a lot of trouble…

Dinner out and a happy ending...

I was told when I was old enough to eat at restaurants myself that the proper tip for a waiter/waitress who performs his or her duties was 15%... I was also told that a tip’s origin dates back to when someone wanted to “insure proper service” they would tip before the meal. I believe now, any money that exchanges hands prior to dining involves a maitre d’ and seating and that usually takes place in pricey establishments I don’t frequent.

The custom today, as I understand it, rewards hard-working servers, after the meal, which appears to be a safer way to go. Serve me my meal without a hitch and a 15% gratuity is yours! I have no problem with that.

My family does not eat out very much, but when we do the one who appreciates it the most is my wife, the mother of my three boys. She normally cooks, serves, and cleans after family meals.

On Saturday night we decided to go to our favorite Chinese restaurant with our youngest son. We waited 20 minutes before being seated. We’re OK with that; it’s our favorite restaurant, 20 minutes is nothing. Once seated, our waiter poured water and was ready to take our order almost immediately. After a short wait, our appetizers arrived. We waited an unusually long period of time between the appetizers and the meal. There was a definite festive lull that included fidgeting and looking around for our waiter. All three of us stretched our necks hoping to spot him. And when we did locate him, we hoped that the tray he was carrying contained our meal. It didn’t…

Pork fried rice, lobster sauce, and sesame chicken are not special order. We began to question the service. Our water glasses were dry and we grew thirsty and impatient… Finally, a dinner out and we were being ignored by our waiter!

When our food finally arrived we were relieved. A different restaurant employee filled our glasses with water and order to our restaurant universe had been restored!

The food was predictably as good as it gets. Now it was time to measure the waiter’s true mettle-- how quickly would he see that we had stopped eating and were finished? At that point in the meal, when you know you’re done and waiting for the bill, no one moves, you remain still and a safe distance from utensils and plates. You don’t sip water or go near the food even to pick at it, you sit back and everyone’s posture says “I’m done!” We choreographed our exit perfectly. One look at us and you knew--we were done.

At this juncture there is no wiggle room for a waiter or waitress. “Get me out of here” is what most patrons are thinking and we waited for our bill much longer than what was comfortable… The three of us began playing that game “Is that him?” It took forever to get his attention and the leather bill holder to our table, which was our ticket out of there.

I wasted little time once I had the bill in hand, tucking cash in the holder, but then we found ourselves waiting again. “Where the heck is he? We should have been out of here twenty-five minutes ago. Is that him?”

My wife suggested that I pay at the register. Seemed like a logical solution. I went up to the register and cashed out, expecting to go back to the table, leave the tip and get my family. Here’s where it got tricky…

My wife and son had gotten up and left the table. Another restaurant employee had the table cleared completely and new patrons were being seated. I couldn’t leave the tip now! I looked for our waiter. “Where the heck is he?” I was in the way. I stretched my neck, looking everywhere, heart racing. I only had so much time, I was clogging the aisle. I went back to the register and saw that my wife and son were in the restaurant’s breezeway, headed for the car. I left the restaurant, a difficult decision, and caught them in the parking lot…

“Why did you guys leave the table? I went back to leave the tip and you were gone and new people were being seated. I didn’t leave the tip!” “Well, go back in” the wife said…

I took a deep breath and went back in, walking quickly to our table hoping to find our waiter. He wasn’t around. I was in the way, clogging the aisle. I stretched my neck, and in a panic, spun around three times. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. Every patron was seated but me… I had become "the restaurant OAF”! I walked out without leaving the tip--

I climbed in the minivan and reported to my wife and son that I hadn’t found our waiter and didn’t leave the tip. There was silence… And then total agreement-- "He didn’t deserve one anyway! We got terrible service!"

I started the car, looked in the rear-view mirror, confirmed that I didn’t look anything like George Costanza and then I pulled out of the parking lot at normal speed and never looked back.

The Perfect Brother

I did not know Marine Lance Corporal Kevin T. Preach. I do know his younger brother Dan. He was a senior at Bristol-Plymouth Regional Technical School in 2008 and he was one of my plumbing students, where in the shop he was called “Preach” by his friends.

From everything I read about Kevin, Dan has much in common with his older brother. From the pictures, it’s easy to see the physical resemblance and similar smiles. Dan admits looking up to Kevin since he was a little kid, "following him around and trying to do exactly what he was doing".

As a high school student, Dan was always a go-to-guy in the plumbing shop. He would help any way he could. On the football field for Bristol-Plymouth, as a tight end, Dan was a spirited competitor, like his older brother had been for Bridgewater-Raynham.

After graduation, Dan had ideas of attending Bridgewater State College and also working part time as a Plumber’s Apprentice. He also mentioned the military as another option and that his brother had enlisted in the Marines after he graduated high school. He spoke about Kevin often and the admiration he had for his older brother was obvious and sincere.

Dan came into BP in September of 2008 and asked me for a letter of recommendation. I knew that would be an easy task, Dan had earned all the praise my letter would contain. I prepared the letter immediately, not wanting to hold him up.

I concluded my letter with “Dan is an honest young man, puts integrity into all that he does, can be trusted to complete a task, is respectful of his teachers and employers, and is well liked by his peers. Without a doubt, I believe Dan Preach will be successful in any endeavor he chooses and an asset to any organization.”

When he finally returned to pick up the letter he had already realized the difficulty he would have finding steady work as an apprentice plumber in the current economy and decided on enlistment. His decision between the Army and the Marines came down to a matter of family tradition; his late father Daniel Mark Preach, had been a Marine and his brother was in the Corps. Dan would enlist in the Marines.

While Dan was in boot camp in Parris Island, South Carolina, his older brother, a machine gunner assigned to Camp Lejeune’s 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines, was in Afghanistan fighting a war, his first combat deployment.

As Dan neared the completion of his basic training, statements that Kevin had been gravely wounded Jan. 24 2009 when his Humvee was hit by a roadside bomb in Farah province, were being released by the Defense Department.

While Kevin was on life support at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Dan completed the “Crucible”, a 54-hour endurance test in which Marine recruits survive on just three meals and four hours of sleep.

Just hours after completing his endurance test, Dan flew to San Antonio to be with his brother and family. Kevin was taken off life support that evening. He was just 21 years old.

At the wake, the visitors proceeded silent, in long lines that wound their way through the crowded parlor. Uniformed Marines, some who did not know Kevin Preach personally, were there to show their support. While in that line I stood behind two young Marines. As we edged closer to the family, a graying Marine Major talked briefly to each Marine in attendance. I listened as he introduced himself and asked each soldier his name and where he was stationed. He concluded with a heart-felt “thank you for being here”.

I could see from the show of support that the Marine Corps is a close knit brotherhood, one that is genuinely protective of its membership. It made me wonder if there is a tighter bond between men and woman in any other organization…

As I approached Dan, he looked very strong, mind and body, with straight posture and clear eyes. We smiled at each other briefly and I said “Sorry for your loss. You’re looking good Marine.” As I continued down the receiving line I knew that “Preach” had made the right decision. The maturity I saw in him was a direct result of his Marine training. I’m not sure English 101 could have prepared him for this type of tragedy the way the Marine Corps had.

While speaking at Kevin’s funeral, Laurie Hayes’ younger son, 18 year old Marine Private Daniel James Preach said of his older brother “He’s the guy you want your son to grow up to be and your daughter to date, and for me, he was the perfect brother.”

One thing is certain, Kevin and Dan’s mother Laurie Hayes did an incredible job raising her two sons. They both became outstanding young men. She should be very proud.

Off Center?

Mister Trouble never hangs around
When he hears this mighty sound
"Here I come to save the day!"
That means that Mighty Mouse is on the way!

That was the opening verse to the theme song of my favorite cartoon, Mighty Mouse. I admired Popeye and Underdog too. I watched shows on black and white TV back in the ‘60s and most of the shows had easy to recognize heroes (Superman, Tarzan, Zorro, The Lone Ranger).  Some of my other non-cartoon favorites included Andy of Mayberry, Leave It to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and My Three Sons. The list goes on and on, but the more popular theme became family and learning right from wrong.

Andy Taylor always had time to do some “splainin” of life’s dilemmas to his young son Opie and Ward Cleaver did the same to Beaver in the privacy of his in-home library, doors closed. Weekly television shows were attempting to define the perfect American family. It seemed to be working and as a result other copycat shows like the Brady Bunch were created. The theme focused on the family and the Dad was at the center of most of them with Mom in the supporting role.

Modern TV hasn’t been as flattering to the American family and its Dads. See Homer Simpson (The Simpsons) and Peter Griffin (Family Guy), these guys are full-fledged buffoons and their families are highly dysfunctional, maybe as a result. It’s definitely funny stuff (haha), but the message to young children is that the average American family is dysfunctional and they shouldn't look to their Dads for role models…

Certainly Mom’s role in the American family has changed and is much more than that of supporting cast, but the entertainment industry has been consistently moving away from center because it has realized dysfunctional sells. No one’s buying expensive TV advertising during “normal” shows anymore.

Actor Ed O’Neill has made an incredible transition from one of America’s first dysfunctional families in Married with Children (1987-’97) to one of America’s most popular progressive families in Modern Family (2009- ). His TV characters are survivors in both sitcoms, and in the latter his character, 65+ year old Jay Prichett is rewarded with Gloria (Sofia Vergara), his younger, sexy, Columbian second wife. A “Lifetime Achievement Award” for an actor who was a Dad in television's ground-breaking dysfunctional family? Perhaps, but O’Neill has mastered the changing way TV Dads are perceived. When Gloria Prichett becomes pregnant the couple’s extended family, which includes Prichett’s gay son Mitchell from his first marriage, and his husband Cameron who have adopted a Vietnamese daughter (Lily Tucker-Pritchett), were all totally supportive.

Just maybe TV Dads Andy Taylor and Ward Cleaver were further from center than we originally thought and Hollywood has finally gotten it right; American families are totally dysfunctional. But that isn't necessarily a bad thing, in fact it's become quite normal.

The idea that a caped mouse could fly and be a superhero… Well, it was believable to many wide-eyed young kids back in the 60s and I was certainly one of them.

Here it goes, one more time for those of us whose inner child still yearns to believe-

Yes sir, when there is a wrong to right
Mighty Mouse will join the fight
On the sea or on the land
He has the situation well in hand!

So though we are in danger, we do not despair
For wherever there is danger he'll be there
He'll be there, on the land, on the sea, in the air!

We're not worrying at all
We're just listening for his call
"Here I come to save the day!"
That means that Mighty Mouse is on the way!

Nosy about food?

While walking through the parking lot of a local restaurant after a meal last spring, I commented to my oldest son that “food usually smells better than it tastes…” Surprisingly he agreed! We never agree.

Perhaps our sense of smell, in addition to preceding our sense of taste, is keener. Try eating your favorite food with a head cold- it doesn’t taste very good. I believe our sense of smell is very important in making decisions concerning food. If our nose likes it, we precede to the next level- the palate. Here there is not always total agreement. Some foods smell really good, but don’t live up to expectations. Think vending carts in downtown Boston. That sausage smells great while it’s sizzling and cooking, but doesn’t always taste so great once you’ve paid for it and start to eat it. Later in the day you might even pay again. Fried liver and onions appeals to my nose, but definitely not to my palate; love the smell, hate the taste! On the flip side, some cheeses smell toxic, but taste great!

Many foods and beverages smell incredible while they’re hot and being cooked or brewed. Coffee, roasted peanuts, popcorn, bacon, sautéed peppers & onions, chocolate chip cookies, apple pies, hot dogs steamed in beer; to name a few, all tempt a curious nose. It’s not that visuals, sounds, experience, and memories don’t play an important role in our food choices; it’s just that our noses are key.

Back in the day I drove a “Roach Coach” and the secret ingredient in my steamed hot dogs was found in unopened cans of beer left over from the night before. Once the steamer full of beer was hot those dogs smelled incredible, effectively luring construction workers over for a double dose and as early as seven a.m.! I tried them and honestly they were nothing special, but it was the smell of them steaming in beer that hooked my customers. They stood in line waiting for a hot dog steamed in the cheap beer (Pabst Blue Ribbon, Old Milwaukee) I rescued from a Styrofoam cooler in the trunk of my car. They urged me to open a restaurant! Lums was a very successful hot dog chain that steamed their dogs in beer. They also sold cold pitchers of beer which didn’t hurt business either.

I suppose the point is that if you can tempt the schnozzle you can sell some food. I’m not a big fan, but Burger King must exhaust their flame-broiled fumes into the open air because the perimeter around their fast food restaurants smells incredible. Same goes for seafood restaurants and pizza joints, especially those with open window counters on the boardwalk. And who can resist the smell outside a Chinese restaurant, a steak house, a bakery, a chocolaterie, or a breakfast joint? It appears that without our noses we wouldn’t know what or where to eat! Cut onions may make us cry, but once caramelized they have an aroma all their own that's very tempting! Pastries baked with cinnamon appeal to our sense of smell too.

It’s not only hot foods that tempt. Go into a Delicatessen and smell the freshly sliced corned beef and the split half sours- an irresistible aroma in its own right.

A smart restaurateur knows the secret to enticing patrons is to first arouse their sense of smell. That just may be the secret to ‘good home cooking’ which is usually served up at the kitchen table or in a dining room off the kitchen where those wonderful smells arrive before the meal and stay till the end.

You’re nosing around in the kitchen so pay attention! Your sense of smell just may be telling you what’s good to eat, but be advised- your nose and your palate don’t always agree.

Just sayin'...

In his eulogy for his brother Robert, Ted Kennedy said of him “My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life; to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it.”

I was a big fan of Bobby Kennedy, perhaps more so than of any other politician in my lifetime. I have always aspired to achieve those same goals Teddy spoke of in his brother’s eulogy, but recently I have begun to challenge my beliefs with something a whole lot simpler.

One of my good friends told me he has always stressed to his children that “life isn’t fair”. He said it was important for them to understand that so they wouldn’t dwell on things that hadn’t gone their way. At first I thought the idea was sheepish, but now I’m beginning to come around to his way of thinking.

In admitting “life isn’t fair” we give ourselves an out, a way to accept that which we either can’t change or that which has a very low probability of change even after a herculean effort. And since “life isn’t fair” applies to everyone, it is fair that “life isn’t fair”-

The older I get the more I realize that things aren’t always going to go the way you’d like. Accepting that takes courage just as trying to right it does. But in the larger scheme of things, “life isn’t fair” helps explain a lot of less than desirable outcomes. It takes the personal out of getting a raw deal and helps expedite the recovery process. (I’m starting to like it-)

I went to arbitration with GM and their Lawyer over the “Lemon Law” and won. I won in small claims court when a house painter failed miserably on my dime. There’s too much to mention, but in short, I was always unwilling to accept that “life isn’t fair” and I had the energy and the time to challenge it.

Bobby Kennedy did not die of natural causes, he was assassinated. I’m not advocating rolling over at the mere hint of a conflict, but I am seeing that those who accept that “life isn’t fair” have an easier time moving on from life’s less than equitable outcomes than those who repeatedly challenge them…

Richard's Plan

My first full year as a vocational teacher ended on June 22nd, just eight days after celebrating my fiftieth birthday. The career change came after spending twenty-five years of long, tiring days and many late nights working in damp cellars and moldy bathrooms, and this change was long overdue. I was glad to be off my aching patellas and back in high school. Not that the plumbing trade had short-changed me; my three boys all had braces on their teeth and had never gone to bed hungry. I asked for nothing more. I was fortunate to have survived with a willing and spirited attitude still intact, many tradesmen do not. When the opportunity to teach at the Regional presented itself and I was hired, it was as if the book I was trapped inside had finally turned the page and I was able to begin the next chapter of my life, one I had only pawed at in the past.

Soon after starting, my breaths became noticeably deeper and more relaxed. I was immediately reconnected to who I was before I had unwillingly exited childhood and had abruptly entered into adulthood, a place where my breaths had become shorter, more rapid, and uncomfortably incomplete.

When the buses pulled away from the Regional in mid June and headed into the summer, I somehow felt rejuvenated, like a lifetime of stress and fatigue had been lifted off my soul. I realized in that moment that having only the summer in my sights was every bit as refreshing at the half century mark as it had been many years ago when I pedaled my pirated bicycle through the old neighborhood with a full-blown boyish grin and on healthy knees. I couldn't help but allow my thoughts to wander recklessly and I began thinking about the first days of summer and my childhood friends...

The blue-collar neighborhood I grew up in during the mid sixties was thirty miles south of Boston, and Richard lived a block away in one of the larger homes. Unlike the majority of the single-story ranches built on postage stamp lots populating the suburban development, his was a newer two-story home with an attached two-car garage bordered by woods and several other similar style houses. His father was an electrician and word was electricians made good money. Normy earned every bit of it too, working all the time. I never saw him wearing anything but well-traveled work clothes. He was old school and worked for quite a long time out of the family's old station wagon. It was a mess, with tools, spools of wire and boxes full of electrical parts establishing permanent residence in the back of the over-weighted Country Squire. Their garage was even worse; in addition to a 16' wooden motorboat, which hadn't been moved in years, it was cluttered with years of accumulated electrical stock making it difficult, if not impossible, to navigate through.

Just one birthday shy of being a full-fledged teenager, Richard was average height and incredibly thin with blue-green veins visible throughout his forearms and one large one running up the left side of his neck that finally disappeared just under his ear and behind his bony jaw. He combed his thick brown hair down into bangs, which landed just above his big, bulging brown eyes. He spoke through full lips with a muffled voice, appearing to be straining his vocal cords with every syllable while catching his breath at every pause. More importantly though, Richard's cockiness fueled his over-confident swagger and it was this unique characteristic that made him stand out from the rest. He had no difficulty scooting through the jungle of electrical debris in their garage.

Normy was short and stocky, with thinning black hair and always looked preoccupied with something of greater importance. He occasionally wore black-rimmed reading glasses that looked studious and out of place on his rounded, battle worn face that seemed stuck in one deadpan expression. He looked like the kind of Dad you wouldn't want to upset. Richard feared very little outside of his father and older brother.

Kenny was four years our senior and matured early. He was thick like Normy and was one of the first kids to pin a surfer's cross on the dungaree vest that he wore over his leather jacket. He carried his chin high, rode a motorcycle, lifted weights, and looked rough and tough. With long wavy brown hair parted down the middle, and sharp lines to his nose, the area around his eyes, and his forehead; with a fierce look to his partially dilated pupils, he strangely resembled an eagle. At the very least, he appeared to have Native American blood running through his veins. Richard boasted about how they frequently roughhoused together, later admitting that as a result of their playful encounters, he learned how to scream "Uncle!" at a very early age. All Kenny ever wanted to do was toughen up his little brother.

Richard was born with severe asthma, almost dying at birth, and had been on medication ever since. Back then doctors had few remedies other than pure speed. They would rev up his heart rate with Tedral, a lethal concoction consisting of Theophylline, Epherine HC1, and Phenobabitol that is no longer manufactured in the U.S., hoping to pump more blood to his lungs where it was needed. As a result of being heavily medicated, Richard couldn't gain weight and was wound pretty tight. He had a short fuse and a wise-guy smile to go with it. All things considered, he was fun to be around, unpredictable as he was.

One summer day in late June after school was officially out, we were bored stiff and Richard suggested we run away.

"Why?" I asked.

Richard smiled widely and confidently before he answered, "Why not?"

I was happy at home, with three squares and clean clothes, and didn't see the point. Richard convinced me running away was what I needed to do and off we went. He said we could hide deep in the thick woods behind his house, and that nobody would find us there. We walked directly into the woods with bad intention and without a compass. Within an hour we were lost. After some initial panic, we discovered that we must have been walking in circles because we hadn't actually ventured very far and could still see the back corner of his garage. After our botched effort to become young fugitives fizzled, we realized that running away was just as boring as hanging around and a whole lot more work. We crashed inside the hull of the motorboat on top of some moldy old life jackets; and while out of the hot sun, safe inside the cool air of the garage, we dreamed about what we could do tomorrow. We were both home in time for dinner.

By the age of twelve I had fallen in love with the girl next door. The oldest of four girls, by fifth grade Debbie was so pretty I was only able to look at her for brief periods, fearing my affection would be discovered. She was petite, with dark hair and eyes; her perfect smile and china doll complexion made her irresistible. When she was wearing her pink-gray three-quarter length cashmere coat along with the white angora winter hat that hid all but the ends of her medium length hair, with snow flakes falling all around her, she was Jackie O. 

I was always shy around her, but still made every effort to put myself in that position. She knew how I felt, my crush on her wasn't close to the secret I pretended it to be, and everyone who lived on our short, close-quartered five-house street knew it too. When Richard found out, he demanded I ask her to go steady.

I didn't have an I.D. bracelet to give her, which was the custom in those days, but Richard had an idea. I'd give her a piece of jewelry, his mother's jewelry! Richard said he could steal a necklace from his mother's jewelry box, and that she would never know. I didn't like the idea, but to Richard, it was the ultimate plan. I was uncomfortable walking through his parent's formal bedroom, darkened by heavy draperies, and even more uncomfortable staring into the open jewelry box, which in the moment looked more like a treasure chest pried open, spilling it's lavish and sparkling contents into plain view, a glimpse of faceted excess I found staggering.

Richard chose the necklace: a big gaud-awful costume piece that definitely looked like it belonged clasped around a wrinkled old neck seated at a stuffy luncheon. How could I refuse Richard? I went to school the next day with the bulky piece weighing down my right front pant pocket, not too unlike the effect the electrical parts had had on the back of Normy's wagon. I saw Debbie, and under extreme pressure, I asked her if she wanted to go steady with me. She casually accepted as if I had offered her a chocolate chip cookie from my lunch bag. There I was standing there, almost forgetting the most important part...

"Oh, and this is for you" I said, as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cumbersome necklace, happy to get rid of the lopsided bulk that had been tugging at my tightly belted waist.

 Once inside the open palm of my twelve year-old hand, the serpentine-like necklace took on a life of its own, and I struggled momentarily to keep it from sliding out and onto the floor. Debbie looked at it suspiciously, smiled and then accepted it from me without hesitation. It was a done deal! Thanks to Richard I was going steady with the girl of my dreams!

That night Debbie's mom took one look at that costume necklace and suspecting its origin, demanded she return it to me the following day. Richard and I put it back in his Mother's jewelry box without being noticed. Debbie went steady with me for all of five days, and broke it off saying that her mother made her because she didn't approve of my friends.

Richard's favorite expression was "If there’s shit in the yard I'm going to step in it!" And step in it he did. As he got older his air/fuel mixture only got leaner. He never put on much weight and due to the severe asthma and the medications he took, he remained wound pretty tight.

Richard suffered a heart attack in his early forties and didn't survive. By then I had already been out of touch with him for quite a while, but I'll always remember him for his incredible enthusiasm and willingness to devise a plan.

I'm sure writing this story was somehow his idea…

The Stranger...

Well we all have a face

That we hide away forever

And we take them out and

Show ourselves

When everyone has gone

Nineteen year old Dzhokhar Tsarnaev had what was believed to be a normal day at UMass Dartmouth on Wednesday, according to one UMass official. He worked out at the gym and then slept in his single-unit room at the Pine Dale Hall dorm that night while “law enforcement officials were frantically scanning photos and video trying to identify him and his brother”.

Some are satin some are steel

Some are silk and some are leather

They're the faces of the stranger

But we love to try them on

Twenty-two year old Pamela Rolon, a senior at UMass Dartmouth and a resident assistant at the Pine Dale Hall dormitory where Dzhokhar Tsarnaev lived, said she has known him for the past year and finds it incredible that he played any role in the bombing. She said Tsarnaev dressed typically in sweaters and jeans and fit in easily on campus. She said even though she knew he came from Russia, he spoke English with hardly any trace of an accent.

Why were you so surprised

That you never saw the stranger

“He studied. He hung out with me and my friends,” she said in a phone interview. “I’m in shock.” Watching television with her friends at UMass later in the week it became consensus “We made a joke like – that could be Dzhokhar,” she said. “But then we thought it just couldn’t be him. Dzhokhar? Never.”

You may never understand

How the stranger is inspired

“I think he’s Muslim, but not so religious,” Rolon said. “He’s a normal city kid.” She also said that he did not talk about Russian or international politics. “He never said anything about Russia versus the United States” –

It was then I felt the stranger

Kick me right between the eyes

Katie Horan, a sophomore at UMass-Dartmouth who lives in the Pine Dale Hall dorm, said the alarm went off around 7:45 a.m. telling everyone in the building to evacuate.

Lyrics in bold by Billy Joel

INFORMATION OBTAINED FROM “Bombing suspect attended UMass Dartmouth, where he spent Wednesday; friend shocked he could have any link to bombing” - By Sarah Coffey and Patricia Wen, Globe Correspondent and Globe Staff

http://www.boston.com/metrodesk/2013/04/19/bombing-suspect-attended-umass-dartmouth-prompting-school-closure-college-friend-shocked-charge-boston-marathon-bomber/YcEDA5nvNDi0T1jJTNjKiP/story.html

Cool Motorcycle! The Battle of the Middleweight American V-Twins

Since 1957 Harley Davidson has owned the "slice of cool" referred to by industry people as the middleweight cruiser category, with their Sportster.

Although it has evolved over the years into a more modern motorcycle with rubber-mounted  engine and fuel injection, the target rider has not changed. The Sportster is geared towards the smaller rider, albeit an entry level or experienced rider.  The Sportsters' light weight and deep rumble found its niche some 57 years ago and has stayed at the top of the charts longer than Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones.

Owners of the H-D Big Twins have always mocked ownership of Sportsters, tagging it as a "girl's bike" or "entry level". But looking at the sales it's been a steady performer and always a very desirable motorcycle with its storied history and a hard-core tradition. Harley Davidson has recently added two smaller liquid cooled motorcycles, the Street 750 and Street 500, and the Sportster is no longer the "runt of the H-D litter".

Harley Davidson has not sat on its hands either- there are currently five versions of the Sportster available in 2014: Superlow, Iron 883, 1200 Custom, Forty-Eight, and the Seventy-Two, each version filling a different need and response across the board has been great. So much so that other manufacturers have entered into the race for the best selling "cool middleweight cruiser"-

They say that "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" and that could not be more evident in the quest for out-cooling the Sportster. The metric cruiser V-Twin offerings differ slightly, have far too many plastic bits, but given the affordable price-point, they have their customer. Honda has its Shadow line, and its customer wants less noise, smaller displacement (750cc), and what Honda pushes the most- reliability. Suzuki has a smaller Boulevard, the M50, and it handles very nicely and is a great platform for customization, but at 805cc its acceleration pales in comparison to an H-D 1200. Kawasaki's Vulcan 900 Custom has great lines, but leans heavily in the direction of "Metric Cruiser" like Star's V-Star 950. All the aforementioned offerings are excellent motorcycles and they come in at phenomenal price points. So why hasn't the Sportster customer defected? The metric offerings lack the history, tradition, and the "cool" that the Sportster has branded into its model name.

Honda understood that, and their Shadow RS was a bold attempt to challenge Sportster, but even with a design that "shadowed" the Sportster with a peanut-like tank, its 44 ponies and plastic bits weren't quite enough to knock the Sportster off its perch.

Star (Yamaha) followed Honda with their attempt at the Sportster customer with the 2013 Bolt 950. A similar styled bike with an air cooled motor that in tests outperformed 883 Sportsters, was well received. The bike had the bobber vibe, but it too had a metric flavor that purists picked up on. It is a Japanese version of an America Icon and that never works here in the USA.

It seems all the metric offerings fall short in the "cool factor" that Harley Davidson appears to own- until now...

Established in 1998, Victory Motorcycles, a division of Polaris, has mounted a more serious challenge. They are the "other American V-Twin" and they have been on the fast-track to replace Harley-Davidson by outdoing them in performance, price, and cool factor. They have introduced new models each year since their inception and have continually improved their motors, transmissions, and styling. In just 16 short years Victory motorcycles has developed a loyal following that includes many former Harley Davidson owners.

Some of Victory's styling cues are too "futuristic" for hard-core Harley riders, but not for the young and upcoming riders who have no brand loyalty yet and some metric cruiser folks who like the idea of owning an American V-Twin that's not Harley Davidson.  Going forward that's a lot of potential customers that Victory will have waiting at their doorstep and they're well aware of it.

Indian Motorcycles was founded in 1901 and produced 143 motorcycles in 1902 in their Springfield, Massachusetts plant.  The Scout and Chief V-twins, introduced in the early 1920s, became the Springfield firm's most successful models. Designed by Charles B. Franklin, the middleweight Scout and larger Chief shared a 42-degree V-twin engine layout. Both models gained a reputation for strength and reliability. After a long storied history of bankruptcy and changing ownership, recent financial struggles forced the sale of Indian Motorcycles once again.

When Polaris bought the Indian brand in 2011 many thought it would just be a Victory motorcycle with Indian branding. Turned out that Polaris had different ideas and the Indian motorcycles all use proprietary motors and their designs maintain the Indian tradition while at the same time keeping up with modern motorcycle technology. If Indian was to survive and thrive there was no better place for them to land than with Polaris.

Based in Medina, Minn., Polaris was formed in 1954 to make snowmobiles and later became a leader in all-terrain vehicles. Seeking to broaden their base, Polaris introduced Victory motorcycles in 1998, when Harley was struggling to keep up with demand. Polaris has invested over 100 million dollars in Victory and Indian and has plans to increase their number of dealership showrooms to 300. Harley Davidson currently has 767 and owns 52% of the American motorcycle market compared to Victory-Indian whose current market share is estimated at 3-5%.

On August 3, 2013, Polaris unveiled three all-new Indian-branded motorcycles based on the traditional styling of the marquee and the Thunder Stroke 111 motor. The motor has a triple-cam design with a chain-driven center cam turning front and rear cams via gears, permitting parallel placement of the pushrods to give a similar appearance to older Indian designs. It is air cooled, with large traditional fins and an air box in the cast aluminum frame. All Indians share this aluminum frame design, though the wheelbase and front end rake vary depending on model. 

At the 2014 Sturgis bike rally Indian Motorcycles made its presence known with the introduction of a new model, the 2015 Indian Scout. Unlike the metric Sportster copycats, this motorcycle, although in the same category as the Sportster, seems to trump it in every category, suggesting it is not to be compared to Sportster, but rather has created its own category- "Contemporary Classic Midsize Cruiser".

With great lines and fine details that more than exemplify the Classic American V-Twin, the Scout is powered by a proprietary, liquid cooled 1133 cc motor that has a 10.7:1 compression ratio, 100 ponies, over 72 ft-lbs. of torque and a dry weight of only 538 lbs. At $10,999 for a black one, this motorcycle has already caught the attention of the entire industry. The reception has been so well that Indian is taking reservations for the bike which is scheduled to be delivered late 2014. For $500 you can buy "first refusal", which is a fully refundable fee if you opt out. Certainly the new model announcement has been a well-marketed event, relying heavily on social media, but not only does the bike spec off the charts, it's beautifully detailed and has no worthy competitors at the moment.

It appears that Indian has knocked one out of the park with the 2015 Scout. Is there a new kid in town?

If there's one thing Harley Davidson has been willing and able to do since being challenged by Victory, and that's to continue to design cutting-edge motorcycles that manage to keep them at the top of the cruiser heap. Should be a very interesting year Sportster fans...

Axle

When I was fast approaching seventeen and had a driver’s license, I took a job working for Ronnie Cook at Cook Brothers Getty on Route One in Walpole across from the old Howard Johnsons, before Jersey Barriers separated the north and south bound lanes of the highway. It was a great job. I pumped gas, checked oil, washed windshields, all without being asked. When I wasn’t manning the pumps I was doing grease, oil, and filters, changing and repairing tires, and renting U-Haul trailers and trucks. Occasionally I went out on one of the Wreckers to help with a tow. Ronnie was a great boss and the crew of people there were great to work with. Because he was so thin and pale, Ronnie’s 75 year old father Lester was nicknamed “The Ghost”. There were all kinds of characters working there and a large majority of the customers were locals who came in regularly creating a family atmosphere that set the tone for a pleasant work-place. I remember Getty Gas (high-test only) was about forty-five cents a gallon then (1972) and I always had a thick roll of cash in my left front pants pocket. Credit cards were seldom used.

To the left of the two-bay garage where Ronnie, F.C., and Smitty did the repairs was a small 12’ x 12’ office. Very simple; an old wooden desk, a rotary dial desk-top telephone, a noisy electric adding machine, and a grease-smeared stack of invoices. The blended smell of gas, oil, anti-freeze and grease was thick. The glassed door to enter the office was on the right, closest to the garage, four feet in front of the desk and in warm weather, it was held open with an oil-stained wooden wedge.  There were full panes of thick glass to the left of the door that completed the front and continued eight feet down the side of the concrete block building letting in light and providing a great view of all the activity out front by the pumps. Lester sat in an aluminum lawn chair and read the daily rag and puffed non-filtered cigarettes one after another the entire day. He wasn’t shy about complaining and he always found something. Lying on the front window shelf, which was about two feet off the ground and three feet deep, on top of a pile of quilted U-Haul shipping pads, the good ones, was Axle.

Axle was the “garage dog”. He was 13 years old and for the most part he laid around all day and became a fixture in the office along with “The Ghost”. Axle didn’t move much, but when he did you could see his aged body having difficulty. His front shoulders slumped, his hind quarters were crooked and out of alignment with the rest of his body, his chest was sunken, and although he appeared to be some kind of Boxer mix, medium brown in color, he was not very threatening. I liked dogs and I always petted him. The only other one to pay attention to Axle was Steve Smith, who had worked full-time for Ronnie for five years after graduating from Walpole High. Young girls topped-off their tanks frequently at Cooks just to talk to him. He was blonde, blue-eyed, loaded with sinewy muscle; a handsome young guy who was good-natured and always sincere when he talked to people. The oval-shaped embroidered name tag above the pocket on the right side of his striped Getty shirt said “Smitty”.

Cook Brothers Getty was the most popular of the filling stations at the intersection of Route One and Route 27. Just down a bit on Route One heading south towards Sharon and Foxboro was a recently reopened Texaco Station. The kid that pumped gas there had a young German shepherd that was full grown and plenty aggressive. One hot day after his soda machine was completely empty he closed up the Texaco and walked down to the Getty with his unleashed dog to get a bottle of Pop from our always well-stocked soda machine. After 4 PM we were instructed by the boss to load it with his favorite beverage, Falstaff Beer.

The moment the kid from the Texaco and his dog arrived Axle jumped off the window shelf with a loud, deep bark, one I had never heard before. Suddenly his front shoulders were upright, his hind quarters in perfect alignment, and his chest looked once again powerful, protruding in front of a very aggressive stance. The Shepherd went quickly into an aggressive stance of his own and we all knew there was about to be a territorial dog fight!

The kid yelled to us to grab Axle as he made his way through the opened door, thinking his dog would hurt the elder K-9, but Ronnie smiled narrowly and said “Let ‘em go-” I couldn’t believe he was letting Axle take on this young stud of a dog-

The fight didn’t last long… Apparently there were things I wasn’t aware of about Axle. He had that Shepherd yelping for help in less than 20 seconds. Ronnie stepped in before the other dog was seriously hurt. The kid took a bottle of Fanta Grape back with him compliments of Cook Brothers Getty and we never saw him or his dog at Cook Brothers ever again.

I realized at that moment Axle’s presence at the garage for the last 13 years was not without purpose. Axle was a full-fledged guard dog who protected the station. It was all he knew.

After the confrontation Axle’s front shoulders dropped, his hind quarters went back out of alignment, and his chest sunk. He hobbled back inside the office, carefully climbed back up on the quilted U-Haul pads and took a long nap next to “The Ghost”, who seated on his aluminum lawn chair, continued reading the daily rag and puffing non-filtered cigarettes…

Blah, blah, blah...

“You wouldn’t believe it Jerry-”

“What George?”

“I went to visit Scott”

“And…”

“You know how he’s always saying ‘blah, blah, blah’?”

“Yeah”

“Now I’m saying it!”

“Can’t be! How long were you there?”

“I don’t know… We went to his favorite Sushi Bar and you know blah, blah, blah- There I go!”

“George, I think you have a case of the Blah, Blah, Blahs!”

“What do I do? I can’t go into work this way!”

“You’ll have to go see the Blah, Blah, Blah Doctor-”

“They have such a thing?”

“Of course they do. The Blah, Blah, Blahs are very contagious. It spreads through any verbal communication. Why I’m putting myself at risk right now just talking to you about it. When did it first start?”

“I left Scott’s house and bumped into his friend Gary. You remember Gary? The guy he went to college with, blah, blah, blah…”

“Don’t stop George. You have to let it run its course!”

“He asked me what brought me to this section of town. I said I was visiting Scott and his family.”

“Then what?”

“He said he hadn’t seen them in a while and asked me how they were doing.”

“And…”

“I said Scott started a new job and his wife and two kids were doing fine, blah, blah, blah!”

“Oh George, it’s worse than I thought. You’ve had a severe reaction. You have to seek professional help immediately!”

“Oh god Jerry! There’s Scott-”

“Hi George, Jerry. Seems whenever I bump into you two you’re eating in Monk’s.”

“We both like to eat Scott and this is George’s and my favorite diner.”

“Love to sit and chat with you two, but I gotta run. In meetings all day long, blah, blah, blah…”

“Did you see that Jerry? He was here for less than two minutes and used blah, blah, blah!”

“He’s a very sick man George. If you do not want to end up like him you’ll have to seek professional help.”

“Who should I call?”

“You’ll need a referral. Call your regular doctor, he’ll know what to do.”

“Thanks Jerry.”

“I’ve gotta run George. I need to pick up my dry cleaning, drive Kramer cross town for a haircut, you know, more of the daily routine, blah, blah, blah…”

A Day at the Beach...

I do not go to the beach often anymore, but once a year I’m guilted into making an appearance by you-know-who. It was a spectacular day in Newport with plenty of sunshine and a refreshing ocean breeze, but I’m not a big fan of sand, uncomfortable beach chairs, the hot sun or watching other people’s children fight over cheap plastic beach pails and tools. The best part of my day by far is lunch and as soon as I get there the clock starts ticking. If you eat too early there will be nothing to look forward to. But by 11:45, no one waits till noon, you can see at a glance all the Ziploc bags making there way out of coolers, it’s like a beachgoer’s union. All at once it’s lunchtime!

Sitting next to us on colorful beach chairs were two middle-aged women. They looked enough alike to be sisters. They were both dark-tanned, wearing gold jewelry, had matching manicures/pedicures, were heavy-set and wearing tankinis. Probably not the best choice of beach attire, but kudos to them for being comfortable in their own skins, no matter how much of it was left in plain sight.

The woman closest to us had been chain-smoking menthol 100 mm longs all morning. I always thought that 100's were for people who needed more tobacco, but were too lazy to light up a second cigarette and that menthols were for smokers looking for something flavorful, almost a food replacement. You could tell by their smooth, synchronized movements these two women had spent many summers together at the beach.

Just before high noon, after finishing another menthol long, their cooler was opened. The woman closest to us took out a really good looking six-inch sub from Subway. I watched her closely, the whole time comparing her over-sized sandwich to the soy nut butter and jelly waiting for me in our cooler. Her sub looked really good. I was at once envious.

Once out of its wrapper and on full display, I realized how lucky she was. She held it with two hands, away from her body admiring it for a moment before pulling it towards her for the first bite. Her first bite was a big one too; she was not getting cheated that’s for sure. As soon as she had it in her mouth she positioned the sub away from her where she could resume admiring it while she totally destroyed the first bight. As I watched my mouth began to water, convincing me that she had perhaps the best lunch on the beach.

With the first bite gone she lined up the second. Same big bite, opposite side of the sandwich. As soon as she had it secured she held the sub away from her body. Even with two big bites gone, there was plenty left to admire.

With her cheeks expanded like the great Armstrong’s while belting out a long note, the Seagulls circled overhead. It seems they had also been admiring this tasty sandwich. In one swoop the sub was jarred loose from her firm, two-handed grip. You could see both shock and disappointment on her face, the six-inch now battered with sand. This brought the swarming gulls to their feet where an all-out battle for nutrition began. One lucky gull made off with the Lion’s share while the others cleaned up the remains. The woman looked at me and asked “Can you believe that?” I didn’t dare offer up the truth, that she had flaunted her six-inch sub and deserved her fate.

I took out my soy nut butter and jelly sandwich which now looked a whole lot better than I anticipated, and while holding it close to my body like a gambler keeping his cards close to his vest, I destroyed it while she angrily pounded down the soft chocolate chip cookies that she bought at Subway for afternoon snacks. 

I didn’t feel too bad for her; she still had one unopened pack of menthol 100s…

Oh Captain! My Captain!

We’re born into this world without any indications of the conditions outside the womb. So much so, that my standard line for years has been “I was born with amnesia!” And although tongue-in-cheek, it’s fairly accurate. Knowledge of who your parents are and their socioeconomic place in the world, even at birth, is years away.

When we think of birthrights we can’t help but think how fortunate those born into royalty are. Monarchies reinforce birthrights and those fortunate individuals born into Royal Families, thanks to ambitious Paparazzi, go on to lead a well documented life of privilege.

In the United States there’s not a Monarchy like the one in Great Britain, but there have been families that have been elected President. Fathers, sons and grandsons with the surnames Bush, Adams, and Harrison have all occupied the highest position in our government and Presidents Madison and Taylor were second cousins. Franklin Delano Roosevelt (32nd President) was a fifth cousin of Theodore Roosevelt (26th President) and genealogists have determined that FDR was distantly related to 11 U.S. Presidents, 5 by blood and 6 by marriage: John Adams, John Quincy Adams, Ulysses Grant, William Henry Harrison, Benjamin Harrison, James Madison, Theodore Roosevelt, William Taft, Zachary Taylor, Martin Van Buren, and George Washington.

There are definitely privileges and opportunities afforded those born into wealth and power. Nicer homes, expensive cars, resort vacations, and better educations are readily available to the offspring of the rich ‘n famous and families in positions of power.   

Funny thing though, having a birthright and all the spoils that go with it aren’t always everything they’re cracked up to be…

Years ago I had one employee and I was talking to him about a successful business owner I knew who was third generation and had worked for his Dad since he was 10 years old. I went on to say how lucky he had been to be born into wealth, privilege and a successful business. I was shocked when my 18 year old helper responded with “I feel bad for him-” I asked “Why is that?” He went to say “Because he’ll never know what it’s like to sit in a job interview and sweat it out like the rest of us and then get all excited when he finds out he got the job.”

It made me think long and hard about birthrights. And after days of thinking I knew my helper had been right. The one thing the “rest of us” have is a totally unique journey, one that we captain, and that is without question one of life’s most valued privileges.

It used to be said that “no two snowflakes are alike”, but recently scientists have questioned that hypothesis. Perhaps the only truly unique characteristic about our existence is our journey. No two people walk the same line. We are all the products of our own unique journeys, journeys that take us to incredible places where we meet incredible people and have incredibly unique experiences.

I’ve known others who have experienced a much easier journey than my own, journeys without all the hard knocks that populated my line. But in the end I’ve come to realize I am a direct product of my unique journey and I am thankful for that and I wouldn’t trade it for anybody else’s- 

And jubilant are we who when “our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won…”

Embrace your journey- good, bad, or indifferent, it’s all yours. It’s who you are…

Of all the family heirlooms...

In some families there are treasured possessions, usually an antique or a piece of jewelry, that get passed down for generations through family members. There is a certain pride and responsibility in partaking in that transfer of ownership. After all, heirlooms represent family wealth and history and the preservation of those highly coveted and valued possessions helps to maintain family order.

We associate heirlooms with items like antique clocks, baby grands, quilts, engagement rings, letters and pictures, recipes, and in some instances property. In families that lack such material keepsakes as well as in those that have heirlooms, there are other non-material items that follow a similar path. High on the list of non-material items that get passed down for generations through family members are beliefs.

Beliefs are part of a bigger system that ultimately shapes values. Certainly family members have the right to choose which beliefs they want to adopt as their own just as they can decide which heirlooms they covet the most, but the large majority tend to gravitate towards those beliefs first explained to them at a young age and by their respected elders.

Not too unlike a baby learning to talk, beliefs get pounded into the subconscious and can reside there unchallenged for a lifetime. There they can become the non-material heirlooms we unknowingly covet with grand conviction and as with the path of all heirlooms, these beliefs get passed down for generations through family members.

Stories that begin with "Your grandmother used to say..." or "Your great uncle believed that..." are the ways a lot of these beliefs find their way into family folk lore. Because these beliefs are told to us at young ages we do not yet possess the critical thinking skills that might help us better process this new information. As a result we store these beliefs similar to way we do a majority of our material heirlooms, up in the attic or in a Hope Chest, out of sight and out of mind.

Most non-material family heirlooms are harmless pieces of trivia and little is known as to their origin, and that's OK. Whether these types of beliefs are fact or fiction has little to do with how they're perceived. Non-material heirlooms can be a lot of fun and because they're non-material, all family members can share in their ownership.

But when some non-material family heirlooms suddenly make an appearance they can be startling, especially to non-family members. Usually it's during casual conversation that these dust-covered beliefs find their way out of the dark attic and into the light. Someone might use the phrase "Jew you down", the N-word, or refer to something as "gay". Either way, it's very revealing. And not only about the individual spewing such bigotry, but about the family and its non-material heirlooms.

As a noun the word "loom" refers to "a machine for weaving thread or yarn into cloth". As a verb it means "to come into sight indistinctly, especially threateningly". It can be said that non-material family heirlooms have the potential for developing raw materials into fabric and if those raw materials are bigoted at their roots, they can come into plain view indistinctly.

Of all the family heirlooms, beliefs can be the most damning inheritance...