Happy 74th Birthday Dad!

I am the man I am because of the man he is.  Words could never be enough thanks for the memories, the lessons and the love my Dad showered upon a shy toehead in faded Toughskin corduroys and Jox sneakers who was happy just riding beside him in his Brox Bros milk truck on a cold Saturday morning getting free candy from the store owners in West Roxbury.

He taught me about sports and he taught me about music.  I was in the first or second grade when he showed me how to play a football card.  And I still remember the sign he hung on the fridge in our Keene Street kitchen that Tuesday morning, letting me know I had won $15 because the Steelers, our favorite team and the final game I had picked on the card, had won Monday night after I went to bed.

As you all know, I have a pretty obsessive fixation on REAL country music.  Not that shit Rascal Flatts pukes out all over their CDs.  I'm talking steel guitar, stand up bass and a little banjo and mandolin.  I thank my Dad for teaching me Hank Williams and Johnny Cash; for teaching me the Clancy Brothers and the Stanley Brothers; and for teaching me Dave Dudley and Red Sovine.  With Dad and Uncle Bill on the geetars and Uncle Mike pickin' the banjo in Grandma's basement of Milan Ave in Pittsburgh, I learned about Luke the Drifter and the Rank Stranger.  I look back fondly on those days riding around in the big blue Caprice, listening to trucking songs coming from the 8-track player.  From Give Me Forty Acres to Tombstone Every Mile to Hello, I'm A Truck, those songs were my childhood.  I wanted to be a truck driver, lookin' at the world through a windshield, livin' on Rolaids, Doan's Pills and Preparation H, for cryin' out loud!  And I especially remember sitting on a stool, chin high to the bar of The Oaks in Tewksbury where Dad tended bar, sipping a Coke with a cherry sitting atop the ice cubes, and hearing Walk The Line and I Saw The Light on the jukebox.  So yes, to those friends of mine now who have been force-fed Waylon Jennings and Charlie Daniels and Merle Haggard over the years, maybe now you understand.

I pretty much only remember two things as a semi-shitful ballplayer when I played on the Oaks of the Olivera Little League.  I remember the opening day parade down Gorham Street and I remember Dad taking the whole family out for subs after each game.  I loved those long trips to Pittsburgh, even when the muffler dropped off the Caprice on 290 in Worcester with 11 hours still to drive.  Not to mention, those bean suppers at the Salvation Army and visits to Camp Wonderland in Old Orchard Beach were wikkid pissa!  

I'm not going to bullshit everyone and say it is always gumdrops and sunshine growing up... I mean, he hates the Sawx and Pats with all of his might.  And he roots for those goofornuttin Penguins and truly believes Pittsburgh is blessed by the hands of God himself (yeah, you do).  Oh, and there was that time Jimmy and I pissed him off so much that he put his hand through our bedroom door on Fremont Street, surprised to learn that door was really painted glass that tends to tear your forearm to shreds when you bust through it!  Oh, then he was REALLY pissed.    

My dad wears his heart on his sleeve and there can never be any doubt what his family means to him.  Lots of you who know me well, also know that, hidden behind the Harley t-shirts and F-bombs, I am quite a crybaby.  Hey, crying is just what I do when something hits me close to home.  And I don't apologize one minute for it, nor will I ever hide from it.  I cried when Benji died and I when Radio lost his mother.  I cry at work when I get revved up for somebody whose rights are being ignored.  I cry when the families of fallen firefighters walk onto the green grass of Fenway Park.  And ya know where I get that?  I hate to rat out my Dad... but I'm sure he doesn't care either.  It's who he is.  He cried when we gave him a Hudson Bears football jacket 10 years ago, one that matched his grandson's jacket.  And cried again this year when he was given a framed family photo of his children and grandchildren.  

So happy 74th birthday, Dad!  I love you bunches and will talk with you later today!

Said perfectly, and with the steel guitar to boot.....   

Two Heroes Did Not Come Home Last Night.

I want to fill my calling, to give the best in me

To guard my friend and neighbor and protect his property.

That's it... it's just what they do.  While we grab our valuables, our favorite pictures, our beloved pets, and flee to safety, they run willingly into an unknown battle against a deadly foe.  Their job... rescue everyone and put the fire out!  Then return to the firehouse, worn and tired, maybe grab a nap, and wait for the next call.  As we were reminded yesterday, that return is not always guaranteed.  Yet, these men and women in boots and helmets, in towns and cities all over this country, ALWAYS jump in that rig and join that battle.

And if according to Your will, I must answer death's call,

bless with your protecting hand, my family one and all.

Ladder 15 and Engine 33 of the Boston Fire Department were among the first apparatus to reach 298 Beacon Street in yesterday's wind swept afternoon, a quick ride from their Boylston Street Firehouse.  Lt. Ed Walsh of Engine 33 and FF Michael Kennedy of Ladder 15 raced into the basement with their brethren, where the fire was believed to have originated.  Within three minutes, the men inside issued a mayday call and were ordered out.  Walsh and Kennedy never made it out.  They were both found trapped in that basement.  Walsh, 43, leaves a wife and three children under the age of 10.  Kennedy, 33, was single and a United States Marine combat veteran.  In his off time, Kennedy volunteered with burn patients.  Sacrifice was his way of life since he stepped on the yellow footprints at Paris Island.

It seems cliche to say about firefighters that any day they leave for work could be their last.  Cliche, but true. That being said, regardless of the inherent risks, loved ones expect them to return.  They have always returned.  For the last 9 and a half years, Ed Walsh always came home.  Mike Kennedy always came home.  Last night, they did not.  Walsh and Kennedy gave their lives to make their city safer.  To them, and to the countless other men and women who don the helmet and boots and climb in the rig, we owe a debt of gratitude that can never be paid in full.  But we can do our part.

Heroes of the BFD say farewell to a fallen brother.

The next time your town ballot includes a referendum on increasing salaries for fire and police, vote yes!  Vote yes EVERY TIME that question appears in front of you behind that privacy curtain.  If you are worried about the extra $100 you might pay in property taxes, then skip your steak dinner at Buckleys.  Instead dropping a hundred bucks on a Patriots ticket and helping to pay Tom Brady's salary, give your firefighters a raise.  Do you have plans to go out this weekend, maybe catch a movie?  Try this... forget the movie.  Take that 20 bucks and click on http://www.thegreghillfoundation.org/ and give that money to the families of Ed Walsh and Mike Kennedy!

When They Turn 21.... What Do You Do?

We were just finishing up Christmas dinner at my Dad's house on South Loring Street.  It was oh, about 3 bells or so and Laurette's raisin sauce had not yet kicked in.  The first of a fahkin' billion contractions kicked Kim in the belly and it was off to the hospital... But it was not until the wee hours of the 27th when the boy joined the party.  32 hours of labor pains, a boat load of happy drugs and one "Get some gum, your breath stinks" later, our first born stepped out of the darkness and said "Hey Mom.  Hey Dad.  Thanks for having me.  And welcome to the first day of my awesomeness."

Today, that fukker is 21 and ready to belly up with his brand new ID and order himself a beer like he's some kind of big shot.  Yep, the mensch who once aspired to be average (no sense in setting goals too high, right Bub?) is an adult.  Not an 18 year old adult who can vote and fight for his country, but a 21 year old adult who can buy his daddy a cold one!!!!

Your kids are your kids... how you spend time with them is a floating scale that offers no set rules.  So ya gotta fahkin' wing it!  It's pretty easy when they are young.  You learn quickly that pureed carrots taste better as a choo choo train.  You play lots of games and you lose every one of them on purpose.  Lie to them about Santa and giant rabbits and tooth fairies (and the Browns if you're in Cleveland).  "Making a stinky" is perfectly fine.  "Pinching off a shit" you just cannot say.  Over time, tho, it gets a little more fuzzy.  At some point, it is important to start winning some of those games.  Losing builds character.  You don't get a friggin' trophy just for playing.  Losing makes you appreciate hard work and dedication.  Being gifted wins your whole life makes you a Democrat.  Not to mention, later on, that little fukker who could not bounce a basketball without it hitting his foot will bury your ass in one on one.  We also have to figure out when the right time is to start introducing swear words into the household.  Some parents still refuse to swear around their children.  Those parents are fukkin' pussies.  It's like one day, you are watching a purple dinosaur get creepy with little ones and the next day you are couching it, watching Clay Morrow sing the praises of sweet sweet pussy during a prison bible study.  It's like that line you said you would never cross was never even there.  But it is kinda cool that my boy and I share many of the same interests... Michigan football, Monty Python movies and especially those two interests that belong to Kate Upton.  (insert gratuitous Kate Upton photo here)

So, my son, as you continue on your journey through life, today is a milestone.  You are 21.  You will be forging your own path and defining your own success.  Dr. Seuss talked about the Places You'll Go.. but Dr. Seuss was twisted left on opiates and also wrote about a giant Elephant named Horton and a couple of Things named 1 and 2.  So don't listen to him.  Listen to me... your wise old Dad....

When I reach the days of diapers and dentures and donkey balls, do not put me in a nursing home. Remember that you owe me.  And remember....  always wipe front to back.  Don't want no dingleberries on my donkey balls.   Love you dude!!!   See you tonight!  I'll have a Bud bottle.

8 months... on vacation with the Bretons

No sense in waiting... Hooters is ALWAYS a good idea.

Sophomore at Alvirne

Junior at Westfield State University

Veterans Day: Lest We Forget - Yet So Many Do

In the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918, in a railroad car in northern France, an armistice was signed between the Allies and Germany ending all major hostilities of World War I.  A year later, Woodrow Wilson proclaimed November 11th Armistice Day in the United States.  "To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service..."

In 1945, Ray Weeks, a WWII veteran from Alabama, suggested Armistice Day be a day to celebrate all veterans, not just those who died in WWI.  He petitioned then General Eisenhower, who supported the notion.  Nine years later, in June 1954, now President Eisenhower signed into law Veterans Day, a day to celebrate and recognize all those past and present, who have served or are serving our nation.

Veterans Day allows us the platform and the opportunity to thank our service men and women for their sacrifice in keeping out country free.  While this debt of gratitude should not be reserved for just one day a year, the 11th of November does remind us all, amid the hurried world that is our country, to take a moment to thank a Veteran.

So today, while mayors, governors and our President lay wreaths and give speeches to honor our veterans, I think it's also important to raise the flag of hypocrisy in the words they speak.  Don't give me fukkin' bullshit words!!  Give me action!!  If they want to honor our veterans, I know EXACTLY where they can start.

James Blakely in his rent-free apartment in Brooklyn,
courtesy of the Black Veterans for Justice

Two years ago, 91 year old James Blakely, a WWII Navy vet who survived the bombings at Pearl Harbor aboard the USS St. Louis and went on to serve in Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal was living in a rusted out trailer in a scrap yard in Brooklyn.  After losing his home in 2006 when his wife died, he lived in his car for the better part of 5 years, until he was brutally mugged in 2011 and a kind soul allowed him to start sleeping in the junkyard trailer.  Is it not a travesty that while Mr. Blakely was struggling to get by, living on the streets with little to no assistance from his government, illegal immigrants, including President Obama's relatives, were getting subsidized housing and cheap education?  Kinda makes me sick.

Recent numbers from the National Coalition of Homeless Veterans estimate that over 62,000 veterans are homeless on any given night in the United States.  Approximately 12,000 veterans of Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom were homeless in 2010.  That same year, our government gave out over $15 BILLION DOLLARS in economic and military aid to Afghanistan and Iraq.  So while 12,000 American heroes who paid the price with their service to this country in the heat and sands of Afghanistan and Iraq are struggling to find a loaf of bread or a cardboard roof, our government is rebuilding two countries that could give a shit less if the United States disappeared from the globe.  Overall, in FY2010, the United States has doled out over $51 billion dollars in foreign aid around the globe while our veterans have been ignored.  Sure, there are several VA homelessness programs that have been successful in finding housing for thousands of veterans.  But until EVERY vet is given an apartment and a pension,  proper mental health care and appropriate healthcare, not another fukkin' dime should make its way overseas!!

The good news for Mr. Blakely is that his story became public in 2012 in a piece in the New York Daily News.  When the Black Veterans for Justice saw the story, they jumped into action and found this hero a rent-free apartment with daily meals delivered.  To his credit and true to the spirit of the American soldier, James Blakely holds no grudges and carries no bitterness toward the government that has done him no favors.  He was simply doing his job and expects nothing in return.  This is his country and he is grateful to have had the opportunity to serve.  Thank you

Jane Richard Returned Home - And Rolling Stone Has No Idea

"The pain is constant, and even the sweetest moments can become heartbreaking when we are struck by the realization that 'Martin would have loved this.'" ~ Bill Richard

The Richard family released this photo of Jane leaving the hospital.

"Jane continues to be an incredible source of inspiration - and exhaustion.  The loss of her leg has not slowed her one bit, or deterred her in any way.  As we knew she would, when we finally returned home, Jane walked into the house with the aid of her crutches, but under her own power."  ~ Bill Richard

Here's what I learned this week:  I learned that the Richard family had not returned home since April 15th.  They were determined that none of them would sleep at home until all of them could do so.  Denise Richard, struck in the eye by a ball bearing from the pressure cooker bomb and blinded in that eye, slept by Jane's side at Spaulding Rehab.  Bill, suffering with a constant ringing in his ear from a ruptured ear drum, slept at a hotel nearby with his oldest son Henry, 11.  Jane was recently discharged from the hospital and, as a family, the Richards returned home - less one beautiful little boy with sparkling eyes and a winning smile.

I learned, once again, that while Rolling Stone glorified a murderer, they have ignored the Richard family and every other victim of the Marathon bombings.  And you know what... that is FINE BY ME.  Let Rolling Stone keep the honor of being the official, ahem, news magazine of terrorists and over indulgent rock stars.  Leave the real heroes alone.  Jane Richard has had 12 surgeries since April 15th.  She is seven years old.  Jane Richard has shown more courage and spirit over the past 4 months than the Rolling Stone editors could ever begin to amass.  Jane Richard has her brother's smile.  She will dance again.  And she will be stronger, boosted by the spirit of Martin.  Jane Richard will soar!!

Welcome home, Richard family.  Martin would be loving this.