A Week Later: It Will Never Be Easy!

Last Friday, while the eager and ready minds of first graders were starting another school day, excited about Christmas and the upcoming weekend, innocence and promise were shattered in an unspeakable tragedy that has gripped this country by the heart strings and that has ignited a discourse of passion and emotion.  To me, it made no sense and would show no compassion to jump up on a soapbox spouting wouldas, shouldas and couldas before twenty families even had a chance to catch their breath or bury their children; and before six other families could say goodbye to their loved ones, heroes who had spent their last moments trying to protect students from a madman.   But there it was... by Friday afternoon, the murmurs could be heard.  As the emotional day wore on and cloudy rumors became clearer facts, the whispers became louder.  And by Saturday morning, everyone from politicians to news outlets to Facebook and Twitter feeds were raging about gun control as well as the current state of mental health care in this country.  The emotionally charged arguments are understandable.  We, as a nation, were still trying to wrap our heads around this devastating day and what could bring someone to murdering innocent children.

I promised myself that I would avoid as much as possible these arguments and wait before I chimed in.  I felt that Robbie Parker needed a chance to reflect on the short life of his baby girl Emilie and be able to lay her to rest without the sounds of politics ringing in his ears.  I felt people needed to know that Victoria Soto put herself in front of her students in a final effort to protect them and that her black lab Roxie is lost without her owner.  We needed to learn that Daniel Barden loved to ride waves and make s'mores with his cousins and that Oliva Engel was a Girl Scout and that she loved pink and purple.  I heard from a lot of people over the weekend that they had to turn the television off after awhile, feeling overwhelmed with sadness and unable to listen to it anymore.  My answer to them was that we NEEDED to be overwhelmed with sadness.  We needed to cry.  To hurt.  To grieve.  Because our pain is but nothing compared to what the Moms and Dads and brothers and sisters, our neighbors, in Newtown are going through.

The outcry is deafening and it is simple:  ban guns!  But IS it simple?  When events such as Newtown threaten the very fabric of our nation, and worse, target our most vulnerable of citizens, it is natural to want to take steps to make sure that something like this can never happen again.  The protests are there.  You hear it from the far left:  We should take away all guns from all people.  You hear it from the more moderate centrists:  We can take away certain types of guns from certain types of people.  And the far right can be heard clearly:  Don't touch our right to own guns.  Is the answer anywhere in those arguments?  Probably not, sorry to say.

The trendy shout is to ban "assault weapons"...  the shooter in Newtown carried a semi-automatic rifle along with two pistols.  Allegedly, he did not use the pistols.  The rifle has been referred to as an "assault rifle," which gives the impression of a military grade machine gun to those who have no experience with weapons.  In actuality, the rifle he used was a one trigger pull per round weapon with a 30 round magazine.  The unfortunate and horrible reality here is that had his mother kept only pump action or bolt action rifles, Adam Lanza would have still walked into that school and killed those children.

Many have said that Lanza's mother should not have had so many weapons at her disposal, that people should not be keeping weapons in their homes.  People need to know the story of Sarah McKinley.  Last Christmas, Sarah's husband died of cancer, leaving her and her 3 month old baby on their own in their home in Oklahoma.  A week later, two intruders were outside her home trying to break in, knowing that the man of the house was gone.  Sarah picked up her 12 guage shotgun and a pistol, called 911 and asked if it was okay to shoot the men if they got into the home.  She was told by the dispatcher to do what she had to do to protect her baby.  One of the men kicked in the door and came at her with a hunting knife.  Sarah leveled her gun and shot him in the chest, killing him instantly.  The other man fled.  If the far left would have their way, Sarah's guns would have been taken from her and she and her baby would surely have suffered a traumatic or deadly fate.

The response from the gun enthusiasts is that dangerously insane people are going to kill one way or the other.  The tired statement is that "if they outlaw guns, only outlaws will have guns."  And while this is indisputable, what cannot be just brushed under the rug is that guns are still the most deadly weapons in our society.  The argument cannot just be peeshawed because the Second Amendment says so.  There must be open and respectful discussion on the issue.

But let's keep in mind that in Oklahoma City in 1995, 168 people (including 19 children under the age of 6) were killed when Timothy McVeigh used a Ryder truck and 5,000 pounds of farm fertilizer to blow up the Alfred Murrah Federal Building.  Al Qaeda used box cutters and airplanes.  The point I am trying to make is that regardless of efforts, these isolated and unfathomable tragedies and attacks are going to happen.  They have happened before and they will happen again.  And all the legislation in the world cannot change that... it can only change the method of the madness.  If a person's goal is to murder, he or she will do it.  Had Lanza not had access to guns, who's to say he would not have decided to get in a car and speed into a bus stop crowded with backpack toting school children?  If that were to happen, do we ban cars?  Or do we take cars away from people suffering from personality disorder?  And then how do we know someone has not only a personality disorder, but a potential to murder?  Maybe we should just take away cars.  And bus stops.  Ensuring complete and absolute protection is a slippery slope that is best left alone.

As we try to come to grips with what happened last week, we are struggling with what steps we can take to make sure this does not happen again.  There have been calls to place armed police officers at every school in the country.  Others have suggested that schools have no windows and just one means of entry.  Of course, people want stricter gun control and better mental health care for troubled individuals.  In 2001, people demanded tighter security at airports.  There was no issue with taking off our shoes or going through longer lines to be patted down.  But as time passed, people started complaining about the lines, about the invasion of privacy related to searches.  People do not like their "freedoms" being encroached upon.

Every year around Memorial Day and Veteran's Day, we hear the same words over and over again as people remember fallen heroes and thank our veterans and active duty troops:  Freedom does not come free.  There is a price to be paid to live in a free country.  Those words make perfect sense and are almost exclusively applied to the sacrifices made by our military each and every day.  But we need to recognize this truth even more so in the face of tragedies such as Oklahoma City and Newton, CT.  Perhaps the only true downfall of living in a free country is that evil is afforded many of the same freedoms that good people enjoy.  It would be ideal to put into place all the measures that will guarantee our safety from the Adam Lanzas and Timothy McVeighs of the world.  But what would that look like?  Would we be shut in our houses, home-schooling our children.  Would we have no more airplanes?  No more crowded stadiums?  Is that how we want to live?  Or do we accept the cost of freedom with the responsibility to do everything within our power to keep our loved ones safe from harm yet remain living in a free country?  That is our cross to bear as a free nation while we try to move forward!

UNFATHOMABLE! UNSPEAKABLE! HEARTBROKEN!

If you are finding yourself asking what this world has come to, know this much: Your world has NOT come to what you are watching on television today. This is an isolated and tragic story of heartlessness and of heartbreak. What you will see over the next week is a neighborhood, a town, a state and a nation coming together to support their neighbors in their most difficult days. There is evil in this world. But the world is not evil.

People want to jump ugly today about gun control.  The politics of it all are already starting.  We all have our differing, and at times quite strong, opinions about this issue.  But today, leave it alone!  Let the families and this community grieve without putting on their minds whether or not it would have been possible to keep today from happening.  It does them no good today to crowd their hearts with questions and doubt.  Let them alone.

Bill Cronin (1940-2010) - Go Rest High Mr. C!

Every once in a while, we are fortunate enough to cross paths with someone who, through love of family and strength of character, is able to impact our lives in ways words could never begin to describe. And rarer still is a person who, through undying faith and a relentless spirit, is able to touch the lives of every single person he meets. The world is less one hero today – a husband, a father, a grandfather, a firefighter, a friend.

On Saturday, Mr. Cronin lost his battle with cancer, with his wife and children at his side, in the very home where he raised his children and entertained his grandchildren. To adequately express the sorrow we are all feeling with the passing of Mr. C is simply impossible. But to celebrate his life and to share what he meant to so many people in our lives is easily done.

Bill was a devoted, loving husband to Pat and a giving, dedicated Dad to Kathy, Kris, Danny and Billy. Family and friendship were 1 and 2 on Bill’s “What Is Really Important” scale. He willingly opened up his home to everyone he knew. Third Street was a place we could go and hang out and feel like we were at home. I remember Bill always being there, swilling a Diet Pepsi and making sure the pool was ready for swimming if we wanted to swim. Simply stated: If you were a part of his kids’ lives, then you were a part of his life. That’s just the way he was.

Mr. Cronin does not know this story and shame on me for never sharing it with him. Years ago, I was working at a group home in Dracut with adults with developmental disabilities. While there, I spent a great deal of time working with Mark, a man who had spent most of his adult life in an institution and had just moved into the group home. A couple of things about Mark – he loves to swim and he loves “power tools.” Of course, when I asked Mr. Cronin one day if I could bring Mark over to swim, the answer was absolutely. Mark walked around the pool chest deep and just laughed and splashed for at least an hour and he had a fantastic time. But that is not the end of the story. While Mark was swimming, Mr. C had come out of the house to do some yard work and he had a leaf blower in his hands. Well, needless to say, this made Mark a very excited man. He got out of the pool and wanted to look at the leaf blower (it is a power tool after all!). So Mr. Cronin spent just a few minutes showing Mark the leaf blower and he let him use it for a couple of seconds. This was probably 18 years ago. I happened to see Mark about a month ago. Like I always do with Mark, I relive memories with him. I mentioned Mr. Cronin and the smile on Mark’s face was one of sheer elation. “Mr. Cronin has a leaf blower!” he said with a hearty chuckle. It may have been just a brief moment in Mark’s life 18 years ago, but it has stayed with him and it goes to show exactly what kind of man Bill was to everyone he met.

As a firefighter in Lowell, he spent 34 years kissing his wife and children as he headed off to work, knowing that he was putting his life on the line for the safety of others and that any of those goodbyes could have been his last. With his wife and children at his side this Saturday, Bill had that final goodbye. Like in everything he has ever done, Bill was courageous and strong to the end.

Bill’s family is coping with an indescribable loss today. And because of the man Bill was, that family stretches beyond the walls of his home to include an entire community - a community that holds a special place in its heart for Mr. C. Rest in peace Bill – you will be sorely missed!

Lowell Sun Obituary

MessFest (aka Guys Weekend) at the Lake

“No, no, no. I meant to say we were at Cash Bingo,” was the text message on his Blackberry. 9 guys from Lowell stood inside the Looney Bin, faces pressed against the cold plate glass window, watching the entertainment unfold in the Fun Spot parking lot across New Hampshire Route 3. Wait for it…. Wait for it… THERE HE GOES!!! The crowd cheered and 18 arms were raised simultaneously signaling touchdown as Rosco’s black hat came into view through the parked cars and made its way across the parking lot to the Cash Bingo building, his second stop on his search for his friends. The no-strings attached puppet show came courtesy of one really hungover friend and some careful text messaging. It was 2pm and Rosco had awoken from a temporary detoxification slumber in the back seat of a Nissan while the rest of us continued the beer swilling inside the Looney Bin with Michele the bartender and the rest of the regulars. By way of texting, Rosco asked if we had eaten yet. The opportunity was too good to resist. Although we were a mere 50 yards from his car, inside my new favorite bar, the text reply told Rosco that we had gone across the street to Fun Spot. And quicker than Oprah can make a meatball sub disappear, Rosco took the bait. While we all ducked out of view inside the cozy pub, our new puppet slid out of the car and began the 300 yard stroll to the front door of the Fun Spot. The laughing was such that my cheeks started to ache. Why bore you with this story? These are the kinds of things that happen when a group of guys in their late 30’s and early 40’s get together with no wives or kids in sight. Most mature adults might wonder where the entertainment value is in making a grown man walk around in circles – if you can’t see the belly busting humor in that, then you probably don’t laugh during the French castle scene in Monty Python’s Holy Grail and you should probably never come near our WinterFest.
I can only handle it every other year, and at that I cannot even last a full 24 hours. It taxes my system and clouds my thinking. It leads to stories which, if heard by the wrong ears, could destroy careers. But it is worth every fukkin’ moment!! Every year, a bunch of guys, most of whom I have known since high school, meet up at a lake house in February. It has become known as Guys Weekend or WinterFest… but the more accurate name would be Mess Fest. Beer can towers and midnight pizza runs; chili farts and cheeseburger flavored Doritos; Scary Movie 2 and Hangover. It all blends together for a fukkin hell raisers symphony!

So what exactly defines a good guys weekend? It is not a guys weekend until someone drops trow and slaps his pasty white ass cheeks to celebrate a win in 45s. Nor can a guys weekend be complete unless someone falls sound asleep with his forehead on the kitchen table and his knuckles nearly reaching the floor. Guys weekend is 10 grown men sitting in the same room watching Holy Grail, quoting each line out loud in horribly drunken English accents. Guys weekend is 3 crockpots full of chili that are nearly empty by the first night, followed by three days of what always follows chili. Guys weekend is scraping the crusty remains off the bottom of the crockpot on day 3 for breakfast because the Pop Tarts and Devil Dogs are all gone. Guys weekend is bribing the bowling alley clerk to let us borrow the scale so we could declare a winner in the “How Much Does Tiny Weigh This Year” pool. Guys weekend is laughing our asses off as a 50-something bar hag makes the moves on one of us. And guys weekend is trying to decide if the bar hag’s friend looks like the Cowardly Lion or Witchy-Poo from HR Puffinstuff. And guys weekend is celebrating with one of your buddies when he finally has that 50th shot at the Looney Bin and gets his “free” sweatshirt (that cost him $250 in shots).

Not sure if I’ll make it next year – these stories all happened in the 17 hours I spent there. Three days and I might need to hang my liver out to dry.

The stories in this blog are completely true and only the names were changed to protect the fat, drunk and stupid. Well, Rosco and Tiny are made up names, but Oprah really can knock back a meatball sub. Don’t worry Mac – no pictures… Jimmy dropped the camera in the chili.

Raise a Parting Glass To Snickers

11 years ago this February, I met my best friend. That’s how the saying goes, right? He was 8 weeks old and weighed in at 12 pounds. Chris had just turned 6 years old and he had a new playmate who would just keep running back to him with the tennis ball. Jessica was 4 and spent many months using the couch and kitchen chairs for her refuge from the overly hyperactive puppy who showed up one day and invaded her life. By the way, I mean terrorized in a harmless, puppy kinda way with a quick and sloppy tongue as the primary weapon of destruction. We called him Snickers back then because of his chocolate color and (yes, I’m this warped) because he had nuts. We thought for a few brief seconds about changing his name to Milky Way when we had him neutered (no more nuts, get it?), but that never came to pass. He was a Snickers through and through. Over the years, the frightened Jessica and the amused Christopher took Snickers in as their brother.

An undeniable presence in our home and in our family for the past eleven years, the memories will live with us forever. For those of you who have crossed the threshold into our home, you understand what this obnoxious, crotch sniffing, biscuit begging oaf meant to us. I am sitting here today and thinking back on our boy - the same good boy who would stand at the edge of the yard, held back by a monstrous 1 foot garden fence bordering newly planted flowers. We could almost read his mind as he would stepdance at the fence, itching to find a way over it… “I sure wish I could jump over this big giant fence that barely comes up to my chest.”

We have had many visitors and our share of big parties. And one thing is for sure - Snickers had his favorite people…. Butch, Donna, Ray and Diane… the “cookie people.” Snickers loved all company. But these four people held a special place in his heart… never would these dog spoilers darken our doorway without a cookie in their pocket or in their hand. His excitement level would be so high, spontaneous combustion would not have been a surprise. I would be remiss if I were not to mention Eileen down the street and her years of capturing Snickers after he would escape the yard and go on patrol along Hill Street. Eileen's trick and Snickers' weakness? One gently rolled slice of deli baloney. A quick wave of the tasty treat out her screen door and Snickers would be distracted just long enough for the prison guards to catch up to him.

Thinking back, it seems we have more than our share of funny memories. From the moment he was neutered, Snickers developed a twisted fetish for any blanket or pillow that would find its way to the floor, often humping the hell out of it until he could barely walk away. I would often joke that after a love session with his doggie bed, he walked around with the legs of a newborn giraffe.

Last night, we laid down with Snickers with the knowledge that it would be his last night with us. Despite a killer disease running through his body, he will only know love and happiness. And that is how it will be forever.
After today, the gate to our yard will be open, no longer with a reason to keep it closed. It is open to let him run free. Our boy will be gone from our house but never from our home! Godspeed Snickers… say hello to Nipper and Freida for me.