Patient's Progress

After Phil's Stroke: Dee and Phil Fight Back with Love, Prayers, and Determination -- Also Jokes and Poetry.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 23:24:00 +0000

In the early morning of September 27, Phil Bisnette, 65, suddenly jerked up from his sleep, lost balance, and fell out of bed. Dee, his wife of 46 years, called 911 and the ambulance came and rushed Phil to the hospital.

He had suffered a major thalamic ischemic stroke -- caused by sudden loss of blood flow to the brain.

Phil has been in good health, active, a successful businessman who has run his own construction business for many years. His two sons, Peter and David, work with him in the business.

He is also a live wire and incurable jokester. But now, lying in a hospital bed on the fourth floor of the Jewish Health Care Center in Worcester, Mass. -- the floor for patients receiving intensive rehab -- his right eye is almost closed and he struggles to move and speak simple words.

But Phil is nothing if not one determined guy. In the photo, he gives a thumbs-up, his way of telling everybody that he is going to come back from this stroke. And with wife Dee at his side 24/7 making sure he gets the best possible rehab, with the big Bisnette clan behind him 100%, he can do it if anybody can.

Yes, it's a battle royal. The thalamus is a major relay center in the brain. Besides being responsible for regulating sleeping and waking states, it relays motor signals to the cerebral cortex. When blood flow to the brain suddenly stops, as it did for Phil, brain cells begin to die.

The right half of the brain controls the left half of the body and vice versa. When the stroke occurs on the left side of the brain, as it did for Phil, paralysis is possible on the right side of the body. The brain’s language region is also located in its left side. Left-hemisphere-damaged patients often have serious problems reasoning and speaking, which is the case with Phil.

So why am I writing about Phil? Did I come across his name in a newspaper and was struck by its human-interest appeal? No. Am I a friend? Well, not exactly. Am I family? Yes and no -- or maybe. Actually, I don’t know.

You see, Phil is the brother of my wife Barbara’s former husband, David Bisnette. Got that? So what does that make me to Phil? Honorary, or perhaps socially obligatory, step-in-law something or other? Nothing?

On second thought, nothing doesn’t work either. Barbara has never left behind her Bisnette in-laws of many, many years ago. They are still family to her and she to them. I just got tossed in the basket along the way, not family and not nothing -- but what?

David Bisnette and his wife Maureen have become my friends. Ditto David’s sister, Sue. The last time I saw Sue at her home in Connecticut, she and I joked, laughed, and even did a dance together in her driveway as Barbara and I were leaving. Eleanor, the Grand Dame of the Bisnette clan, watched Sue and I dance with a big smile on her face. I am after Eleanor to adopt me and be my mom.

At Bisnette family gatherings, whenever I have been in the same room with Phil Bisnette, we kid each other. It comes natural to both of us. We both get in trouble for the same reason, when a joke or comedy skit bombs.

When Barbara asked if I’d like to go with her to visit Phil at the Jewish Health Care Center, I hesitated. I thought: Shouldn’t this be reserved for the immediate family? Would I be intruding at this difficult time?

I decided to go for Barbara, Phil, Dee, David, and the Bisnette clan. I would just be there for them, respectfully and on my best behavior, on what I expected to be a monumentally sad occasion.

I could not have been more wrong. Dee greeted Barbara and me with a huge smile and long, tight, sincere hugs. Though she has been with Phil day and night for nearly three months, she was still her same warm, smiling, loving self. She welcomed both of us as family.

So did Phil’s brother David, who visits Phil every single day. He hugged Barbara and clasped my hand and patted me warmly on the shoulder.

And there was Phil, propped up on his hospital bed, expressionless. Dee bent over close to him and said cheerfully, “Barbara and George are here to see you.”

Barbara went over and embraced him, telling him how good it was to see him. Then I went over and took his left hand in both of mine. But before I could say something appropriate, what I had promised myself would not happen happened.

I went immature.

“Look at that hair,” I said,referring to Phil’s full head of hair. “What’s with all that hair?”

He looked up my bald head. And then, with considerable effort, he slowly raised his left hand and pointed at his thick head of hair. His eyes, now full of expression, said it all.

“He’s making fun of my bald head,” I protested loudly. “I’m nice enough to come here and visit him and he makes fun of me!” Phil smiled. Everyone laughed.

Phil’s brother David teared up, but with a big smile on his face. I had gotten through to Phil and he had communicated back. The old Phil, the mischievous jokester, was still there. Here he takes a break from rehab to play the guitar.

When it came time for us to go, my turn to say goodbye to Phil came after a series of his long hugs and kisses with female family members. I grabbed his hand to give it a manly shake. He began pulling me closer.

“He’s, he’s trying to kiss me!” I protested loudly. “He’s trying to kiss me.” I made a big show of backing off from him. Again, Phil and I got a big laugh. Again, he smiled mischievously.

Of course, there is nothing funny about what is going on with Phil. But the fact that he can still kid around and that he wants to, will only increase his chances for recovery. It speaks volumes about the indominable human spirit.

And what family support Phil has! Below are a couple of photos of that support.

Dee is no stranger to life-changing adversity. When she was a young girl, just 7, she lost both her legs in the great Worcester Tornado of 1953. That devastating 84-minute tornado on June 9 of that year killed 94 people, maimed many others, and left thousands homeless.

When the tornado hit, Dee, her sister Nancy, and her brother Albert were with their mom in their third-floor apartment. In his book, “Tornado,” John M. O’Toole, described what happened to Dee in a chapter named after her, "Diane." (Dee’s given name is Diane DeFosse) He wrote:

“The tornado smashed into the building, blowing out the DeFosses’ windows and tearing off much of the roof over their heads. Diane, age seven, had fallen or been thrown to the kitchen floor, and was lying there as a steel structural beam, exposed and loosened by the raging winds, plunged down. The heavy beam landed across Diane’s legs, instantly severing her right leg above the knee and shearing almost completely through the left, which remained attached only by a shred of cartilage.”

Dee’s mom and two siblings were not seriously hurt. Thinking quickly, Dee’s mom grabbed the remnants of two kitchen curtains and knotted them tightly around her pulsating stumps. Despite a massive shock to her system, Dee did not lose consciousness as a neighbor helped carry her down the stairs and a volunteer drove her six miles to Holden Hospital . There she was stabilized, but left without legs.

But her bright outlook and iron determination remained. Eventually getting two prosthetic legs, Dee built a happy life. Married to Phil as a teenager, just 18, she and Phil have raised three kids (Lisa, Peter, and David) to middle age. They have four grandchildren.

No one can possibly put into words what Dee is going through now, and I won’t try. Even for Dee, it is not easy to describe the intense emotions that she feels day and night as she does whatever must be done for her beloved Phil. Dee posts daily updates of Phil’s progress on the CarePages website.

On the day before Christmas, she expressed some of her feelings in a poem. It follows:

December 24, 2010

Posted Dec 24, 2010 11:38am

Tis the night before Christmas, so different this year

There isn't as much of the usual cheer.

Our smiles aren't as wide, the sparkle is gone,

Though we go thru the motions, we're feeling forlorn.

This year started out with a sad New Years Eve,

Then we lost our dear nephew, still hard to believe.

Some ups and some downs, the year's usual stuff,

And then by September things really got rough.

There will be no Santa with eight prancing deer,

Our friends and our families have been Santa this year.

Some prayers have been answered, for some we still wait,

No Santa could do that...only God...who is great!

So on Christmas Eve when we must be apart,

We'll still have our Christmas with Christ in our heart.

When I close my eyes alone in my bed,

There will not be sugarplums here in my head.

I'll see all you angels who helped pull us through,

And say a quick prayer, so thankful for you.

And then I'll look forward to twenty eleven

And ask that more favors be sent straight from Heaven

For all that we'll need for this challenging fight.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight.

So long and keep moving.

Worcester Massachusetts: Worcester Blogroll

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 16:21:00 +0000

Worcester Massachusetts: Worcester Blogroll

Out in the Streets: Robbery, Killing, Hunger, Fear, and Rage -- But Have Yourself a Merry Christmas.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 18:49:00 +0000

In Worcester when we say the streets, we mean the “bad” part of the city, the East Side. By that, we mean the drunken car crashes, shootings outside of bars, convenience store hold-ups, violent men beating girlfriends and wives, warring gangs … well, you know if you live in or near a big city. It’s all over the TV news.

I feel bad for people having to live in those dangerous, crime-ridden areas. But I do so from the quiet and civilized world on the "good" side of Park Ave., which separates the East Side and West Side of Worcester like some kind of Berlin Wall.

Lately, that wall has been crumbling. We in the West Side are getting a taste of what East Siders live with every day -- and, to tell the truth, we don’t like it. To tell the whole truth, it is a little frightening.

As in the following neighborhood story.

Near our home, maybe a five-minute walk, is a 7-11 convenience store where I go religiously on weekends to pick up The New York Times. An early, early riser, I am there in the wee hours. When I go in, it is usually just me and the night-shift clerk.

With just the two of us there, we have taken to chatting. Her name is Sanaa and she is from Syria. In her native language, Sanaa means sunshine and, with her quick smile, she is certainly that. Here she poses with some Syrian goodies she brought in just for me, spreading her sunshine.

Sanaa’s husband came here eleven years ago and she and their three children later joined him to pursue the American dream. Today two kids are in college, a son at UMass Amherst and a daughter at Quinsigamond, with a younger daughter at home.

Paying for tuition, books, and fees for two kids in college on top of living expenses is, to put it mildly, a financial mountain to climb. Sanaa’s husband works 70 hours a week at his job and she works the night shift here, as well as a second job at a clothing store. As is happening so often in this Great Recession, the clothing store is closing on February 8 and Sanaa will be out of her second job.

Neither Sanaa nor her husband are citizens yet. Both have green cards which permit them to live and work legally in the U.S. Both are working to become citizens. Becoming citizens of their adopted country is an important part of their American dream.

By the time I come into the store, Sanaa has been up all night. She is open to a friendly voice and a little comic relief, especially from a non-threatening old man who regularly brings his wife into the conversation. I buy the Sunday Times and make a big production of slowly and painfully peeling off bills to pay the $6.00. Sanaa smiles. I beg for a discount; Sunshine laughs.

She tells me how much she misses her family in Syria and that she calls her mother several times a week. I hear how much she loves to cook and of her dreams of opening her own restaurant in Worcester serving Syrian cuisine.

A couple of times, she surprised me with a gift of her homemade Syrian cookies. For Thanksgiving, she presented me with a Syrian meat dish with trimmings -- carved lemon, hummus, garnishes. Yummy.

She decided to go full steam ahead with her restaurant. For weeks, she excitedly told me about her negotiations for a building and for bank financing. But then negotiations broke down when she couldn’t get financing. Sunshine was near tears when she told me.

One morning, I came in and she was not herself.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I was robbed the other night,” she said, sighing deeply.

“Robbed?”

“Yes, a young guy in his early twenties came in about two in the morning. No one was in the store. He asked for a pack of cigarettes and I gave it to him and he handed me the money. When I opened the cash drawer, he told me to give it to him.”

She said he displayed no gun or knife, but his look and tone of voice told her that he was deadly serious and that she'd better comply. She handed him the cash drawer and he ran out the door with it.

“Did he get in a car?” I asked.

“No, he was walking.”

“Walking? That means he probably lives right around here.”

“Yes, he used to come in the store. I remember waiting on him. Even though he was all covered up and I could only see a little bit of his face, I recognized him. I knew the eyes.”

As soon as the thief was out the door, she pushed the alarm button under the counter. The police arrived within 15 minutes. She told them what happened and described the robber, young, tall, probably local, all covered up. He had been in the store before.

The store could supply no video. The camera was on at only one of the two entrances. “He came in and left through the door not on the video camera,” Sanaa said. Which means he got lucky or, more likely, had checked out the store’s camera surveillance.

As far as Sanaa knows, the robber has not been caught and the police have no suspect. This was the third time she has been robbed at the store. She’s now afraid to work at night and has told the owner that.

The owner has asked her to stay on until he can find a replacement. As of now, he has not been able to find a replacement. She continues to work the night shift. But she keeps both doors locked. Now I have to rap on the door and Sanaa lets me in with that wonderful smile of hers.

On a recent Saturday, I got up extra early and decided to walk to 7-11 instead of drive. A little after 4:30, as I was approaching the store, a tall young man all hooded up and hunched over with his hands in his pockets was walking out of the store parking lot toward me.

We were the only two people on the streets. I’m an old nutcake, but what was this guy doing out walking the streets at this unholy hour when it was still dark? Should I run? Should I cross the street? Too late! We were side by side!

“Morning,” I said,” with a little wave as casually as I could. I was too scared to even look at his face.

“Howya doin’,” he mumbled without looking up.

I sprinted to 7-11 and rapped on the door. Sanaa unlocked the door and let me in. “I just passed a tall young guy out there. Scared the crap out of me. Was he in here?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I calmed down. I got my New York Times. Painfully, I handed Sanaa two dollar bills. “All you do is take my money, you know that?” I said.

Sunshine giggled.

She told me she is looking for a job, hopefully in social work.

“No one is hiring,” she said.

She will be working at the 7-11 on Christmas day.

This robbery happened where I live. Also, it took place along with a series of home and car break-ins and thefts. Thieves somehow carried off one neighbor’s outside generator.

Two weeks ago, our next-door neighbor came home to find that her car, which had been parked in the street, had been broken into. Contents of the glove department were scattered on the floor. Fortunately, the thief or thieves found nothing of value to steal.

The other night, the couple living a few houses away were awakened about 2 a.m. by a knock on the back door. The man and women got out of bed and their two dogs began barking. It was obviously a would-be home invader hoping that nobody was home so he could enter and go shopping.

At our house, we have motion detectors around the house that turn on bright lights. We hope that, with the outside all lit up, it will be enough to scare off your average home invader. If a determined invader does manage to break into the house, say with sledgehammer and saw, the alarm system will go nuts and wake up the dead. Not ideal for casual stealing.

So far, no one in the neighborhood has been killed. That happens in the “bad” part of the city, but sometimes it feels too close for comfort. A young man, just 21, was recently found dead in Crompton Park where Barbara and I go to watch our grandkids play football.

Kevin J. Shavies, Jr. had been executed with a single shot to the back of his head. He was found in Crompton Park early one Sunday morning. At 2:17 that morning, he had called a friend. “He said he had no place else to go,” the friend said, who gave his name only as Ghost. “I told him to come over.”

He never got there.

He had been drinking and walking is what he did when drinking, his girlfriend said. She is four months pregnant with his baby. He had been with her in her apartment before he went out for what turned out to be the last walk of his life.

Kevin was a pure product of the streets. He got in trouble with the law for such things as carrying a dangerous weapon and resisting arrest. He had served stints in the Worcester House of Correction.

But what jumped out at me was this: he had no family. He had grown up in foster homes, moving from house to house, often living on the streets. Alone, without education or job skills, with zero options, he got caught up in gang life.

I have a sense of how desperate he must have felt. Along with my four younger siblings, I grew up in foster homes. At 17, I ran away and found myself on a street corner, alone and without a single adult family member, wondering how I was going to survive.

Many foster kids, like Kevin, do not survive. I did and so did my younger siblings. I wrote a novel, “State Kid: Hero of Literacy” in which the fictional hero is a foster kid whose literacy saves his life. It gets him out of juvenile prison and it is nothing but up after that.

(The novel is now an e-book for sale on the new Google E-Bookstore. How Google e-books may be a publishing game-changer is the subject for next time. Here I am plugging my own book. Have I no shame?)

Thinking that I would photograph the memorial that friends of Kevin had set up in Crompton Park, I drove there. It’s a five or ten-minute drive from our home. Getting there late morning on a weekday and driving slowly alongside the park, I couldn’t find the memorial.

Then I saw a group of about a dozen young men hanging out on the street alongside the park. My first thought was, great, I’ll just ask them. But then, as I slowly approached them, I noticed something unsettling: all were staring at me.

They were not welcoming looks. I stepped on the gas and sped away. The young men may not have been members of a street gang, maybe none of them had anything to do with the killing of Kevin J. Shavies Jr., maybe none of them, before the police had arrived, had taken the photo of Kevin's head with blood coming out of his mouth and e-mailed it to buddies.

Maybe not -- or maybe so.

At any rate, they sure knew I didn't belong there. And they weren’t at the field to toss a football around.

Now hurt and rage. How is that for a topic for Christmas season? Christmas or not, the reality is that there is a lot of hurt and rage out there on the streets of Worcester. This is truly the Great Recession. I don’t remember economic hardship as deep and widespread as now.

Not the 1970’s oil crisis with its long lines of cars at gas stations. Not the 1991 recession in which I got laid off from my job of 26 years and went on unemployment for the first and only time of my life. Not since the Great Depression has there been anything like this.

But I rant. Let me talk facts. At the South Worcester Neighborhood Center, which provides food for hungry families, the number of families being served has jumped dramatically. Last year 11 families a day were served; this year it is 37 -- more than three times as many.

Ronald Charette, Director of the Center, says that many of the needy are employed. He says their hours have been reduced or they are working two low-paying part-time jobs. After paying rent, utilities, and gas to get to work, they don’t have enough money to pay for food, he said.

Tim Garvin, CEO of United Way of Central Massachusetts, got a shock when he pulled into his office parking lot the other day. This is how he described the scene:

“The line of more than 150 people snaked around the corner of the building and down the sidewalk. Braving the cold, they were of all ages -- from babies bundled in strollers to the elderly using walkers for support. The awe was because this line was not outside a big-box store waiting for the latest holiday item or electronic gadget; unfortunately, this line was for the most basic of needs, food.”

Food costs are going out of sight. I do the food shopping in our house and I am astonished at the soaring prices. One little example: A year ago at Price Chopper, my favorite raisin bagels cost $2.99 for six. After repeated increases, the price is now $4.46. That’s an increase of 49.5% in one year!

I went to the bakery manager. Shaking my head, I said, “$4.46? Are you serious?”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Maybe the store should change it’s name from Price Chopper to Price Increaser.”

He apologized again.

I’ll pay the higher price. But many people in this city can’t. They don’t have the money. Another startling fact: 66% of Worcester households receiving food assistance have incomes at or below the federal poverty level. For a family of three, that is $18,312.

Nationally, according to the USDA, more than 50 million Americans live in hunger, 17 million of them children. Forty-two million are receiving food stamps, up from 27.5 million in 2007. The unemployment rate is 9.8%, the highest in eight decades.

8.5 million Americans receive federal unemployment benefits, with an average benefit of $302.90 per week. It may not be much, but it is enough to keep people from starving to death. With the unemployment benefits of some 7 million workers about to expire, some Worcesterites took to the streets.

Their message: “We’re hurting.”

People gathered in downtown Worcester on the sidewalk outside the offices of U.S. Rep. Jim McGovern. The rally was organized by Chris Horton, 66, who was profiled here last time. He is one busy, fired-up guy. He's holding the bullhorn below.

He spoke briefly about the impending loss of unemployment benefits of millions, then handed the mike to others. Each, in turn, told their stories. They spoke of hard times, of fruitlessly looking for work, of losing homes, of struggling to survive.

Their voices were raised not in self-pity, nor in despair, but in hot, undisguised anger. They want the the world to know that they are good hard-working people -- and they demand to be understood and treated as much.

The press was there. One of them was Peter Colpack, an intern at WCCA- TV. He is shown above at work videotaping the gathering. He and I got to talking. He is 19, a teenager just starting out in life; I am 72, an old man not yet dead. You might think that we would have nothing to say to each other. You would be wrong.

He told me that he was unsure what to do with his life. He was trying to decide whether to go to college or not. Meanwhile, he was doing the internship at the local TV station.

I gave him my take on college today. Though I went to college, though I encouraged my two sons to go to college (one did, the other would have none of it; both have done well), I suggested that he think long and hard about going.

I told him that I thought college today was overpriced, overrated, was not the only or best way to learn, and wastes too much time. “When I went to college,” I said, “a college degree guaranteed you a decent job. Today, young people graduate from college into unemployment plus the burden of huge college loans.”

My advice: "Create your own job. Work for yourself." (I didn't tell him that that's what I did when I got my walking papers after working for others most of my life. I had walked the talk.)

He took it in.

He said that he was appalled at the awful economy, with people losing their homes, not being able to feed themselves, and bank bailouts. He couldn’t believe that with jobs so hard to get and with unemployment so high that politicians in Washington could even consider not extending unemployment benefits.

“What this country needs,” he said, “is a revolution." Look at these people here pouring out their heartache on a bullhorn, he said. “The people have to rise up and take back their country.”

A few days later, there was another rally outside City Hall in downtown Worcester. In my role as old snoop with nothing better to do, I showed up with my camera and notebook. And who did I see there waving a protest sign? Young Peter Colpack.

“Not on the job now, are you?” I said.

“No.”

“Rising up?”

“Yes.”

So long and keep moving.

P.S. So you won't think I have fallen into a deep depression this holiday season and in keeping with the theme of "out in the streets," Barbara and I also took to the streets of Boston with son Jonathan, daughter-in-law Laurie, and grandsons Aidan and Nathaniel. We took the train from Union Station in Worcester to South Station in Boston. From there we walked, had a nice lunch, and went to the Wang Theater, where we saw the Rockette's Christmas Show. The outing was a gift from Jonathan and Laurie and it was a joyous family day in the big city. Thank you both! Here are a couple photos from a memorable day. Merry Christmas! And I mean it!

Foreclosure Outreach: Hitting the Streets of Worcester, Mass. to Inform Foreclosed Homeowners of their Rights.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 15:57:00 +0000

Chris Horton, 66, is nothing if not a man with fire in the belly. On a Tuesday afternoon he was at a special 3:00 p.m. meeting of the Worcester Anti-Foreclosure Team. He had called for the meeting and was running it.

Today’s mission: organize two-person teams to go out in the streets of Worcester, knock on doors, engage distressed homeowners, and hand them a new WAFT brochure spelling out their rights.

He had come to the meeting armed with addresses of homeowners facing foreclosure and eviction, along with maps marking their locations. On the maps, he had circled addresses for each team to go to.

Along with action, Chris Horton brings passion -- a potent mix. At one point, he stood up to denounce the illegal horrors facing homeowners: flawed documents, misrepresentation of the law, summary evictions, and looming homelessness.

It so happened that as he spoke, he had a backdrop of Spanish words.(Mujeres Unidas, meaning Women United) Chris says he is learning Spanish, one word a day, so that he can “communicate better.” He wants to be able to reach Spanish-speakers in the community who may have trouble with English.

In the photo below, Chris discusses his map of Worcester foreclosures with Dave (closest to him) and Lamont. Both went out on the streets in the outreach effort -- the only two to do so.

Some of the attendees, while sharing Chris’ passion, were new and not quite prepared for cold canvassing. There was also a shortage of cars. As people begged off, Chris looked at me.

I was sitting there quietly with my notebook and camera, the detached opposite to Chris’s fiery activism. I waved him off. “I’m just here as a busybody,” I said, “to document.” Still, Chris tried to rope me in, asking if I were willing to drive. “I don’t want to drive,” I said.

He tried to get me to go along as a team member pairing up with one of the group. “I want to go with you,” I said, having already concluded that Chris himself was the story.

He demurred. “Sorry, I don’t think that would work,” he said. He knows uselessness when he sees it. I was a fly on the wall, buzzing around people trying to get something done. He just swatted a fly, that's all.

In the end, there was only one team of two, Chris and Lamont. Dave went out on his own. “I’d like to tag along,” I said to Chris, “but it’s okay if you’d rather not. I’ll just buzz off.”

“Nah, you can come,” he said unenthusiastically.

Dave agreed to cover one circled area on the map on his bicycle. Peddling the streets to help troubled homeowners! Now that’s commitment to a cause!

The meeting done, Dave went off on his bike and Chris, Lamont, and I climbed into Chris’s Toyota with papers and stuff everywhere. Chris moved stuff around to get Lamont in the front seat and me in back and we took off. It was about 4.00 p.m.

Almost as soon as Chris pulled away, his passion, his reason for doing this, spilled out. “There’s a hundred new ones a month,” he said. “A lot of people are losing their homes, losing their dreams, ending up on the streets.”

He would have gone on but for logistics. Even passion needs direction. “How are you as a navigator?” Chris asked Lamont. Lamont, map and addresses in hand, had grown up in Worcester and knows its streets.

He said he was on it. The first stop was 143 Providence St., he said, “up near the old St. Vincent’s Hospital.” With Lamont directing, we soon pulled up to the 3-decker. Chris and Lamont went up and knocked on the door while I, lurking on the sidewalk, snapped a picture.

The first-floor resident opened the door and told them that the foreclosed 3rd floor had just been sold at auction and was vacant. Then it was on to 18 James Street where it was the same story. At the next stop, 66 Indiana, no one came to the door and Chris left a brochure in the mailbox.

At 100 Standish St., however, the foreclosed homeowner opened the door and Chris was able to give his spiel and hand over a brochure. And as he left, the homeowner said, “I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

That upper was immediately followed by a downer. At 58 Valley View Lane, Chris all but had the door slammed in his face. He shrugged it off and kept going. But the rest of the outreach effort was marked mostly by frustrations and reaching very few distressed homeowners.

There was the time-consuming hassle of navigating in early rush-hour traffic. Though Lamont knows the streets, getting to the addresses was an ordeal. We spent far more time by the side of the road checking maps than we did with homeowners.

At one street, the numbers were crazy and Chris drove up and down the street several times before finding the place. Lamont had never heard of another street. When we finally found it, it wasn’t a street at all; it was a crater-filled, boulder-bulging dirt trail, though, strangely, with decent homes.

A shirtless man emblazoned with tattoos came warily to the door. He and Chris exchanged a few brief words, Chris handed him a brochure, and that was it. I barely had time to get a picture, but I did.

Back in the car, Chris said, “He was nervous about the camera. He didn’t want his picture to be in the T&G (Worcester Telegraph & Gazette).”

“I understand,” I said. “I should have asked. I’ll do that from now on.”

That photograph is not being used here.

Of course, the deaf mute in the back seat with the notebook and camera was no help. There was a map in back. Early on, Chris asked me if I was looking up an address. “I said “no” and handed him the map. Am I good at being no help or what?

Though Chris had every reason to be discouraged, he was not. Not a word of complaint passed his lips. Just the opposite. He and Lamont bubbled over with ideas on how foreclosure outreach could be improved.

They spoke of better coordinating names with addresses, of sending letters out beforehand, of getting more people involved. The newbies would be back and there would be more of them at the next meeting.

If anything, Chris Horton’s fires had been stoked.

This is quite a guy, I thought. Who is he, anyway? On the way back, in my sneaky way of minding other people’s business, I invaded his privacy.

I learned that Chris grew up in Chicago and New York and started out working as a machinist. When he was laid off during the recession of the early 1970’s, he decided to try college. He ended up practically making a career of it.

By now living in Massachusets, he enrolled at UMass Lowell where, after 10 years as a student and teacher of math, he earned a P.H.D. in physics. “So I should address you as Doctor,” I said.
“Yes, but a lot of good it did me,” he said. “There were no jobs.”

So he went back to college again. This time he got a Master’s Degree in Radiation Safety. But that additional qualification did little for his job prospects, he said. Off and on for many years, Chris has taught high school and college math in many places in Massachusetts in a largely itinerant life.

He reels off a dozen or more cities and towns in Massachusetts where he has lived and worked. He has lived in Worcester for three years, an unusually long time for him. Yes, he’s ready to move but where he wants to go is surprising: Canada.

That's where his 9-year-old son lives with a former wife. Chris has been married and divorced three times and the son is his only child. Other family? “All over the place,” he said, which I take to be no other family that he sees and is close to.

He only gets to see his son once or twice a year but is never allowed to spend alone time with him. “I can’t even take him out for a walk,” he said in a voice heavy with heartache. If he moved to Canada, he could at least be close to his son.

So far, however, Canada has not been possible. “I can’t get a green card,” he said. “I have to show them that I have the financial resources so I won’t become dependent on the government. I haven’t been able to do that.”

Chris lives on social security and sporadic income from teaching math to home students and through the internet. Financially, he says that “I am not really making it.” He says that he would like to be teaching full-time, but that’s not happening, either. He says that the job market considers him, at 66, too old.

“When you figure me out, let me know,” Chris said as we parted.

“I will, but I got a long way to go,” I said.

So long and keep moving.

P.S. Afraid of losing your home? If so, here are the ten most important things that you must know and do as a homeowner or tenant. They are from the brochure that Chris Horton is handing out, prepared with the advice of The Legal Assistance Corporation of Central Massachusetts. There are also sources for help and further information, with phone numbers.

1. You can only be evicted after you have had your day in Court, even if your home or apartment is foreclosed! The eviction process begins with a letter called a Notice to Quit. You DO NOT need to move out immediately or by the vacate date.

2. You may be able to continue living in a foreclosed property if you have been a good tenant and don’t want to move. If you are a former tenant, new state law requires that you be allowed to stay. If you are a former homeowner and want to stay, stay. Contact the Worcester Anti-Foreclosure Team at 508-754-7793 to help you in your fight to stay.

3. If you are up-to-date with rent, it is illegal for your landlord, old or new, to change your locks, remove your possessions, shut off your utilities, or threaten to do any of the above, unless a judge convicts you.

4. Save all letters, receipts, leases, and paperwork related to your tenancy, mortgage, foreclosure or eviction. Save them even if you don’t have time to look at them right away. These will help you in court!

5. Report code violations to the housing inspector. Proof of code violations in your building can help you get what you need in Housing Court!

6. If you are offered “cash for keys,” don’t jump at it. It is likely to be in the bank’s interest,not yours.Bank representatives may try to pressure or even bully you into accepting the offer. Don’t let them. You have a right to see them in Housing Court where the judge may give you more time or award you more money to move out.

7. Never sign anything that you don’t understand fully or aren’t totally comfortable with. If you aren’t sure, don’t sign.

8. Never pay rent to someone if you are unsure that he/she is the real owner, old or new. Only a title or deed is positive proof of ownership.

9. If you are unsure of whom to pay rent to, save your rent money. Preferably, put it in a dedicated bank account or in ESCROW, until you are sure who you should pay.

10. Go to Housing Court even if you don’t have a lawyer or are unsure about what to do.Judges are often sympathetic to tenant needs such as moving costs and time to move.

Helpful Numbers and Resources:

* Central Massachusetts Housing Alliance. For help with housing search, call 508-791-7265.
* Massachusetts Justice Project. For a referral to a Legal Services lawyer, call 508-831-9888.
* Worcester Dept. of Public Health. For free inspection of conditions, call 508-799-8485.
* RCAP Solutions. If you have a Section 8 voucher from RCAP, call 1-800-488-1969.
* Worcester Housing Authority (WHA). If you have a Section 8 voucher from WHA, call 508-635-300.

Foreclosure Legal Defense: When Homeowners Say, "Sorry, This is America. We Have Rights. Prove It!

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 20:26:00 +0000

Foreclosure Up Close: Waiting for the Sheriff to Kick You Out of Your Home.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 13:24:00 +0000

The West Side of Worcester, Mass is a “nice” part of the city, quiet and respectable and where middle-class homeowners keep up their homes. Many have lived here forever.

William O. Gardiner IV, above, has called this neighborhood home for 38 years; his parents brought him here at age six. People call him Billy just as I answer to George or “Jodgie” when my given name is George Francis Pollock III.

People have no respect for royalty these days.

When Billy moved into his own home here eleven years ago, it was one of the happiest days of his life. Next door was the family home he had grown up in and where his sister Kathy now lives with her two kids, Victoria and Austin. The two of them can often be seen running around their uncle’s lawn, which they treat as their own.

He had a festive house-warming gathering of family, friends, and neighbors. I was there to welcome him and to extend my best wishes. You see, I was Billy’s other next-door neighbor. I still am, a relative new boy in the neighborhood compared to Billy.

Billy has been a good neighbor. Over the years, we have developed an easygoing relationship with lots of kidding back and forth. The only problem I have with him is that extra roman numeral. (I do NOT like being out-roman-numeraled.)

Lately, the word in the neighborhood has been that Billy is in financial trouble and is even in danger of losing his home. One morning this past July, a lot of cars suddenly showed up at his house and just as suddenly drove off. Was it an auction?

Billy seemed to drop out of sight. His house was ominously quiet. A typical nosy neighbor, I wondered: what is going on next door? If Billy is in trouble, can I just stand by and ignore it?

I finally knocked on Billy’s door to invite him to go with Barbara and me to a photo show featuring six local photographers. Billy is a professional photographer. I thought he would enjoy the show and that maybe we would have a chance to talk.

When Billy opened the door, his face was a portrait of relief. “Whew,” he said, breathing again. “I thought you were the sheriff. I was going to come out fighting.”

“So it’s true?”

“Yup, waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“How about taking a break from it and going to a photo show?” I asked. “Six local photographers are showing their work in Worcester tomorrow night.”

Billy hemmed and hawed and finally said, "Okay, come on by." The next day, I went over at the appointed hour and rang the bell. Nothing, even though I could see his car in the driveway. We went to the photo show without him.

A few days later, Barbara and I were out walking and Billy came driving up our hill and stopped. “Sorry about the other night,” he said. “I heard the bell, but I was exhausted. I had been working all night for the third day in a row.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

He was wearing the uniform of a security guard. A former Worcester City police officer for ten years and struggling to make a go of the photography business he runs from his home, Billy was clearly doing what he had to do to save his home.

In the scheme of things, Billy is just another number in the foreclosure express. But he also happens to be my neighbor and a human being doing his best to avoid losing his home. “I’m no slouch,” he said as he drove off to get some sleep.

In our immediate neighborhood, three homes are for sale, not counting Billy’s. The homes, which have been on the market for months, are not selling. Until this year, whenever a home went on the market, which was rare, it was quickly snapped up.

Now when our paths cross, Billy and I add black humor to our normal banter.

“After they kick me out, I’m thinking about pitching a tent on your front lawn,” he said.

“I have no problem with that," I said.

“How about that spot there?” he said, pointing to a patch of green under the big tree on our front lawn.

“That would work. But of course there will be costs.”

“Costs?”

“You know, to use our toilet and maybe the shower. I’ll work up a price list, so much for a shower, so much for using the toilet -- you know the drill.”

“Will there be a separate price for a poop and a pee?”

“Of course. You think I’m some kind of charity? But, tell you what, for a poop and a pee at the same time, I’ll give you a break on the price.”

Of course, the prospect of losing your home is no joking matter. Too much is at stake, Billy Gardiner’s entire life, to be perfectly clear. But maybe the joking around is a way for us to acknowledge what is happening, without getting into the horrific reality.

Still, I couldn’t shake the image of the sheriff posting an eviction notice on Billy’s front door. Though it was clearly none of my business, I tentatively began broaching the subject of what was going on.

Billy didn’t tell me to bug off, which he had every right to do. Instead, we began to talk. I asked him what bank held the mortgage.

“Fannie Mae.”

“Fannie Mae?” I was surprised, actually shocked. “Fannie Mae?”

I thought: The Fannie Mae bailed out in the financial meltdown of 2008 with billions of taxpayer dollars? The Fannie Mae taken over and owned by the United States Government and, in other words, by all of us?

“Is Fannie willing to talk?”

“Nothing. I call. They listen. They do nothing. For them, it’s a done deal.”

That did it. We had to talk, really talk. Billy had a story to tell. “It means letting it all hang out,” I said. "Do you really want to do that? You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know. I want to. Let’s do it.”

So Billy and I sat for two and a half hours at his kitchen table and got into horrific reality.

But not at first.

First we talked about Billy Gardiner the person that the number on the pile of financial and legal documents on his table does not exactly capture. The documents say nothing of the two great passions of his life. “Ever since I was a kid,” he said, “ I loved pictures and dreamed about being a police officer. I’ve carried a camera my whole life.”

Today his living room is set up as a professional photo studio and he has his own website for William Gardiner Photography. Two of my favorite photos of his are a group portrait of Worcester firefighters and one of a Worcester landmark, Coney Island Hotdogs. You can see them both and many others by clicking on his website above.

Always quick on the draw with his camera, Billy caught me in his back yard. He stuck his camera out the window and shot. Having been working in my yard, I was in old clothes and covered in dirt. He calls the photo, “Filthy Dirty Old Man.” I threatened to sue, but backed off when he reminded me that he had asked my permission.

Billy went to Worcester Academy, which is known for its high standards and tough entrance requirements. He spent six years in college, five off and on at Syracuse University and one at Howard University, leaving without a degree.

He tried an engineering major but it wasn’t for him. Howard had a Selected Studies Program which let students design their own curricula. He designed a curriculum in industrial relations and management. But he said that he couldn’t get Howard to approve it. “No matter what I suggested, they said no,” he said.

He went back to Syracuse University. By now, Billy was interested in studying photography, computer programming, and criminal justice management. But the university did not offer the courses that he wanted. It had no course in criminal justice, for example. He ended up unhappily in the School of Arts and Sciences and eventually left.

Billy spent summers in Martha’s Vineyard six years in a row, where he worked as an ice cream maker. After leaving college, he embarked on five years working for three different temp agencies. “I worked everywhere at hundreds of jobs,” he said. “One was at a foundry making concrete rooms for the Worcester House of Correction. I spent hours sweeping up cement dust.”

He snagged a regular job at Digital Corporation. He was responsible for handling hundreds of monitors, keyboards, and infrared equipment. He kept track of it all and got it shrink-wrapped and out the door. It was not to be. He worked at Digital 364 days. “They fired me because they would have had to pay benefits after 365 days,” he said.

One day when he was working at Leiser Sound in Westborough, a state trooper came in saying that his handset didn’t work. “He was in full dress uniform,” Billy said, “and we got to talking.”

Billy still remembers his name, Sgt. Al Toney. He was black. “So what are you going to do with your life?” Sgt. Toney asked him.

Billy mentioned his old dream of being a police officer. “Do you have to be the son of a cop, brother of a cop, or have some kind of in?” he asked.

“No, you have to take a test,” Sgt. Toney said.

Billy signed up and took the test for both the state police and the Worcester city police. In the meantime, he got a job as a campus cop at Worcester Polytechnic Institute (WPI). He worked in the Office of Traffic Enforcement at WPI from the fall of 1992 to the spring of 1994.

That’s when the Massachusetts State Police called. He had aced the exam with a score of 95 and was invited to take training at the State Police Academy in New Braintree. He went, but hated it. “I couldn’t stand days of running constantly and being screamed at,” he said. “It’s not the way I learn.”

Billy quit after five days.

The Worcester police called. He had also aced the civil service test with a 98 and was invited for a personal interview. At the interview, Worcester police officer, Al Sjogren, said to him: “Of everyone we’re looking at, you are certainly the most educated and probably the smartest. Why do you want this job?”

“To help people, sir,” Billy said.

Billy Gardiner was sworn in as a Worcester police officer on April 4, 1994.

The bad blood with other officers began almost immediately. Billy saw a police officer’s duty in a way that was polar opposite from many of his fellow officers, he said. “Their idea was ‘we’re cops, we can do anything we want.’ I believe that we have to follow the law and respect people’s rights.”

He cited domestic abuse as an example. He said there is a right way for police to deal with it and a wrong way. “The right way is to spend time with the victims of domestic violence, respect their rights, talk to them, find them shelter if needed, get a restraining order to protect them if necessary.”

Billy said that other officers would answer a domestic abuse call and be out in five minutes. But many of the victims are from the “wrong side of the tracks,” poor, have trouble with the English language, and are upset and confused, Billy said. They need help from understanding officers.

Name-calling began. Billy was a “pussy.” He was a “gang leader.” He did “too much social work and not enough police work.” A lieutenant called him in and told him that no one wanted to work with him and that he needed to “take a look at your liberal attitude.”

In a “para-military organization” like the police, Billy said, this is code that “when we have to be heavy-handed, I won’t back them up.” He was a pussy because he “didn’t deck people, didn’t throw people down stairs, didn’t jerk their hands behind their back.”

With no officer willing to partner with him, Billy was transferred to the cell room where accused prisoners were kept. “It was a disgusting pit,” Billy said. He became an outcast within the department.

He said that no one would stand up for him because “they didn’t want to get the same treatment.” Other officers wouldn’t cover their backs, and “nobody stood up to cover my back,” Billy said.

He became hyper anxious. He was uptight all day. He went to the bathroom constantly. He said he was a “basket case every day.” He slammed doors. He furiously smashed his 2-way radio. His fuse got shorter and shorter until, he said, “I became one of them.”

He stopped taking paid details. When he was not on duty, he was at home sleeping and eating. Severely depressed, he began seeing a therapist once a month. It was the start of nearly ten years of counseling.

He now wanted out of the Worcester Police Department and his superiors wanted him out. He said that only two ranking officers were understanding and treated him decently, Gary Gemme and Mark Roche. Ironically, they are today Chief and Deputy Chief of the Worcester Police Department.

After a name-calling incident with a dispatcher who filed a report on him, Billy was sent to a psychologist to evaluate his ability to perform his duties. After a 45-minute session, the psychologist determined that he “can’t do the job” and that it was “not reversible.”

Finally, in 2002, Billy was fired from the Worcester Police Department. Two police sergeants met Billy in the cell room and took his weapon. After a terse termination brief from the chief, Jim Gallagher, Billy was out the door on paid administrative leave.

Billy had applied for a full disability pension and appeared before a medical panel of three physicians. The panel approved him medically for the full disability pension. Then his case went back to the City of Worcester Retirement Board, which denied it.

A police union lawyer filed for mediation before a state judge and the city of Worcester backed off. He was allowed to retire on a regular medical disability of 25% with health insurance.

That’s when his life “nose-dived” and the financial problems began, Billy said.

He worked at Sports Photo Shop in Northboro for a while and also at Captive Images in Shrewsbury. But neither job lasted very long or paid very well. At the same time, he threw himself into his photography business that he began running from his home.

When photography, always his first love, didn’t produce the income he needed, he took other jobs to pay the bills. He worked as a driving instructor and I would see him on our hill in a car with student drivers. He worked as a substitute teacher in Shrewsbury middle schools. When he could not find work, he collected unemployment for a while.

He began to fall behind on bills. He resorted to using his credit card, but said it was mostly to buy photographic equipment to get his Photo Studio up and running. With interest and fees, his credit card balance went up to $17,000.

His original mortgage, with Mackinac Savings Bank in Michigan, was bought and sold repeatedly before being taken over by Fannie Mae. Among the buyers were Washington Mutual (which has spectacularly failed), Fleet Bank, American Mortgage Fund Corp, and JPMorgan Chase.

He didn’t get a chance to send a check to one of them before he got a package from another bank with a coupon book. The letter said that “we now own the loan” and payments should now be sent to them. Billy said it has been hard keeping track of who owns his loan and who is servicing it.

Along the way, he has tried to make his mortgage loan more affordable though modification. With Chase, in June of '08, he filled out all the paperwork to keep his payment at an affordable $979 for a six-month trial period. At the end of six months, he had to do the paperwork all over again and "overnight" all the completed documents, which he did. The modification was denied.

When he succeeded in modifying the loan, the monthly payment went up, not down. One modification jumped his monthly payment from $1200 to $1400. The last modification, in '09, increased his payment to $1,597.

According to a Chase payoff statement on June 30, 2010, the unpaid balance of $150,141.88 had climbed to $176,848.08. The added charges included $18,838.16 in interest, $5,628.11 for something called “Escrow/Impound Overdraft,” $1,877.25 for something called “Recoverable Balance,” and $392.38 in late charges.

“I stopped listening to everybody,” Billy said.

As he fell further and further behind in mortgage, car, and other payments, depression overtook him. For two months, he didn’t open mail, letting it pile up. He didn’t answer the phone. People showed up at his door “offering me money before the house went up for auction.”

In one of his discussions with a Chase representative, there was an off-hand reference to Fannie Mae. “That was the first mention I heard of Fannie Mae,” Billy said. Unknown to him, Fannie Mae had bought his mortgage. Fannie Mae foreclosed on July 27, 2010. On July 30, Billy came home to a notice stuck on his front door.

The first sentence was: “This property is now owned by Fannie Mae.” The notice informed Billy of his options. He could rent with a 12-month lease. He could relocate with assistance if he signs an agreement with Fannie Mae to move out and leaves “the property in broom-swept condition.” The notice ended with the name of a real estate agent, David Parent of 195 Park Ave. in Worcester, that Billy should contact within 10 days to declare his choice of options.

Billy sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Parent. This is the letter:

To David G. Parent,

My name is William O. Gardiner IV and I live at 69 Zenith Dr., Worcester. Recently, Fannie Mae took my property after I attempted to negotiate with them repeatedly around my loan. I believe you visited me and left me a letter saying I had two potential options, to stay put and pay rent, or to relocate with assistance.

My commitment is to stay in my property for the next year and rent it. At this time, based on my present income and budget, I am able to make a monthly payment of $700. I hope that as landlord you are willing to work with me because it has become very challenging emotionally to leave my home of 11 years at this time. Not only have I lived here for 11 years, but I grew up in the home next door.

The financial hardship that I have been dealing with is a direct result of working for ten years as a Police Officer for the City of Worcester. During that time I began to suffer from depression, hyper anxiety and post traumatic stress and as a result, was forced to retire and have been very limited as to the type of work that I can perform.

My Photography Studio is also in my home and this is one of my primary sources of income at this time. To top it all off, I have been having difficulty finding alternative housing as my credit rating is in a place where traditional rental agencies are having difficulty working with me.

I appreciate your willingness to work with me around staying in the home I have lived in for 11 years. This week would have been the 11th anniversary of owning my home. Once again, for my entire life, I have been committed to serving my community, as a police officer for ten years and as a volunteer throughout the Worcester area.

Thank you very much for any assistance you may be able to provide in keeping me in my home. I appreciate your making this work out for me. I look forward to being able to stay in my home. Please be in touch with me to let me know how and to whom to send the rent.

Sincerely,

William O. Gardiner IV

On August 8, a Sunday, Mr. Parent drove up in his pickup, walked up Billy’s front walk, and rang the bell. Not sleeping after working all night, which is unusual, Billy opened the door. He knew it was Mr. Parent.

“I just sent a letter to you,” Billy said. “What can you tell me about what I can do to stay in my home?”

“I’m just a middle man,” Mr. Parent said. “You’ll have your day in court. Fannie Mae is going to file for eviction.”

And that’s all he said before turning around and walking away, Billy said. “Unfeeling.”

Billy called Grace Ross, a Worcester activist who runs a group that helps homeowners fight foreclosure and eviction . The group meets twice a month and Billy has been going to the meetings.

“She is super well-read in the law,” Billy said. She told him that he is going to get a “notice to quit,” served by a sheriff. For a homeowner, that means you have to be out in 72 hours, Ms.Ross told him.

“Ignore it. Do not get out,” Ms. Ross said.

She told him that he would be soon served with a request to go to court. When he receives the request, she said, he should ask from Fannie Mae what is called a summary process. “That will require Fannie Mae to prove that it owns the property,” Ms. Ross said.

She went on: “Ask for answer and discovery. They will have to show up with these in court. They won’t have the information. They won’t show up. This happens almost every single time. Basically, what we are doing is buying time and waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

That shoe is a formal “notice to quit” -- to get out of the home -- served by the sheriff.

But William O.Gardner IV is not just sitting there waiting for that shoe to drop. He is doing everything he can think of to stop it. "This is my home," he said.

So long and keep moving.

P.S. Mortgage defaults have become an avalanche. According to federal housing figures, 11.5% of all mortgages are in default, up from 5.7% two years ago. Banks and their mortgage servicers have been accused of mass producing mortgage foreclosures with "robo-signing" of tens of thousands of affidavits. Bank of America, the largest bank in the U.S., JPMorgan Chase and other major banks have halted foreclosures in many states. On October 13, 2010, all 50 state attorneys general announced a nationwide investigation of foreclosure practices.

P.P.S. As the parents (mom and stepdad) of a Worcester police officer, whom we lost a year ago, Barbara and I have had a very different experience with Worcester police. Our son was not the kind of police officer that Billy had trouble with ( in a parent's eyes, he could of course do no wrong). The two got along well. The Worcester Police Department has gone over and above to console us and the wife and four children that our police officer son left behind. We are very grateful for that. We both understand that this is Billy's story based on his own experience. We respect that and are pulling for him to keep his home.

Off the Beaten Path: What Happens When You Do Things That You Never Do and Go Places You Never Go.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 16:41:00 +0000

I think this is a great picture. Actually, it's my photograph of the original photographer's work. I never would have seen it if I had not done something I almost never do: go out at night.

When I suggested to Barbara that we go out voluntarily one Saturday night, her look said, "What? You are losing it."

"There's a photo exhibition of six local photographers in Worcester. It's free."

Free is one of my favorite words. I also love photos.

"Okay," she said resignedly, which she always says (eventually) when I suggest something off the beaten path, sometimes downright quirky.

I explained that the one-night exhibition on the second floor of the Sprinkler Factory at 38 Harlow St. was different. The photos won't be matted and displayed in frames on the wall. It will be an entirely digital showing on 52-inch TV screens lining the walls leading to one huge wall-sized screen. The work of all the photographers will continually show one photo after another.

Jeff Haynes, one of the photographers and the organizer of the show, told the Worcester Telegram that the way we view and interact with photos has changed dramatically in the last ten years. He said that in the new era of Facebook and smartphones, photography has become digital-driven. And with the cost of having ten photos printed, matted, and framed up to $1,000, digital is much cheaper.

When we got there, the place was packed. Who says that Worcester is dead? People were engrossed in the new world setup, thrillingly buffeted on all sides by wonderful photography.

The photographers mingled and talked about their work. I didn't mingle. That requires being social which takes care and energy. No, I was there to gawk, appreciate, and enjoy. I would be a snoop and amateur photographer copping a free show and free food.

They say that nothing worthwhile in this life is free. Well, this show was great and free. So was the food , especially the huge platter of fresh fruit on which I feasted.

Many at the show carried cameras and moved like secret agents among the crowd mentally composing possible photos and shooting at will. In public places, you have to be careful taking pictures of people. Not everybody likes being photographed. Some run and hide at the sight of a camera.

Not here. By common consent, subjects had no rights. Everybody had unwritten permission to snap away to their heart's content. So, of course, I photographically invaded people's privacy like some uncivilized brute. No preliminary chit-chat, no name-asking or giving, no asking permission -- just shooting. And if somebody gets in the way of a shot, a curt "move please."

I turned the tables on one photographer and shot her with my little digital camera as she was trying to fade into the woodwork in pursuit of her art. I went up to her and said, "gotcha." I showed her the shot I got of her.

Clearly a pro, she was not impressed. "I'll crop it, "I said. "You'll come out good."

Still dubious, she went back to shooting. I didn't get her name or give her mine. It was all about the photos. OMG! I wonder if she got a picture of me stuffing my face with fruit!

"Did you take any photos of photos in which the subjects had clothes on?" Barbara asked me.

"They weren't my favorites."

"How come you're just taking photos of nude photos of women?"

"Okay, I'll take some of nude men, just for you dear."

"Hopeless, just hopeless," she thought. Oh yes, I know what she is thinking.

NOTE: The photo at the top got my vote for best of show. But with so many great photos, it was no easy choice. While I can be accused of being a dirty old man who is turned on by naked pictures of women, I can't be accused of favoritism. I don't know which photographer took this winning photo. But the photographer was one of six who exhibited at the show: Nicole Chan, Scott Erb, Dana Lane, Steve Stearns, Cynthia Woehrle, and Jeff Haynes.

Another thing I never do is go to Maine. Are you kidding me? Drive two or three hours to that God-forbidden backwater where bears and deer roam everywhere? A place all but cut off from civilization? When I only know of a few human beings who live there and don't see them for years on end?

I may be not all there, but I don't think I'm a complete loony tune just yet. Or maybe I am. I decided to pay a social call in Maine on human beings who have not been holding their breaths waiting for me to pop by. And my poor suffering wife again said okay. Not only that, she agreed to go.

It was my niece Linda's idea, and she volunteered to drive us. Such a deal! How could I pass it up?

Linda wanted to visit her dad Nick and his companion Pat who live in Alfred, Maine. Nick has been contending with prostate cancer and, lately, with Lyme disease. Nicky and I knew each other when we were kids half a century ago in Stoneham, Mass.

He moved up to Maine five years ago from Shrewsbury, Mass. to follow his bliss: being with his soul mate Pat and pursuing his love of racing birds and tending to a huge vegetable garden. But it also meant moving away from daughter Linda and son Glen and four grandkids.

For Linda, who is super busy running her own business (a hair salon), Breast Friends Connection (a nonprofit supporting breast cancer survivors), and taking two kids here and there, this is a rare chance to see her dad. It was also a chance for her mom Ruby (and my sister) to visit her former husband Nicky and for me to visit my brother Peter.

It so happens that my brother Peter, 64, lives just 15 minutes away from Linda's dad. I have seen Peter just a few times in his entire life. Peter and I and four other siblings, of whom I am the oldest, share the same mother but Peter has a different father.

When Linda telephoned him to say that we were coming to Maine to see him, he broke into tears. You'll understand why in a bit.

Our first stop was at Linda's dad's. When we pulled up, he ran over to me, grabbed me by the hand, and pulled me away before I could even say hello to Pat. He immediately began describing the powerful tornado that hit them on July 21.

"It was unbelievable, " he said. "It was about seven o'clock and I heard this huge roar from the mountain over there and then, even though it was still light out, everything went black and the winds hit us. Lightning flashed, followed immediately by the boom, no more than a second from flash to boom."

He said that he and Pat ran into the house and crouched down in the cellar. "I figured the cellar was the only place where we could feel safe," he said. The tornado passed as suddenly as it had arrived, and the storm was "gone in no more than fifteen or twenty minutes," he said.

When he and Pat emerged from their hiding place, they were shocked at the devastation the tornado had wreaked in such a short time. Huge trees were down everywhere on their large tract of land.

In one photo, Nicky is dwarfed by a giant tree uprooted yards away from the house. He is also shown with the remains of a giant tree across the street and with the devastation of the land behind the house.

He and Pat were amazed that, by some miracle, the tornado left untouched the house and the large pigeon coops behind the house. I found it had to believe myself. Truly, the gods had smiled upon Nicky and Pat.

Nicky stole me away for a tour of his pigeon coops and vast vegetable gardens. He talked nonstop and excitedly, making sure he got it all in: all the veggies he home grows, the swiss chard, the beets, broccoli, corn, tomatoes, brussel sprouts, strawberries, blueberries, elderberries; the pigeon coops that brought Pat and him together, how he heats the house with wood, why life in Maine with Pat and all his old pigeon-racing friends is so good.

"So I'm hungry," I interjected. "Where's the squab? I was looking forward to a nice squab dinner."

Well, we got no squab. What we did get was all the fresh veggies we could carry. We had his beets one night. I cut them up and boiled them and they were delicious. Barbara had seconds on the beets, unusual for her.

Nice seeing you, Nicky. By the way, those stories you tell about how I was as a kid, could you cool it? I tell people I was a hero. You're the only one left alive who knows the truth. Shhhhh.

Pat, next time you and I will talk and I'll take pictures of you. And those things Nicky says about me when I was a kid in Stoneham, Mass. -- all lies.

The last stop was Peter and Jolene. Technically, Peter is my half brother because we have different fathers. But he has always referred to me as his brother while I have hesitated to do so. Our mother was a sorry creature. She threw her first five kids into the trashcan of foster care. She remarried, had Peter, and was even crueler to him.

This is the mother that I wrote about earlier in Toxic Mother I and in Toxic Mother II. Toxic Mother II is about what Peter had to endure. Check it out and you will understand Peter's tears on the phone. Warning: the story is not prettied up.

The abuse that Peter suffered as a child, and which I describe in detail in Toxic Mother II, ranks with the worst that I have ever heard of. It was horrific. How he survived childhood, I have no idea. But survive he did only to run smack into constant financial struggle and emotional turmoil as an adult (three marriages, multiple relationships and break-ups, and on and off estrangement from five children).

Nothing is more important to Peter than family. It is what he has yearned for all his life. Today he is trying to make peace with his adult children and is reaching out to the siblings he has missed all his life. When a real sister, Ruby, and a real brother, me, come to see him and Jolene at his home in Maine, it is a big deal. As it was on the phone with Linda, it can be emotionally overwhelming for Peter.

For him, it was the family reunion of a lifetime. And he greeted us as a new man. Gone was the old angry, rough-speaking, drifting, alienated (and alienating), emotionally-wasted Peter. This was the Peter that turned me off so much that I decided I didn't want anything more to do with him.

The new Peter welcomed us into his home with hugs, deference, pride, and a host's extreme concern for his guests. To say that he went all out for us is an understatement. Peter treated us like royalty.

A great cook, he had prepared a banquet fit for the Queen of England, with lobster, steak, pork ribs, french fries, salad, corn on the cob, a huge watermelon, and giant marshmallows for roasting. He and Jolene didn't eat; they hovered over us, attending to our every wish.

I took a cup of apple cider and Jolene rushed to get me ice cubes. I pulled apart a lobster that Peter said was "right off the boat" in Wells, Maine. As I did, I said, "You got steak too?" The words were barely out of my mouth when Peter plopped a juicy steak on my plate.

Then came an ear of corn. Then he brought over a tray of french fries he had just finished frying. Placing them in front of me, he said, "I seasoned them." While we ate, Peter cooked. While grilling the steak, he gave us a little lesson on the best steak for grilling. "Don't get the expensive cuts," he said, "but get the cheaper 7-bone. It's better on the grill."

Peter and Jolene have been together for eight years. They met online. The first time Peter saw Jolene, he recoiled. She was morbidly obese, more than 300 pounds. She was in her apartment sitting in a wheelchair, unable to move because of her weight and severe sciatica. Doctors had told her that she would never walk again.

Peter wanted to turn and walk out. Then she smiled at him and he saw something in Jolene that made him stay. They talked. They began seeing each other. In an early visit, Peter said "Come on, I'll take you fishing."

"How can I go fishing when I can't walk?" Jolene said.

"If you really want to do something, you can do it!" Peter said. "I'll help you."

They have been together since. With Peter's love and encouragement, Jolene, pictured here with me, has lost about 150 pounds. "I lost half my body weight," she said. "Peter saved my life."

She says she can't imagine life without him. "We aren't married, but we are," she said. And Peter can't imagine life without Jolene.

Now I'm going to let photos tell most of the rest of the story. Here are Peter and Barbara with the lobster and watermelon.

It has been umpteen years since Peter and Ruby have sat down together and talked. But they did so on this glorious fall day. And before the day was out, they said the three magic words to each other that we all want to hear, "I love you."

In this photo, they are showing it with a warm hug.

This was the scene as we ate and chatted on a beautiful fall afternoon. Standing is Bonnie a next-door neighbor who had recently moved in. "The day we moved in, Peter began sending food over, "she said. " He's a great guy. He'll do anything for you."

She said he and Jolene made her feel like family. I asked Bonnie, pictured here with me, if she had met any of the other neighbors. "No. Some look up and nod, but that's all. Peter and Jolene are the only ones I know."

Eating at the bench was George -- nice name -- and his wife. George is Peter's best friend. Hardly saying a word, he spent most of the day helping Peter cook and scurrying around making sure everything went smoothly. A good friend indeed.

Late in the day, Peter and I went into the house, just the two of us, to play a little pool and talk. I figured that with no one else around we would exchange horror stories about our mother -- for Toxic Mother III. Her name never came up. There will be no Toxic Mother III.

Instead, we played pool in Peter's stunning downstairs recreation room with the walls covered with collectibles and memorabilia, much of it bearing authentic autographs. He is an artist in his own right who works with wood. He designed and built the tables himself as well as the desk where he works.

In between games of eight ball, we danced to the fifties music that played nonstop. And here we are moving to those old familiar beats.

After a while, we took a break and Peter entertained Ruby and Barbara at the stunning basement bar that he designed and built himself.

Soon, too soon, it was time to go. And we got together for a group photo. How about that braid of Jolene's? Impressive, no?

Later that night, after a great day at Peter's and a long ride home, the phone rang just after we walked in the door. It was Peter. "I just wanted to make sure you got home all right," he said.

"We're safe and sound, Peter," I said. "It was nice of you to think of us. Today was just great and and I want to thank you for it. I really mean it. It was over and above. We're going to get together again at Vic's (our brother in Sturbridge, Mass.) hopefully in late October. Hope you can make it."

"I'll be there."

"Good."

I'm looking forward to seeing more of my new brother Peter.

So long and keep moving.

A Day for Ray: Malignant Brain Cancer Takes a Back Seat to a Rock Band, Food, Balloons, Laughs and, Most of All, Love.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 02:08:00 +0000

Judging by their smiles, Ray and Bobbi, shown above, obviously do not know how to let Ray's malignant brain tumor rule their lives. Shouldn't someone tell the couple, gently of course, that one just does not put on a happy face when one has such a deadly disease?

Or maybe, just maybe, they have something to teach us. Read on ...

For some time, Ray had been saying that he “didn’t feel right.” He complained of headaches. He had trouble reading and driving. Then he sideswiped another car and caused a minor accident. Finally, he went for a PET scan and other tests.

The verdict earlier this summer could hardly have been more serious: malignant brain cancer, specifically glioblastoma in the parietal area of the brain, behind the right ear. This was the same cancer that the late U.S. Senator Edward Kennedy had.

Unlimited money and some of the world’s best medical and surgical brains could not save Senator Kennedy. He died just over a year ago.

Fully aware of what he was up against, Ray could not just cave to the cancer. With Bobbi’s full support and love, he chose life. At the Dana Farber Cancer Center in Boston, he and Bobbi told his doctors as much.

Doctors said that for Ray to have any hope of surviving, the cancer had to come out. Ray and Bobbi gave the go-ahead for the surgery. In the first week of June, Ray had the surgery at Baystate Medical Center in Springfield. He went in on a Wednesday and was out of the hospital that Friday.

In the recovery room, Ray woke up to singing “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves.” He had been listening to Cher singing that song on his IPod. Coming out of surgery singing? Talk about spirit! Talk about will to live!

The surgery had removed 90% of the tumor. More of the tumor could have been removed, but doctors were afraid that might be too intrusive. They feared that his cognitive abilities could be impaired or that he could be left paralyzed.

Surgery was followed by extensive chemotherapy and radiation. Ray is now finished with the radiation, but will be on chemo for the rest of his life. He takes the chemo at home in pill form.

When Barbara and I heard the news from Bobbi’s Aunt Joanie, we were shocked, felt helpless, and were not sure how to respond to such awful news. Ray and Bobbi, a cousin to Barbara, are longtime dear friends. “Malignant brain cancer,” Barbara said. “You don’t know what to say.”

We didn’t want to call. Talking on the telephone about this terrible brain cancer didn’t set right with us: too remote and impersonal. We decided to express our support through cards, three of them over several weeks. The first was entitled “The Oak Tree” and, in verse, told of how a mighty wind failed to fell one oak tree “while other trees fell all around.”

The verse went on:
“The weary wind gave up and spoke,
How can you still be standing, Oak?”

The oak replies, “... with thanks to you,
I’m stronger than I ever knew.”

The card, and Barbara and I in a personal note, were suggesting to Ray and Bobbi that they can be just as strong as this oak tree. Several cards with personal notes followed in the hope that Ray and Bobbi would find some encouragement and strength in them.

As if malignant brain cancer were not enough for Ray and Bobbi to contend with, money reared its ugly, dollar-signed face. No longer able to work at his well-paying job at Cox Communications, Ray’s income was no more. In addition, Bobbi has gastrointestinal problems that recently became so severe that she had to leave her work at Mass Mutual and go on disability.

Two paychecks gone. Bills go on.

Actually, the bills have gone up. When Bobbi went to a pharmacy to pick up prescriptions, the tab was over $10,000. “What?” a stunned Bobbie asked. She followed with a piece of her mind. She is fighting such outrageous charges.

To help Ray and Bobbie financially, Cox Communications where Ray had worked for many years, organized a fundraiser, A Day for Ray, at the Elks Lodge, 250 Whitney Ave. in Holyoke, Mass. With Cox providing food and raffle prizes along with other businesses, the fundraiser was held on August 29, 2010 from 12 pm to 5 pm.

A sure measure of how much Ray and Bobbi are loved, the place was packed. Barbara and I arrived with no little trepidation. The last time we had seen Ray and Bobbi was in April before he was diagnosed. We had not talked to them since. We didn’t know what to expect. We were nervous.

We needn’t have worried.

What’s this? Balloons? People laughing? Smiles everywhere? Is that a rock band setting up? It is! Why, it looks like... feels like a ... a... a... PARTY!

Ray, newly bald and neck swollen, sat smiling at a table holding court. He was surrounded by people hugging him and kissing him and joshing with him, while many others waited in line to do the same. Barbara and I were among them.

When Barbara got to Ray, she gave him a big hug and said, “This is the big hug I have been waiting to give you. And how are you doing?”

“OK,” he said, not smiling, in fact, somberly.

It was my turn. In a split second, I decided to bet the pot. I put my arm on Ray’s shoulder, stuck my face in his, and, pointing at his bald head, said, “I see you’ve finally done something about that disgusting head of hair of yours. You’ve gone bald like me. Congratulations.”

He laughed. And it was a real laugh, too. Yes!

Later, Bobbi told me that Ray doesn’t like rehashing the cancer. It’s there. He knows it. And he’s dealing with it. Everybody in that crowded room seemed to sense it.

Of the many conversations that Barbara and I had during the five hours we were there, the word “cancer” was hardly mentioned. There were no glum faces, only happy ones. What was this, mass denial?

From where I sat, not in the least. People were merely telling malignant brain cancer to take a walk for these few hours. It was a spontaneous and joyous affirmation of life, love, family, and friends.

People were happy to be helping Ray and Bobbi. They were happy at seeing friends and family, often after many months and even years. Here are Bobbi and Ray with her family, a rare opportunity for them to get together.

The hall was full of mini reunions with tight hugs and teary eyes. When little Calista and Arianna first saw their grandma Joanie, they lit up and ran into her arms.

Joanie and her twin sister Helen may have been born together on the same day, but life led them to make lives in Massachusetts and Illinois respectively. But today they were together and enjoyed every second of it, as is so obvious in this photo of them.

Art and his daughter Kim have not been able to spend much time with each other, but here they were today sitting at a table and talking as father and daughter. The glasses and ear belong to Art, who is barely in the picture. I know I'm going to hear about it. Sorry, Art! Calista and Arianna, Kim's and Dave's adopted daughters, and Art, their grandfather, got to enjoy each other.

On second thought, Art, I'd just as soon NOT hear from you. So here's a photo of you I was hoping to avoid, showing your whole face. Here you are with Barbara. Nice shot of Barbara, don't you think?

No, this Sunday was not about cancer. It was about people. It was not about dying. It was about living. As Ray said to me, “I’m not going anywhere.”

One other thing. As Barbara and I were getting ready to head out to the fundraiser, she asked if I was going to take my camera.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think it would be appropriate. I don’t want to stick a camera in people’s faces when the occasion is about terminal brain cancer.”

“Maybe you should bring it,” Barbara said.

I did. When I walked into that large space, the second thing I noticed (the first being all the happy faces) was that everybody was snapping pictures. Out came my camera. And here are some of the scenes that caught my eye.


Mom JoAnn and stepdad Roy with Laura, 13. Laura and I have taken to kidding each other. She asked me if I would buy her a drink and I got it (not the drink, the joke). I told her I didn't like being around old people and she got it.

Look at them Go!

Ray and Bobbi,

In the years to come -- and may they be many -- may this account and these photos recall a joyous day with family and friends. May they tell you over and over how much you are loved and that you have family and friends who will always be there for you.

From all of us...

P.S. People can live a long time with malignant brain cancer. The singer David. M. Bailey is one. Listen to what he says: "I was diagnosed with GBM in July 1996 --- They told me I had 6 months. They were wrong. Despite what you might hear, hope is a very real thing, and with every passing day, there are more and more reasons to hope. I was given 6 months and that was 13 years ago." For more on David M. Bailey and info on his treatment regimen, click here.

P.P.S. When Ray and Bobbi went into Dana Farber this week, a smiling nurse practitioner greeted them. "I have some good news,"she said. "The tumor has shrunk." She told them that the 10% of the tumor remaining after the surgery was now 30% smaller. "You may be breaking new ground here," I said to Ray. He smiled but his face quickly turned into a portrait of resolve. "This is going to be a happy ending," he said firmly.

The Breast Friends Connection: Linda and Kelley Launch a New Group to Meet the Needs of Cancer Survivors.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 00:14:00 +0000

Breast Cancer. Linda Halloran and Kelley Balkus, shown here at their first fund-raiser at Crystal Caves Mini Golf in Auburn, Mass, have been there. They have lived with breast cancer and are living with it every single day.

Linda was 34 in 1999 when she was diagnosed with Stage 2 Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma. Kelley was 36 in 2006 when she was told that she had breast cancer, Stage 1 DCIS. Since then, both have endured aggressive treatment. Linda went through a lumpectomy, four rounds of chemo, and 30 radiation sessions. Kelley had a lumpectomy, sentinal node biopsy, radiation, tamoxifen, and had her ovaries and fallopian tubes removed.

Linda and Kelley were diagnosed with two very different breast cancers. Yet when the two met at a breast cancer support group in 2006, they quickly connected. Both felt that they were not getting the support they wanted and needed. Something vital, they told each other, was missing.

"I didn't feel a connection," Linda said. Kelley felt the same way. They finally decided that what was missing was an emotional connection with the depth and understanding that they had developed for each other as breast cancer survivors and "breast friends."

Kelley confided in Linda that she would tell her two boys that she was upset and had to go into her room for a while. Then, behind closed doors, she had an all-out cry at the cancer's unfairness and deadly threat. Linda, with a son and daughter of her own, understood.

Linda would speak from the heart to Kelley. She would tell her that the cancer was too much to bear; and that, with a hair salon to run, she had no time for cancer. She would tell her that faith and family were not enough. With a career (preschool teacher, massage therapist), faith, and family of her own, Kelly understood.

For Linda and Kelley, a desire to be there for other breast cancer survivors as they have been for each other, came about almost as a natural next step. Though neither had ever done anything like it before, they decided to create a non-profit organization called "The Breast Friends Connection."

They began with monthly wellness meetings at Girls, Inc. in Worcester, Mass. The meetings are held the first Monday of the month from 6:00 P.M. to 8 P.M. Women are at various stages of their breast cancer journey. Some have recently received the crushing diagnosis. Some are midway in the journey. Some have lived with the cancer for some time, but still struggle to cope with it.

As women share experiences and feelings, as they ask questions and get answers about resources and coping ideas, they learn to trust and care for each other. No longer feeling isolated and at the mercy of the cancer, gaining fresh new hope for a healthy and happy life, the woman become "breast friends" as Linda and Kelley have. The meetings also include activities such as stretching, yoga, meditation, pilates, and other means of therapeutic relaxation. Activities vary each month.

Linda and Kelley paid out-of-pocket for meetings at Girls, Inc. and for developing a professional brochure, which has been distributed to area health facilities. On August 21, a Saturday, they held their first fund-raiser at Crystal Caves Mini Golf. The owners donated half the proceeds to "The Breast Friends Connection."

There were free coffee and donuts, courtesy of Dunkin Donuts. Volunteers offered the coffee and donuts and sold golf and raffle tickets for the many donated prizes. In the photo, Sue sells tickets. That's a "Breast Friends" T-shirt behind her.

Prizes included a Kindle electronic reader worth nearly $200. Eleven key sponsors, all local businesses, donated $100 each.

As late as the day before the fund-raiser, Linda had only eight people confirmed coming. She and Kelley fretted that the fund-raiser would be a bust and that they would end up playing miniature golf with a few family and friends.

They needn't have worried. Eighty-three people showed up, exceeding all expectations. The event raised enough money to cover out-of-pocket start-up expenses, with a little leftover to pay for the next few meetings.

"The Breast Friends Connection" was on its way!

Even the weather cooperated. After days of sticky heat, this was a perfect summer day, just right for miniature golf and having some fun. Here is a panoramic scene of what the day looked like.

As breast cancer is very much a family affair, so was this event. Many young people attending were from families living with a mother's breast cancer. This photo shows a group of teens on the mini golf course.

Here are a couple of other young people, both from families dealing with breast cancer. Linda's niece Julianna shows off the breast cancer symbol on her cheek, a raffle ticket, and a golf ball.

Kelley's son Nick pauses to pose. He knows why he is there. He understands why his Mom sometimes needs to go to her room. Breast cancer is something he lives with every day.

Believe it or not, there were some serious golfers out there -- and competitive juices flowed. Here Ron gets a little carried away after making a good shot.

In the photo below, Barbie, left in festive dress, celebrates with the other girls Rose's hole-in-one. Rose is the littlest one. Whether Rose actually accomplished the feat or not, she got credit for it anyway.

In the other photo, Barbie's glasses may seem, well, at bit over the top. But here, on this beautiful day, on this successful fund-raising debut of "The Best Friends Connection," her outsized glasses fit the expansive mood.

The day was capped off by the awarding of prizes to lucky ticket-holders, below. Kelley reached in the upraised basket for the winning tickets and called out the numbers. Linda gave the prizes to the happy winners.

After weeks of organizing with non-stop phone calls and e-mails, the first fund-raiser was a success and "The Best Friends Connection" was a reality. Linda and Kelley decided that they deserved a little break. Along with family and friends, they went to a lakeside cottage in Oxford, Mass. to catch a breath. A photographer caught them sipping a couple of cold ones, below:

NOTE: If you know someone touched by breast cancer, "Breast Friends" can help. Or if you know someone looking to make a tax-deductible donation to a worthy cause, "Best Friends" might just be right for them. Linda and Kelley ask that you have people e-mail them at: thebreastfriendsconnection@yahoo.com.

So long and keep moving.

Splashing, Eating, Chatting, Chilling: The Usual Fun Summer Outing at the Lake, Except That It's Not.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 01:25:00 +0000

It's a storybook summer scene. Young, not-so-young, old (me, at 72), taking time out from life at a beautiful lake. In the photo, they soak, float, chat, and laze away a summer day at Lake Saccarappa in Oxford, Mass.

The scene is perfect, right down to the perfect dive by Karina, 15. (On the dive, she got a rating of 9 out of a possible 10. Hey, she's got to have something to work for.) Karina was there along with several teen friends, shown in this photo.

You would never guess from all the smiles and fun that most of the people at this carefree summer outing are residents of the Crescent Manor Rest Home in Grafton, Mass. They are there because for any number of reasons, they have had trouble living independently. For now, Crescent Manor is their home.

It is where they get the medical, nursing, and counseling services they need from a dedicated staff of 32. To serve 58 residents, staff is on duty 24 hours a day in three shifts. Many staff members have worked at Crescent Manor for many years.

Ruby Pollock, my sister and the Assistant Administrator has worked at Crescent Manor for 22 years. Ruby organized this outing, raised money for it -- including the cost of a van for to and from transport -- and provided the beautiful location: her longtime summer cottage. In the big photo above, she is shown floating on an inflatable just under Karina's dive. Karina is her granddaughter.

Also shown in the photo above is Karen Calkins, a psychological counselor, who has been working with Crescent Manor residents for 23 years. She is sitting on the dock watching Karina's dive. Ruby and Karen are professionals. But here they are, relaxing and hanging out right along with their clients.

As the day went on, however, Karen could be seen having long one-on-one talks with residents. Karen sits with Tony, 73 and a 5-year resident of Crescent Manor. As they talk, they watch three of Karina's young friends enjoy the water. Next, Karen is in earnest conversation with Paul, a 6-year resident of Crescent Manor, who is legally blind. He didn't swim but, judging from his ready smile, he felt right at home.

A feeling of home is an important goal that Ruby has for the residents. Having grown up herself in foster homes, she has a special understanding of home and family. Entirely on her own, she put herself through Worcester State College where she received a BS Degree. She went on to qualify as a Licensed Social Worker.

At Crescent Manor, Ruby does everything she can to make residents feel at home, from respecting privacy to encouraging family contacts and social interaction and self-help. Boy, was there a ton of social interaction here at her cottage!

She also gives residents hope. "I make sure new residents have hope from day one," she said. "No one can live without hope. No one should have to." The hope can be to regain physical health and mobility or to overcome any number of emotional and psychological problems.

Very often, the goal is to resume living independently. Ruby said that is true of perhaps 40% of current residents. One resident who is getting ready to go out and live on her own is Pat, 61. After 11 years at Crescent Manor, she is hoping to be out on her own over the next six months. Ruby thinks she can do it and she and others on the Crescent Manor staff are working hard to make it happen. In the photo, Pat is relaxing on a float in the water. The smile on her face says it all.

When residents succeed in leaving for independent living, Ruby makes sure they do so with a safety net. "I tell them that if they get in trouble, give me a call," Ruby said. "Crescent Manor will be here for them."

Sitting on the deck lounge chair behind Pat is Dolores, 49, another resident that Crescent Manor helped achieve a big goal: citizenship. The staff supported and encouraged the Philippines-born Dolores to fill out the paperwork and study hard.

She met all the requirements, took and passed the test. A Crescent Manor staff member, Laurie Curran, accompanied her to Faneuil Hall in Boston, where she was sworn in as a U.S. citizen. A celebration party for Dolores was held at Crescent Manor.

One of the youngest residents at the outing was Fred, just 55. A 12-year resident of Crescent Manor, he has come a long way. Once greatly overweight, he has shed a lot of pounds by exercising and watching what he eats.

However, at this outing, he didn't do much exercising, as this photo graphically illustrates. In fact, he didn't do any at all. Here he is having a nice snooze in the water.

Is that any way to work up an appetite?

There was plenty of food. As residents arrived, Karina offered them her homemade fried dough. Below she is cooking up a batch. The fried dough went fast, though the disciplined Fred declined seconds.

Yes, that's right, Karina the prize-winning diver is also a fine cook. In the photo below, she is shown preparing her fried dough. Besides entertaining her young friends, she also ran around helping her Mimi Ruby. She is a 15-year-old who acts like an adult. She and Tony, 73, played a little game in which he tried to guess her age.

"He started at 23," Karina said, "and he had to keep going down and down. Can you believe he thought I was 23?"

Also cooking was Michelle Palmer, the activities director at Crescent Manor. Drafted into cooking up hot dogs and buns on an unfamiliar grill and with a tricky lighter, she fearlessly plunged in. In no time, she had the lighter and grill going and guests were eating hot dogs along with Ruby's specialty potato salad.

Like Karen and Ruby, Michelle mingled easily with residents throughout the day, sitting with them, chatting with them, literally disappearing among them. Staff and residents interacted so easily and completely that it would be hard for anybody just showing up to tell them apart.

Residents sat at a long bench and ate looking out at the water. If this view won't stimulate the appetite, I don't know what would.

Some residents wanted no part of swimming and could care less about even being outside. In fact, they preferred to relax, eat, talk, and watch TV inside the cottage.

Here Lorraine and Eloise are inside watching President Obama being interviewed on The View. That's what they wanted to do. That's what made them happy. And, consistent with Crescent Manor policy of respecting individual differences, no one had a problem with it.

Soon, too soon, the van was back and it was time to get ready to go. By this time, I had become just another member of the gang. Though my official job was lifeguard and general helper, I swam, ate, and horsed around just like everybody else. I got to know these Crescent Manor Residents.

I especially had fun with Joanne. She has difficulty walking and could only sit in a chair outside and take it all in. When she sat in the chair, I put on my meanest face and went over to her. Hands on my hips, I told her that she was sitting in my chair and that I wanted it back.

She laughed. Never having set eyes on me, she knew immediately that I was putting her on and she thought it was funny. So did the others. They all sensed that I am a mush.

Serious problems may have brought them to Crescent Manor, but this crew's awareness of others and their sense of humor are alive and well. In the photo, Ruby and Karen help Joanne walk.

We couldn't leave without a group photo. As the next oldest there, 72 to Tony's 73, I got to stand in the middle of the group with Tony. I had been kidding him nonstop about his age and he had been throwing it right back at me. No blows were thrown, unless you want to count our arms around each other in the photo.

So long and keep moving.

P.S. Because I don't know any better, I challenged the van driver to a race to the end of the road, probably a half a football field. I took off as fast as my legs could carry me. The driver made sure I won. I raised my arms in victory as the van passed, full of laughing and cheering residents. True!

A 90-Year-Old With Fire in the Belly: A Growing Number of Young "Old People" Play Tennis to WIN!

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 13:39:00 +0000

Ah, excuse me, if you think 90 is old, better think again.

Tom is 90. Here he is in action on the tennis court. In the photo at left, he's going for a volley with partner Carl in the background. In the other photo, he is hitting a backhand.

And after a nearly two-hour tennis workout, including an all-out competitive round-robin singles, he skipped up three flights of stairs for an equally competitive game of pool, eight ball.

“You don't take the elevator?” I asked, feeling the stairs.

“Nah,” he said dismissively.

The tennis session and pool took place at The Overlook, a Life Care Community in Charlton, Mass. It was conducted by a certified tennis instructor, Jim Kane. Jim is certified by the PTR (Professional Tennis Registry) and is also a member of the USTA. Jim had told me that he had a 90-year-old who was “really good,” and I was intrigued.

Not only that, Jim said, but after tennis, the nonagenarian always insisted that they have a “friendly” game of pool. Tom is as competitive playing pool as he is on the tennis court. “He beats me every time,” Jim said

I went to see for myself.

There were eight people in the group, five women and three men. The women were Sally, Heath, Nancy, Betty, and Marianne. The men were Tom, Carl, and Brian. They ranged in age from the 60's up to 90.The group are shown in the photo with Jim Kane, who is demonstrating a forehand.

Whoops! We can't see Betty. She's behind Jim. Well, Betty, to make it up to you, here's a shot of you in action. (Hope you weren't hiding.)

Tom, at 90, was the oldest. But, to my surprise, age was beside the point, though I had come to the session thinking it was. These were eight tennis players out to play the game, play hard, improve, and enjoy it – and win.

Jim Kane put the group through a series of exercises on fundamentals: forehand, volley, overhead, movement. The pace was brisk, continuous, and very physical. For nearly two hours , Jim had them running, lunging, swinging a tennis racket, whacking a tennis ball.

Jim was more than the tennis pro. He was also a good friend. Having conducted tennis sessions at The Overlook for four years, Jim was on a first-name basis with everybody in the group. He gave nonstop encouragement. “Good hit, Sally,” he would say. Or “Nice movement, Carl.” Or “Racket back, good Tom.”

There were squeals of delight at a solid stroke. There were exasperated sighs at messing up. All were fully into it, running around, hanging on Jim's every word, responding to his encouragement, pushing themselves to do better.

Then came the final challenge: a singles round-robin to crown the day's champ. Intensity settled over the group. Competitive juices flowed. There would be one winner and everybody wanted to be that winner. Weaker players for whom winning could only be a dream, dreamed.

Tom, who had played tennis for 20 years before taking a break several years ago, was the top seed. He moves like men half his age. Sally, whose age I did not have the guts to ask, was the second seed.

She is feisty, has a natural forehand, and plays to win. In the photo, she is hitting that forehand: moving her feet, weight forward, and about to hit through the ball, just as Jim Kane has been teaching.

As expected, top seed Tom came on strong and surged to an early big lead. He quickly accumulated nine of the ten points needed to win. Sally was a distant second with three points. But then a dark horse emerged from the pack, Carl. As Carl surged, Tom was repeatedly not able to put away that last point.

Determined, focused, Carl, 82, battled uphill and came from nowhere to win. Here he is exulting in his unexpected, come-from-behind victory. Of course, he is only 82, a relative youngster.

A few days later, when I came out to The Overlook to have a chat with Tom, he said, “I let Carl win. I should have won that. To top it off, afterwards Jim came up and beat me in pool for the first time.”

In the photo, Tom is shown lining up a shot in that pool game with Jim Kane. He is using a bridge, which he calls “the old lady.” He said that he hates the old lady, no doubt because he does not like to call on her, or anybody else for that matter, for assistance.

Jim Kane and Tom actually played two pool games. Tom won the first as usual. He lost the second, his first ever to Jim. Even though the pool session ended up at one win apiece, a tie, Tom doesn't see it that way. He remembers the win that got away.

At 90? Jim Kane sees no reason why Tom should not push himself, improve, and play to win in tennis as well as in pool. He says that players age 90 and over, something unthinkable not very long ago, are becoming more and more common.

Jim cites a story told by Vic Braden, a legendary tennis teacher, of a match between a 90-year-old and and 94-year-old at the Super Senior National Championship in Georgia. The 90 year old was in better shape and kept running the older player from corner to corner. Finally the 94 year old player stopped and had to take a break, shouting across the court "Oh, to be 90 again..."

How does an older tennis player get to that level? Jim, passing on Vic Braden's time-honored advice, says you should always play low to high on forehands and backhands. This is true regardless of ability, Jim says.

Like Vic Braden, Jim breaks each player's ground stroke down to the one basic rule many tennis players seem to forget: Your arm/racquet movement has to go from low to high in order for the ball to clear the net.

Even though Tom was edged out by Carl in the singles competition and lost a game of eight-ball to Jim Kane, he has clearly been doing something right. He has come a long way in his life, from nowhere in fact.

Born in Cambridge, Mass in 1920, his father was a traveling insurance agent for Met Life. His mother died in 1929 and his father remarried. He was the oldest of two brothers and two sisters. A sister and brother survive, the sister living in Shrewsbury, Mass and the brother living in Carver, Mass. He sees them often.

He has vivid memories of the Great Depression. “My father sold policies from door to door for as little as 10 cents,” Tom said. “ We were always on the move, going from apartment to apartment, always renting, never buying. We were fairly poor, though not as poor as some. We didn't waste anything. One of my jobs was to sift through the ashes of the coal-burning stove in the basement for bits of unburnt coal. I also walked along the railroad tracks picking up unburnt coals from passing trains.”

He graduated from eighth grade at St. Clement's in Somerville. He went on to Arlington High from which he graduated in 1937. The family moved yet again, to Brighton, and he immediately went to work. College was not an option.

He worked at all kinds of jobs, from filling seed packets in Boston to soddering radio tubes for Ratheon. Finally, he found a job that he liked and was good at: as a machinist's apprentice at Watertown Arsenal. The company was owned and run by the U.S. Government.

With a stable job and income, Tom married his high school sweetheart in 1940. He was 20 years old. He had barely settled into married life when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and America was at war. In 1942, he joined the U.S. Air Force. He qualified for pilot training and completed training as a multi-engine pilot and also as a B-29 pilot.

Commissioned as a Second Lieutenant, Tom received his wings in 1945. After a hard-scrabble childhood, he was now a certified officer and gentleman. He had received orders to be shipped out to the Pacific when the U.S. dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

“My wife was praying hard,” he said, that he would not be shipped out. Her prayers were answered.

After the war and back as a civilian, Tom could have opted to work as a commercial pilot. He thought hard about it. “I was good at it,” he said, “but I didn't like it.”

He finally decided against flying for a living and has “never regretted it.” The officer and gentleman went back to machine work. But he had dreams. He was willing to push himself to make them come true. He worked as a machinist by day and went to Northeastern University nights. For five years, he did this, finally receiving a B.A. Degree in Business Administration.

From there it was nowhere but up. He worked for GE in Lynn, Nuclear Metals in Concord, Xerox, Avco in Wilmington. Each time he changed jobs, he moved up and made more money. He also worked many years at various U.S. Government agencies, such as the National Army Lab.

He says that one of the best things he ever did was when he unretired and went back to work at a government job for three years. It allowed him to reach 23 years of U.S. Government employment and thus qualify for federal retirement and health benefits.

He has the same generous benefits as members of Congress. “You know how President Obama is always saying that this is what he wants everybody to have. Well, I'm one who has.”

But it hasn't been all work. For the past 30 years he has also indulged in a great passion: sailing. Over the years, he has owned many sailboats and sailed out of Marblehead, Boston Harbor, and Winthrop. He sailed to Maine on his 20-foot Barnegat or 34-foot Pearson. In later years, he sailed chartered boats in the Caribbean, Greece, Turkey, and elsewhere.

Over the years, Tom enjoyed a 50-year marriage and raised four boys. He lost his one daughter in infancy. Ten years ago, he lost his youngest son at forty. He died in bed and doctors were not able to determine the cause of death.

Tom's three surviving sons from oldest to youngest, Tom, Sean, and Dennis, live within driving distance, in Concord, Belchertown, and Northhampton respectively. “They are very good to me,” Tom said. “They come here frequently.” He has two grandsons, 11 and 21.

After losing his wife of 50 years, Tom remarried. He and his wife Anita moved to The Overlook together three years ago. A smoker, she came down with a fast-growing lung cancer and passed away 18 months ago after 12 years of marriage.

Losing her was hard, Tom said. “She was much loved. She was a dynamic character that everybody remembers for her laugh. If people heard a loud laugh, they knew it was Anita.”

In Anita's waning months, he was grateful to be able to see her every day at the Health Center. All it took was a few minutes walk to the critical nursing section of the Health Center. Of his being able to do this at The Overlook, he said, “I can't praise enough.”

Tom loves living at The Overlook. “There's everything I want here. I couldn't ask for any more. People here are very friendly. We're like one big family. Nobody should feel alone here. You can be as active as you want with all the activities and trips. They should be paying me to say this.”

As Tom escorted me around, there certainly seemed to be everything that anybody could want. There was a cafeteria, formal dining room, performing arts center, health and fitness club, convenience store, computer center, salon and barber shop. We passed the library filled with residents sitting on overstuffed armchairs quietly reading newspapers, books, and magazines.

Below the tennis court is a gardening area where residents grow fruits, veggies, and flowers. Residents went about their gardening as Tom and his fellow tennis players took part in Jim Kane's tennis clinic. Two activities that could not be more different took place practically side by side – a telling indication of the diversity of choices at The Outlook.

The choices are what Tom likes most. “I can take part in all kinds of activities or not. I can be with people or not. It's my choice.” He says he can dine out alone or with friends or go upstairs to his spacious apartment home and prepare a meal and eat by himself.

Tom has a reclusive side and enjoys alone time. “Tonight,” he said, “I'm going up and I'm going to take out a frozen turkey leg, cook vegetables and potatoes, and eat by myself.”

I hinted that I might want to join him. Check that. I invited myself to dinner.

“No,” he said immediately.

“What if the other tennis players hear about you turning me down like this? What are they going to think?”

He smiled. “I'll tell them I heard you didn't like turkey.”

Tom no longer drives and he misses it terribly. “I don't like having to depend on other people to get me to places where I want to go,” he said. But he quickly points out that The Overlook has terrific transportation options for residents, and that it's easy for him to hitch rides with his three sons and friends. “I have no trouble getting where I want to go and when I want to go there,” he said.

How did Tom make it to 90 when so many of us ordinary mortals don't? He could not be clearer. “Very early in my life I became convinced that exercise and hard work are good for the body. I have always lived that kind of life.”

Tom still exercises regularly. Instead of taking the elevator, he walks. As we have seen, he plays tennis. He works out in the gym two or three times a week for at least 45 minutes. Here he poses with one of the three machines he uses for resistance training for arms, legs, and body core. He usually works up a sweat on the treadmill before moving on to working with weights.

“I have to exercise,” he said. “If I don't exercise, I can't sleep.”

He takes a lot of medications, to control cholesteral and blood pressure, for example. He has occasional unsteadiness on his feet and periodic bouts of restless leg syndrome. Yet, overall, Tom is in excellent health.

That morning he had gone to the doctor for his regular check-up. “Everything's good,” he said. “It was routine.”

“Do you expect to live forever?” I asked.

“Forever is a bit too long,” he said. “I look forward to another 10 years.”

Tom is tall, handsome, healthy, has all his cookies, is polite and soft-spoken, has a ready dry wit, and loves life. He is also single. He is an obvious catch for one of the many women at The Overlook. Women greatly outnumber men. The tennis group was made up of five women and three men, for example.

I asked him if he would be interested in getting married again or had any romantic inclinations. He smiled. “You know those thoughts do occur to me, but I dismiss them quickly. Thanks for the compliment, though.”

P.S. I think 90-year-olds are ganging up on me. Albert Southwick is 90 and is the country's oldest working columnist for a major newspaper, the Worcester Telegram & Gazette. We exchanged written words. Here is his recent column and my response to it. My response ran as the Letter of the Week.

P.P.S. My novel, “State Kid: Hero of Literacy,” will soon be available on Google's new E-bookstore, Google Editions. For a free preview, click here.

Lately On My Mind: Living 700 Years, Computer Agonies, E-books, the Giant Men of Seattle, Chilling Out on Nantucket. And Losing a Son.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 19:57:00 +0000

“Where are you?” an old friend and reader of this blog e-mailed me. “You all right?”

It had been over a month since I had posted anything. I was pleased that somebody had noticed.

I e-mailed her back that, yeah, I was still vertical and breathing, except that my computer wasn't. It had crashed. Well, that was only part of the story. I was also struggling with whether to acknowledge something deeply personal to Barbara and me: the loss of our son Mark in a fatal car accident. Also, if I did, I wasn't sure how.

A blog devoted to the loss? Continue to write nothing at all? Or a short acknowledgment just so readers would know, as part of a normal blog?

Barbara and I ruled out the first because we really didn't want to go deeply into the loss all over again. Considering that six months had passed, the second seemed like it was being unreal. We decided on the third option. Why? Because, after six months of silence about it on this blog, it is time. It is time that we acknowledge the loss and begin the long and painful process of acceptance.

An important part of that, Barbara and I both agree, is resuming a normal life, to the extent that is possible after such a loss, the worst that can befall a parent. This loss happened. We must accept it and move on while continuing to love and honor Mark and never, ever forgetting him. It will be impossible for us to forget him, certainly not with all the pictures we have of him around the house.

Normal for me is getting back to my blog. My nature is to bear witness to things that happen around me and to do so in words and pictures. Barbara's nature is to stand with me and let me be me, for good or ill. She is with me as I write these words and when I publish a photo from the recent Memorial Golf Tournament held in honor of Mark and as a benefit for his family, wife Erin and children, Connor, Seamus, Liam and Riley.

The event was so well-attended that two golf courses were needed to handle the response, and many were turned away. Kettlebrook Golf Club in Paxton, Mass. and Wachusett Country Club in West Boylston, Mass. were the two sites for the tournament. Wachusett Country Club hosted the dinner that completed the day, serving over 400 friends and family. What a wonderful tribute for a sadly missed son, brother, husband, father and friend.

At Mark's Memorial Golf Tournament, Barbara manages a smile while posing with our oldest grandchild, Connor, 10.She and our daughter Misha were both were volunteers for the Memorial Golf Tournament. Misha flew out from Seattle for it.

Now, with Barbara's approval, I go on with this blog as I normally would.

One good thing about my computer crash is that I was forced to appreciate what a big role the computer plays in my life. I realize now that I routinely spend hours on it almost every day, doing e-mails, browsing the net, and doing the kind of reading that has been done on paper for a couple of centuries.

Yet with newspapers, books, and magazines, dying a slow death, I still clung stubbornly to my daily New York Times, Wall Street Journal, the weekly New Yorker magazine, and other paper relics. Everywhere I go, I have The New York Times or some other paper product tucked under my arm. I live in fear that I will be stuck somewhere with nothing to read. My son Greg tells everybody that the NYT is my “blankee.”

He is right, but will not be for much longer. I am in the process of breaking my addiction to print on paper, which has ruled me all my life and which has been with us for five centuries. Now I have a new blankee. It is a Lenovo laptop computer which I am taking with me more and more. I am writing this on it.

Ours is a spanking new – and revolutionary -- era of reading on electronic devices, including cell phones. And now we have the online subscription. Rupert Murdock, whose News Corporation owns The Wall Street Journal, believes that readers should pay for online content. Very soon, The Wall Street Journal will be charging for its online content.

Having spent most of my working life in traditional publishing, I am being forced to turn my back on it and get with the times. In addition to my new laptop, I have also embraced the wild new and rapidly growing world of E-books. My novel, “State Kid,” will be available on Google Editions, Google's new E-bookstore, when it opens later this summer. Amazing to me, it will be available worldwide and can be read on all devices. To check it out, click here.

An old dog like me does not learn new tricks easily. An old brain, comfy with decades of the old ways, mightily resists anything new. But the unadulterated truth is that unless an old brain is fed new information and ways of doing things, it declines at an ever faster rate.

It is use it or lose it. No learned neurological journal can tell you to do anything more important for a healthy brain. What makes the human brain so responsive to intellectual stimulation is its elasticity. When you do everything by rote, an unchallenged brain coasts and tends to lose agility. But present your brain with new information and ask it to solve new problems, and it stretches – and maintains or even expands function.

Knowing this, when our son Jon spent several hours at the house setting up a new computer system for me -- he's a software engineer-- I tried hard to understand what was going on. He is shown here at work. He was creating a laptop and desktop system that talked to each other and that Barbara and I could both use. He patiently explained how the system worked, like a teacher dealing with a slow learner.

I am trying very hard to understand it all. This is a healthy brain meal Jon is offering me, but I have little appetite for it. I'm like a kid who doesn't want to eat his spinach. These days I'm eating my spinach, don't like it, but am making some progress.

I managed to get this blog up. In the process, I was able to crop and edit the photos, though I lost the files twice and had to photo-search them. I see that look on your face, Jon, but I promise you that I'm going to get there – and before age 120. Well, maybe age 700.

Which brings me to a guy named Raymond Kurzweil who is 62 and firmly believes that dying is a very bad idea. He wants to live to be around 700. Wild fantasy? Not to Mr. Kurzweil. He is deadly serious. He would take issue with the word “deadly” here.

He is super smart. In 1965, when he was 17, he built a computer that composed music. A couple of years later while he was at M.I.T., he developed a computer that determined the most appropriate college for individual high school students. He sold it for $100,000, plus royalties.

He has since made millions selling his inventions. He developed the first print-scanning system converting text to speech and allowing the blind to read. He invented software for securities traders and e-readers for digital publications. He has conquered his own diabetes by changing his diet and reprogramming his body with supplements. And much more.

He thinks the pace of technological change, which he says is increasing exponentially, is going to change everything for humankind. In just the last few decades, it has already dramatically altered human existence. He believes that in the coming decades this headlong multiplying change will inevitably spell the end of the human era.

Don't misunderstand. He is an optimist. He is convinced that we human beings can use technology to overcome mortality and thrive in a post-human world. By the 2030's, he is convinced that we will at least be able to achieve mental mortality by a computerized backing-up of the brain. “In 25 years, a computer as powerful as today's smartphones will be the size of a blood cell,” Mr. Kurzweil says.

He has become a leading spokesperson for richly-financed Singularity University in Mountain View, California, which is working furiously to be a midwife to the human being-machine age. Some of the world's smartest and richest people have embraced Singularity, including the co-founders of Google, Sergey Brin and Larry Page.

The Singularity Movement is significant enough for The New York Times to have published an extensive report on it on June 13. To read this report, click here:

Meanwhile, I'm preparing for the day when I become part man and part machine. Already, I run around the tennis court with the help of titanium knees. An artificial arm or two for me would be no huge leap. It would almost be a natural next step

Nikki, the girl next door whom I watched grow up and who is now a junior at WPI, is planning a career in prosthetics. This summer she is doing volunteer research on rats. She says that she foresees the day when she will be fitting me with manufactured arms, legs, and other artificial appendages as the need arises.

We both have a good laugh over it. But the reality is that I could very well be in her office in the not too distant future looking for a robotic arm or leg. The only original human part that I insist on keeping is my brain, though I know it could use a good upgrade. The rest can be manufactured. And this is exactly what the Singularity Movement has in mind.

When Nikki starts supplying me with new manufactured body parts, I'm going to ask her to make me tall. I've been a shrimp all my life and I have never felt completely comfortable with it. I am 5-6. As if that were not bad enough, I'm shrinking. I used to be 5-8.

I still put 5-8 on personal forms. When I have my picture taken with my daughter Misha, who is taller than I am, I have her scrunch down or I get up on a rock. Dammit, I think, it's not fair.

Unlike guys like me, tall guys get the best jobs, make more money, get promoted faster and higher, and have to bat the girls away. Not surprisingly, since both girls and bosses love them, they have great self-esteem.

For the most part, I manage to put my lack of physical stature out of mind. However, on a recent two-week visit to Seattle, I got an unexpected reminder. It happened at a Starbucks where I had taken to going for breakfast and to read the papers.

There I was minding my own business when, from day one, I was subjected to a parade of tall men. I sat in the same spot each morning and this affrontery passed right before my eyes, interrupting my reading and reminding me of how tall I wasn't.

When I said something to a couple of Starbucks staff, both women with 14 years working in that location, they didn't believe it. “Just watch,” I said. “You'll see.” I brought my camera the next few days and began taking pictures of these Seattle giants. Here are just a couple, along with one of short old me joshing with one of the giants.

Soon when the Starbucks staff saw a giant guy, they looked over at me – after a week of sitting in the same spot, I had become a regular – and said, “Another one.” Or they would flick a quick fingerpoint and smile. I smiled back. Point made. They later said they were shocked that in 14 years on the job, they had not noticed these Seattle giants.

After the giants became a topic of conversation (I tend to cause trouble wherever I go without adult supervision), I learned from another regular, a college professor, that there was a simple explanation. He said that in Seattle's early years, there had been a large influx of Indo-Europeans, mostly from Scandinavia. Like the men of Scandinavia today, they were white and unusually tall.

Today their genes walk tall in Seattle. Here I make fun of one of them.

Next, with Barbara's sister visiting for a week, Barbara let me know that it was OK if I got lost. The two sisters wanted to talk and do girl things. I would just be in the way. So I called my old friend Bill who lives in Nantucket and invited myself for a visit.

He regularly tempts me to visit with talk of long bike rides all over the island, sightseeing walks around the town, swimming, and long breakfasts with The New York Times. When I take him up on it, he gets an attack of amnesia and I somehow always end up doing things like hauling wood.

This time Bill was a man of his word. The two of us biked for miles. We hung out over breakfast at my favorite spot downtown, The Bean; we went swimming and walking on the beach; Bill and his wife (and my friend) Tracy took turns cooking great meals; they even gave me their own bedroom.

“Where are you two going to stay?” I asked, without offering to give up my my bedroom, formerly theirs.

“Oh, don't worry,” Bill said, “We'll stay with friends.”

That sounded good to me.

Bill doesn't talk much, which is one of the things I like about him. In fact, I sometimes have to pull things out of him, such as his checkered past as “Surfer Bill.” That's what locals called him when he was a kid spending summers on Nantucket. And this time I found out, purely by accident, that he was also a model. That's right, a model.

Not only that, he is proud of it. Here he is shown with an old photo of a young, handsome Surfer Bill modeling swimwear for a magazine spread. And you know what? It's catchy in the Bill Murray family.

Here is daughter Surfer Maggie with her surfboard and also at her recent graduation from Northfield Mount Herman in western Massachusetts, where Bill also went.

She goes straight from graduation to surfing. Is there something not quite right about that?

However, Maggie can be forgiven. She's her dad's daughter. And she deserves a break from school before she goes off to Simmons College in Boston this fall. Also, at one movie night at home, she suggested that we watch “Across the Universe.” It's a terrific movie.

It's also a movie that I had never seen or even heard of. Basically, it's a story told through popular 50's and 60's songs by groups like the Beatles and Rolling Stones. The settings and dancing are spectacular.

I invited Maggie to join us for a second movie night. She decided to go out with her friends instead.

Imagine that. Choosing her friends over Mom and Dad and Honored Guest!

Early one evening Bill, Tracy, and I went out to a nearby beach to watch over a friend who was training to swim in an Iron Man competition. Here is a shot of Bill walking down to the beach and a picture of Tracy in the water with a beautiful expanse of beach behind her.

Here are a couple of Nantucket scenes, one of the cobble-stone residential street just up from the center of town and the other of a couple looking out on the water.

Nantucket is surely a beautiful place to go when you have to go somewhere and someone there is willing to take you in.

There is an art to being a house guest. No one, certainly not me, can be sure of being able to pull it off. Leave too soon and I unnecessarily give up my place as Honored Guest and the great meals, choice room, and the catering to that goes with the title. Overstay and I'm history. I'll never be able to invite myself back.

So this is what I try to do. I try to leave just before I start to go bad and the hosts start asking what that smell is. When they start looking at you, the next thing they will do is ask you to cook and clean. That's when you know you are no longer an Honored Guest and they want you out.

Did I pull it off? I was wondering myself when a letter addressed to Barbara arrived from Nantucket. It was the official Vacation Report Card for “Georgie” (my name as a kid) from Tracy to the adult in my house, Barbara.

Here's a summary:

Attitude: “full of laughs and outgoing” and “happy (took credit for the good weather).” “Made own bed daily.”

Activity: “Transitioned well from ferry to chair on deck” and “Biked to town and back on own!”

Physical: “Good appetite. Ate without complaint”

Sleep: “Napped as usual” “Says it's 30 minutes; Bill says 45 minutes”

Comments: “Played well with others”

Tracy praised me for being understanding of Bill when he forget to give me the lunch she had made for me to take on the ferry back to Hyannis. She said I was a very good boy to call him on my cell phone so he could drive like a maniac to the ferry with the lunch. He handed the lunch off to me seconds before the ferry pulled away.

(Between you and me, this is a total fabrication. I blame other people for everything. Will someone please help me?)

Barbara thought it was a good report card. She said I could go to Nantucket by myself again – if, and this is a big if, if I am a good boy.

So long and keep moving.

P.S. I am now thinking ahead to the post-human era when I will be part human (my brain) and part machine (everything else). Nikki, I've decided that I want to be tall. I want hair that is thick, curly, and dark. Do I have to keep my face? I want a face more like Robert Pattinson. I want to be tall, dark, handsome, and extremely mobile. Will that be doable? How soon do you think?

Seattle Scenes: When Legs Do The Walking and a Camera Does the Talking.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Wed, 12 May 2010 03:11:00 +0000

Seattle is different from East Coast cities.

But don't take it from me. Take it from my camera.

What does this photo of Barbara and me tell you? Perhaps, just perhaps, that when grown-ups come out here, they forget that they are adults and start acting like kids? Such as jumping on and riding iron sea lions?

Getting on a fat sea lion is easy; getting off is not. Barbara, a young girl compared to me, hopped off easily. I had trouble. Just after an elderly couple sitting nearby on a bench offered to help me off, I managed it on my own. I made it look a lot harder than it was. They both laughed.

As we left, the gentleman smiled and said, "Thanks for the entertainment."

"Any time," I said.

People laugh easily here. That makes Seattle an ideal setting for a show-off and amateur comic like me. I'll do anything for attention and a laugh. In this photo, hoping to catch the eyes of passersby, I do a little balancing act complete with a little dance flourish.

I got a few smiles but more quizzical looks that said, "Look at that crazy old guy." Oh well, that's show business. You can never tell what will go over with an audience. But at least no one reported me to authorities.

People here have a high tolerance for quirkiness. Maybe the beautiful setting has something to do with it. I was doing my act on the beach in Edmonds with picture-perfect white-capped mountains in the background.

The lucky woman below taking a break from work has a not too bad scene to feast her eyes on and get re-energized. I'd say it beats any employee rest area that I have seen.

She would also be able to look out and watch the ferry churning its way into Bracket's Landing, as in this photo. The only downside might be noisy interlopers like us carrying on.

Here I'm fooling around with Bella while two other grandkids, Mia and Max, and their mom Misha more or less behave. Mia is dressed in the white gown she wore while receiving her First Communion earlier.

Ed, father and husband, takes in the show and the scenery with little Max.

People were fishing off the main dock. And just as we walked by, a fisherman had pulled in an exotic, outrageously colorful creature of the deep.

It was a starfish, underside up on the dock. The fisherman was just about to throw the creature back when I asked if I could take a picture.

He obliged and here is that picture. Seconds later the lucky starfish got tossed back into the water, presumably having learned a lesson: stay away from those tempting appetizers dangling at the end of a line.

The starfish was not the only creature of the deep encountered. A few day's later, told by my wife and daughter to get lost (without actually saying the words; they are too polite for that), I walked three miles to the same spot. There I encountered three strange-looking creatures on the beach. They were part human for sure because they had faces, eyes, mouths, and walked upright.

On my own and lonely, I began talking with them as they prepared to go in the water. As I watched them pull on rubber suits, fasten gloves, heave on huge oxygen tanks, and check various gauges, I asked, "Do your moms know you are doing this?"

"My mom and I trained together," one said. "She's a diver, too."

"You're not worried about getting eaten out there by something a lot bigger than you?"

"No," the second one said. "But did you know that right here are the world's largest octopuses?"

"Really? And that doesn't worry you, that you could be gone in one gulp?"

"Nah," the third creature of the deep said. And I watched as the three of them, chatting happily, walked down to the water and disappeared into it.

Back at the house, I was allowed to be present at Mia's 8th birthday party. Like all of Misha's parties, it was an extravagant, meticulously-planned, beautiful affair. The night before, Misha gave us all paints, paint brushes, and blank canvases and told us to paint. I told her that I had never painted anything in my life.

"Paint," she said. I did and so did Barbara and Ed and Mia and Bella and even little Max. And soon the results were on the wall for Mia's party, shown here.

As we all gradually let our inner artists out, Barbara worked diligently to fill the space in a socially acceptable way. Ed, who has prehistoric impulses, went wild with colors while depicting a female face with outsized hair, lips, and eyes. Mia had fun splashing on colors. Bella settled for one color, brown.

With me, something unexpected happened when I picked up a paintbrush for first time in my life, dipped it in paint, and looked at a blank canvas. I thought about how I might best fill up that space. Could I be another Jackson Pollock?

I actually had reason to wonder whether I was related to the famous painter. My cousin Dianne, a genealogist, has recently discovered that we are related to historic luminaries, including a few Presidents. Dianne, could you find out if I am related to Jackson Pollock?

If I have his genes, one thing is sure. My first painting ever will be the first original Pollock in years. And then our paintings were finished and on the walls, on either side of a painting by Misha. Among her many talents, she is also an accomplished painter.

"You trying to make us look bad?" I asked her.

She smiled, guiltily.

She won't be so smug when Cousin Dianne finds out that I am related to Jackson Pollock and the first original Pollock in years is on the market and the bids start rolling in. I figure the bidding will start at $125 million.

Meanwhile, after the party, I was again banished to the wilderness. I had no car, only my God-given legs. And I used them. Boy did I use them, walking mile upon mile in the Shoreline/Edmonds area. I checked out the Firdale Village shopping area.

To my surprise, I found that much of this little area is devoted to animal needs. The Dining Dog Cafe & Bakery is a restaurant for dogs. It says it is the only restaurant where your "4-legged baby" is seated at a table with a "white tablecloth, chandeliers overhead, and the menu is designed exclusively for them!'"

Does that mean that dog-owners have to go hungry? No. You can get people food by ordering out from nearby eateries. It is delivered to your dog's table -- if he deigns to share it with you. You can read more at Dining Dog's website.

Splash Dog is a spa that provides warm water therapy for the canine set. The therapy includes body work such as massage, range of motion exercises, and swimming. Splash Dog promises that its therapy "can help your dog to live a more healthful, active, and rewarding life." It specializes in injury treatment and recovery.

Curious, I went into Splash Dog. There I came upon a therapist in a pool working with a big boxer named Joey and an tiny chihuahua named Twinks. Both come twice a week for treatment. Joey is 10 years old and feeling his age. "But he is doing better with the treatment," his owner said. She's had him since he was a pup and he is the "love of her life."

In the photo Joey gives little Twinks a ride. You can read more about Splash Dog at its website. As if this were not enough, there is also a cat-grooming studio in Firdale Village. On the way is a Doggie Day Care called Peanut's Pals. Apparently, this is not at all unusual for Seattle. For sure, this is an animal-lover's town.

Seattle is also people-friendly. Everywhere I walked, people spoke and smiled. Drivers slowed and waved me across the street. Like other major cities, Seattle is clogged with traffic. But here pedestrians, not cars, are routinely given right of way.

I felt important walking. In Edmonds one glorious sunny day, I walked by a couple sipping wine at an outdoor table of an Italian restaurant. I thought, "what a nice picture," but kept walking. Impulsively, I went back and asked if I could take their picture.

Both broke into huge smiles and immediately struck a pose. "Sure," the woman said. "My husband is a photographer."

"Well, " I said, looking at him, "then you know why I had to come back and take this picture."

"Absolutely," he said.

And here is the picture.

And then, normal for Seattle, we chatted. They have had a long and happy married life. The kids are grown and out on their own. And now they have the time and freedom to enjoy life, to do the things they have always wanted to do.

To start with, they want to live more simply. They want to sell their big house and move into something smaller that requires less care. They're thinking of a condo in Edmonds.

"I don't want to drive everywhere any more," he said. "I don't want to waste time in traffic. I'm done with being a slave to a car. In Edmonds, we can walk everywhere."

"Well," I said, puffing myself up, "I just walked here from Shoreline and I'm going to walk back. Works for me." I could tell they were impressed. They will never know that I called Ed and asked him to pick me up.

We parted as we met, with no names or numbers or e-mail addresses or websites or networking or hidden agendas of any kind. It was pure, honest, eye-contact (yes, through the sunglasses) conversation that happened spontaneously for its own sake and without one of today's ubiquitous electronic intermediaries.

It was people talking to people. This happens a lot in Seattle.

So long and keep moving

P.S. And now a 5-hour flight home. I'd rather walk.

Child of Africa: Story of an Mtoto Mzuri (Good Child), Told in Old, Old Photos.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 18:38:00 +0000

My oldest son, Greg, has a very special heritage that makes him different from I would say 98.8% of his fellow Americans. He was born in Africa on April 10, 1964 in a little 12-bed clinic in Kisumu, Kenya. That's him playing the drums on the cover of a little book I just did about Greg's African heritage.

After nearly a year of our making sure he slept under nets to avoid the parasite-carrying sting of the anopheles mosquito, Greg got bitten. He came down with malaria. The same British doctor who had ushered him into this world, Dr. Ian Maxwell, saved his life. Dr. Maxwell got him the quinine he needed.

After two years in Kenya, his mom and I carted Greg off to West Africa, where after six months he came down with dengue fever. An Indian doctor in Maiduguri, Northern Nigeria, just below the Sahara, told us that he had "growing pains." We knew better. He was severely dehydrated.

Greg and his mom got on the next plane to the U.S. where he received the medical care that he needed. I followed a few months later. Before the age of three, Greg had contracted and survived two of the world's deadliest diseases, malaria and dengue fever. Today these diseases still kill millions of Africans every year.

Sheer survival is surely the most important part of Greg's Africa heritage. But there is so much more. He is truly a child of Africa, riding in his basket in the back seat of our 1961 Volkswagon Bug, bumping over dirt roads, having monkeys jump on the car and peer down at him from the roof, playing with African children whose dark skin made no difference to him whatsoever.

Naturally, he remembers none of it.

I went to Kenya as a teacher with the Teachers for East Africa program of Columbia Teachers College. Fresh from college and with an intrepid new bride, I was going to save the world. I would do good. I would spread civilization. I would make friends for America. I was young and didn't know any better.

I did know enough to bring a camera, however, a little point-and-shoot Instamatic. Everywhere we went, I clicked away with the little Instamatic. Back in the U.S., we turned the photos into slides and little black and white prints and put them in a little box. There they mostly sat for close to a half century.

There sat also the photographic story of how Gregory Francis Pollock started off life in a faraway land and culture that could not be more different from our own. It is certainly an unusual story. Afraid that the story of Greg's African beginnings would vanish forever, I decided to make sure that this would not happen.

First, I retrieved the slides, nearly 200 of them and had the best of them, about 75, digitized and put on a CD. I had this done at the Photo Shop at Wal-Mart, which I highly recommend. The service was excellent and the price reasonable. I don't own Wal-Mart stock and I'm not being paid to say this.

Then I sat down with my niece Linda , who works as a consultant with Creative Memories. The company has all kinds of creative and exciting ways for people to capture cherished memories. She can be reached through her website. She is paying me big bucks to push Creative Memories. I wish. Linda and I are shown below.

We started with manuscript pages which I had organized into chapters such as Wild Africa, Exploring Africa, People of Africa, Living in Africa. For each chapter, I had taped suggested slides and photos on a rough layout and made notes on content.

For the cover, I had a montage of four photos of Greg as a baby. In the kindest possible way, Linda said that while the multiple photos could work, a single striking photo might be more compelling. Fingers flying around her computer, she quickly demonstrated how each would look. Her single-photo cover was heads above my montage.

For the cover type, I had selected a nice respectable Times New Roman type. "Yes, that is a nice looking type," Linda said sweetly, "but let me show you something else that you might also like." Out of probably hundreds of possible choices, she picked one and showed me the title in it.

Not only did I like it, I loved it. I loved it with all my heart. I loved her for showing it to me. I could not imagine a type that said "Africa" as perfectly as this type did.

"Do you want to look at any other possibilities?," she asked.

"Absolutely not," I said, ready to fight to keep her suggestions.

And so it went, over the course of 35 or 40 hours of work over a couple of months, the little, 31-page hardcover photo book took shape. Linda took my ideas and built on them and refined them.

With the photo editing tools of her Creative Memories software, she methodically brought decades-old images to life. She cropped, sharpened, lightened or darkened, rubbed out distracting spots.

My good wife Barbara sat in on a number of the work sessions. She's a perfectionist. (Yes, I know, what's she doing with me?). She applied a sharp eye to every page layout and photo placement. She proofread every word. She raised questions.

We had lively debates, ending almost always with me losing two to one. That's okay, I said to myself. I'll be able to blame Barbara and Linda for anything not perfect while taking full credit for everything else. How else is a flawed creature to survive in a competitive world?

With all of us crunched for time, we had to schedule lots of short work meetings, often just an hour or two. It's amazing how much can be accomplished by simply filling in little gaps in the day with concentrated work. No one said "I don't have time." We made the time.

It helped that we had an important deadline. We were determined to get the book done so Greg would have it in hand for his birthday on April 10. We wanted him to be able to take it with him to Florida where he was going to celebrate his birthday with childhood friends and play in an ice hockey tournament.

Barbara and I presented the book to him and his wife Kelly on March 26, in plenty of time for him to take it with him to Florida.

This child of Africa has come a long way since he fought off two of the world's most lethal diseases and bounced around the dirt roads of Kenya in a basket. Now he plays competitive ice hockey on a surface, ice, that is strange and alien where he comes from. If his teammates need convincing that he is a true native of Africa, he can show them "Child of Africa."

Greg's African heritage has now been captured in a handsome hardcover photo book and no one will ever be able to take it away from him. And now, boys and girls, instead of Toxic Mother III and reading lots of depressing words, let's take a breather and just mostly -- look.

Let's look at baby pictures of a Child of Africa.

Greg explored Africa in this basket.

Above Greg's mom holds him with the magnificent Mount Kilimanjaro in the background. The photo was taken in the yard of American teacher friends we were visiting in Arusha, Kenya. Today the whitecap of the famous mountain is all but gone.

Greg's mom holds him on the Kisumu-Kakamega road at a sign marking the equator.

Greg gets a close-up of Victoria Falls, one of Kenya's great natural wonders and a major tourist attraction.

This is a page from "Child of Africa." The copy above left says that the alligator was photographed on a boat trip down the Nile. It asks: "How close did your dad have to be to get this shot of a racing elephant? Too close."

This is another page from "Child of Africa." The old man at left, or Mzee in Swahili, is holding a shilling (about fourteen cents then) I gave him for posing. Above is a Kenyan teacher friend. Beneath him is a Masai warrior and two shy girls in tribal dress. In those days, Americans were respected and welcome.

Is this a photo of a child in a plush Connecticut suburb? No, it's Greg playing in an upscale suburb of Nairobi where we were visiting friends. The residents were almost all European, or white. In such neighborhoods, the only Africans seen there were household help and gardeners.

Here Greg plays with a couple of his little African friends. One of them feels his arm to see if it feels any different from his own.

Greg is shown here with his ahah, or babysitter, Philamena. A member of the Luo tribe, she worked for us for nearly two years. On a teacher's salary, we could afford a cook and a gardener as well. That is the 1961 VW Bug that took us all over East Africa.

Here Greg is shown recuperating from malaria at the little clinic in Kisumu. There an English doctor, Dr. Ian Maxwell, saved Greg's life. When this picture was taken, Greg, an early walker, was so weak he could not stand up.

The last page of "Child of Africa." Linda suggested the photo and also the date. "Years from now, people will wonder when this book was done," she said. "Now they will always know."

The child of Africa is now all grown up. Today Greg lives in Pennsylvania with his wife Kelly. They will celebrate their 20th anniversary in October. He is a regional manager for Pizza Hut. Responsible for dozens of stores, he travels a lot. He is shown here with "Child of Africa," on the day I gave it to him.

At the moment, he is on his way to Florida to visit childhood friends from growing up in Middletown, CT and to play in a highly competitive ice hockey tournament. He's healthy, in shape, and says he is at the top of his game. He is all psyched up to score goals.

He has high hopes of doing well in the ice hockey tournament with teams made up of former professional and college players. Having lost 30 pounds and doing strength exercises twice a day, he may be in the best shape of his life.

Skate hard, Greg. Skate for the open space. Keep your head up. Head-man the puck. In the corners, own the space around the puck. The goals will come. (Hey, can't a dad give his kid a little advice now and then? He's only 46, for God's sake.)

He no longer travels by basket, though it is still available should he wish to revist his early -- and I mean early, early days -- as a Child of Africa. After I gave him the book, Greg stopped by his mom's in Middletown to see if she still had his old basket. She did. The two of us show off the famous basket below.

Happy Birthday, Greg!
Love, Dad

Toxic Mother II: She Bears a Sixth Child, Peter, - - And Puts Him Through Living Hell.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 17:48:00 +0000

I and my four younger siblings thought growing up in separate, ever-changing foster homes was hell -- and it was. But compared to what Peter Romanos went through, it was a walk in the park.

Peter, 64, is my brother, technically my half brother. We have the same toxic mother and different fathers. The five of us escaped our mother's full wrath through abandonment. Peter was not so lucky. He took a direct hit from a toxic mother of breathtaking cruelty.

This is Peter's story.

Warning: Some of the scenes described and the language quoted are graphic. Sorry. I believe in polite and tasteful language as much as anyone, but sometimes they can get in the way of the unvarnished truth -- which is the goal here. Peter's story is therefore not prettied up.

“The hurt is deep,” he said when I called him recently to ask him about his experience with our mother. And before long, he was pouring out, between tears, a long pent-up story of a toxic mother's horrendous abuse. He says he still has horrible flashbacks and cries in his sleep.

He spent days writing down long-suppressed memories and soon envelopes containing his hand-written pages began arriving in my mailbox. In between outpourings, he would write, “George, I can't do this. It hurts too much. What good is this going to do?”

Yet he kept going.

Along with his long handwritten pages, Peter sent a large number of old photographs. One of them was the photo of Peter and our mother, shown above. However, with the one he sent me, he had carefully cut himself out of it, leaving an empty outline.

He despised our mother so much he could not bear to see himself in a photograph with her, even if he had only seen one or two such photos. “I hate the memory of our mother,” he said. And as we talked and as I read page after page of his hand-written notes, I understood why.

After our father died in 1944 and she handed me and my four younger siblings over to foster care, our mother wasted little time in moving on. In that same year, she met Peter's father and they were soon married. Peter was born in Somerville, Mass on August 17, 1946.

I never knew that Peter even existed until he was a teenager and my sister Ruby and brothers Reggie and Victor visited him at his school. They are shown in the photo with Peter. Nor did he know that we existed. Our mother never told her new husband – Peter's father – that she had five children. She didn't say a word to Peter, either.

Our mother and Peter's father divorced after about six years. Soon after, on a hot summer day when Peter was seven, he was shipped out to a family in Lynn, Mass. The family was out of control, consumed by alcoholism and sexual deviance. Peter recalls that he was constantly told to run to a bar to ask the man to come home.

When the man came home drunk, he would beat his wife and then he would beat Peter. Afterwards, he “had bruises all over” and cried for his dad. He loved his dad. “My dad was my whole life,” Peter said. “My father was a proud man, a man of great respect. Everyone loved him.”

If so, why didn't Peter live with him? First, Peter said, our mother had legal custody. It pains Peter to admit the second reason. Although he says his father was kind, funny, generous and would take him out to eat, he was a gambler. A lifelong gambling addiction “brought him to his knees.”

Peter's father never had a regular job or settled life or home, Peter said. Most of the time he lived with his sister in Cambridge. If he did get lucky and get some money, it was quickly gone. But Peter knew that his father loved him and always did his best to see him and look out for him. The photo shows Peter and his beloved dad.

When Peter's father found out about what was going on in Peter's Lynn home, he managed to have him removed. He was placed in three successive homes, all Greek-speaking, his father being Greek. All three homes were abusive. Finally, he was placed in his Uncle Charlie's home in Belmont, Mass.

It was here that Peter spent much of his childhood. Had Peter finally found a home with family and with love and where he felt safe? In a word, no. Peter unhesitatingly describes his Uncle Charlie this way: “He was a prick. He smoked stogies and ran around in his shorts ranting and raving.”

He was also a real estate millionaire and the Belmont house was big and luxurious. He made his money, Peter said, “by screwing everyone.” When relatives came over from Greece, “he would sell them a car that he got at auction for fifty bucks and give them a great deal for a thousand.” He washed cars at his uncle's used-car lot and “never got a nickel.”

All Uncle Charlie's money did not make for a happy household; just the opposite. Peter says that his uncle was always yelling and screaming at his Aunt Marie. It got so bad one Thanksgiving that she “took the turkey out of the oven and threw it down the cellar stairs.” He ran out the door.

On top of all this was a special anguish: at the age of 10, Peter could hardly speak English. All of the families he had lived with had been Greek-speaking. It was especially hard at school where the other kids laughed when he was thirsty and could only ask for water in Greek (“nero, nero”). As for grades in school, he says that he “never passed anything except for art. I didn't have to speak for that and got straight A's.”

Uncle Charlie had three daughters and a son. “The son got everything,” Peter said, “clothes, bikes, gifts, etc. I was the bottom of the barrel. His son pissed on me and told me to leave. I cried.”

Living with Uncle Charlie had a couple of saving graces, however. Peter was finally in a neighborhood where for the first time he was able to make a few friends. Also, the neighbors were great, making sure he had food and shoes. More importantly, for the first time in his life he was not beaten. “They never put a hand on me or hurt me as I was used to in the past,” he said.

Meanwhile, our mother entered into a long-term, live-in, sexual relationship with another woman, Lois Simon. One day when he was 11, Peter remembers, our mother showed up at Uncle Charlie's with a woman who looked like a man. She was wearing his father's clothes and bragging about it; she said that even his shoes fit. “I was scared and ran out the door,” Peter said.

Another time when our mother and Simon visited (with Simon wearing men's clothes), Peter's father also showed up. He and the two women got into a heated argument in front of Peter. “My mother took out a knife and waved it in my father's face,” Peter said.

He ran outside and kept running, crying the whole time. He slept in the woods that night. After that, he ran every time our mother and Simon showed up. Besides being confused at seeing a woman dressed like a man, Peter was afraid of them both. He couldn't forget that knife.

Simon had plenty of money from a family trust fund. The two lived well, traveling, buying nice clothes, and eating in good restaurants. “All I saw were the pictures they took traveling around the world,” Peter said. “They got a brand new car every year.”

With these two, the high life and taking care of a kid simply did not go together. They preferred to have Peter around as little as possible. When he was not at Uncle Charlie's or shipped out to boarding schools, he was dropped off -- as a last resort -- at our mother's condo in a building in Brookline.

At one such drop-off, Peter remembers our mother and Uncle Charlie having a nasty fight over money. She was behind on her payments to Uncle Charlie and he tried to return Peter to his Mother and Simon. “We were at the door and my uncle was pushing me into her place and she was pushing me out and they were both screaming at each other,” Peter said.

Uncle Charlie yelled, “Take your kid!” She yelled back, “I can't. I have another woman here!.” She threatened to call the police. Uncle Charlie refused to budge. Finally, she agreed to pay Uncle Charlie what was owed him and he took Peter back to his home In Belmont.
When Peter had to stay with our mother and Simon,shown with him in this photo, he says it was like this:

“Nothing was good. They took turns beating me with a leather strap. I was locked in a room for days. I was the cleaning boy. I would have to get on my hands and knees and clean their fancy rug with my bare hands with Simon standing over me.

“They made me sleep between them and they were both naked. Simon's tits were all over me. They would take turns fondling me. In the morning, I would have to get up and make their breakfast and afterwards clean up and do the dishes.

“One time while I was doing the dishes, they were both in the kitchen naked and playing around. My mother squeezed her tits and said, 'Look, I still got milk!' and Simon laughed.”

He said that when he was in the tub, Simon would “come and play with my private parts and I would get an erection, and Simon laughed at me and asked me if it feels good.” She told him to call her whenever he got in the tub and she would “help you feel good and help you wash up.”

If he got into the tub and didn't call, Simon got angry with him and still did “the same old crap” to him. She “dried my private parts and kissed my pecker,” he said. “I hated her. I told my mother and she laughed. That only made Simon mad again.”

One time Peter and Simon were alone and he had just finished cleaning the rug on his hands and knees with the palm of his hand “as a vacuum cleaner.” Simon had also been on her knees telling him what to do and why he should not be so lazy; her breasts had plopped out. He got up and went to the TV to watch some sports when something hit him in the back of the head – and he blacked out.

When a doctor came, one that our mother knew, Peter was screaming in pain. The doctor urged them to send Peter to the hospital for x-rays, but they didn't want to. They asked the doctor to give Peter a sedative. Later, it was discovered that he had a fractured skull.

“I have the scar,” he said.

Peter begged our mother to leave Simon. “But Simon was her whole world,” Peter said. “She said that she couldn't live without her and her trust fund.” She could, however, live without him.

She and Simon finally shipped their cleaning boy and sex toy off to Boy's Haven, a school for homeless children in West Newbury, Mass. It was run like a prison. Within two weeks, he ran away and hid in the woods. Two day's later, school guards caught him hitch-hiking on Rte 95.

He was brutally punished. Guards pulled his pants down and beat him with a strap – until they broke his will to resist. After that, Peter never tried to run again and did what he was told for the more than three years that he was there. He worked in the fields loading hay and hauling milk from the school barn.

While at Boy's Haven, he was alone every Christmas but one. That one time he was sent to spend Christmas with a family wanting to help the homeless. He did not know them and never saw them again. Peter's father managed to come to Boy's Haven once. He took Peter out to eat, took him in a small plane ride over Newburyport, and gave him some money.

“I had a great time,” Peter said.

But then Peter was told that his father was no longer allowed to visit. He thinks that this was the doing of our mother and Simon. “They did everything they could to keep me from seeing my father. They hurt him every time they had a chance. They hated him. I think they hated all men.”

After grammar school at Cardinal Cushing Academy, Peter attended Boston Trade School. There he made the ice hockey team. “I loved ice hockey,” he said, “and I was good at it. But our mother got me kicked off the team. She complained to the coach so much, he couldn't take it any more. He told me I couldn't play any more because the team had to come first. Our mother destroyed everything I liked.”

Peter left Boston Trade after two years. He never got his high school diploma. In later years, he changed the dates on his Cardinal Cushing elementary certificate and doctored it up it make it appear to be a high school diploma. “I did it because I needed to be able to work,” he said. (He later spent two years in business school.)

Then there was the electrical fire at our mother's and Simon's place -- which they blamed on Peter. Firemen came, put the fire out, and fired questions at Peter. He told them that he had nothing to do with the fire. Appearing to believe him, a fireman gave Peter a piece of paper to sign, saying it would help him get to a better place.

“What I was signing, “ Peter said, “was a confession and I didn't know it.” He was sent to a prison in Shirley, Mass. Along with murderers and rapists, he spent a year locked in a cell. He says it was hell on earth, but “better than what I had.”

After doing a year in prison, he was 18 and on his own. He had no education, no skills, and no good options. To Peter, the least bad option seemed to be knocking on the door of “the prick” in Belmont, old Uncle Charlie.

That's what he did. Uncle Charlie was happy to put Peter to work in his car dealership for starvation wages. He washed and detailed cars for weeks, but Uncle Charlie being Uncle Charlie, Peter saw no money. “I finally realized that this is how he gets rich, “ Peter said. “He pays no one and screws everyone.”

Alone and desperate, with rent to Uncle Charlie coming due, Peter got a job at Ken's Restaurant in Boston as a floor-mopper and cook's helper. In other words, he did whatever dirty job needed to be done. But he quickly learned to cook. He would work as a cook at Ken's Restaurant for the next eight years, while driving a cab part time.

Almost as soon as he arrived back in Belmont, Peter met Loretta, “a wonderful lady.” They had a lot in common. She grew up in foster care, her mom having died when she was 4 years old. Like Peter, she had grown up unloved and passed around from home to home. Like Peter, she was 18 and now out in the world on her own with nowhere to go.

When Peter showed an interest in her, she was thrilled. Someone wanted to love her! Peter says that the two of them were so in love that “we walked in the rain not knowing it was raining.” He says that meeting Loretta was a “great moment” in his life.

Though they were both still kids, just 18, in short order they got married, got an apartment , and began building a life together. Soon they had their first child, Eleanor (11/29/65). Their son Peter followed (5/6/66), then Charline (1/6/67), then Athena (7/22/68.

Peter now had a wife and four kids, an apartment in Cambridge, a job as a cook in Boston – and he was only 23. After several years as a cook, and with lots of mouths to feed, he wanted more. He got a job at the Belmont Water Department and worked part time as a special officer.

He declared his candidacy as Water Commissioner and his announcement was published in the Belmont Herald with his photo. He wore a suit and tie. No one would have guessed that this respectable, upstanding citizen was abused his entire childhood and had served a year in prison. Peter says his father carried the newspaper clipping in his wallet “to the day he died.”

Though he was not elected Water Commissioner, he still felt the pull of politics. He ran for and was elected president of the local American Federation of Labor. He represented the union at the Massachusetts State Convention. “All of a sudden,” he said, “I had senators calling me to sway votes.”

He said he was often offered money to influence votes one way or another. “But I didn't bite,” he said. “I kept my dignity and respect.”

But now his once wonderful wife, Loretta, seemed not so wonderful. “She couldn't deal with senators and councilmen coming to the house,” he said. He began to feel that she was no longer there for him. “So we drifted and drifted and drifted,” Peter said.

He formed a dating service and it did well. Thousands of dollars in checks flowed in, he said. When he asked Loretta to help him handle the checks, he said that she refused. “Instead, she cashed the checks,” he said. Their great love was over. Now when they walked in the rain, they felt it.

Peter says that Loretta was a “beautiful and caring person” and “wouldn't hurt a flea.” If he is sometimes critical of her --and he is – he concedes that the criticisms are mainly excuses to justify leaving her and four children.

“She was a kind and docile woman,” he said. “To this day, it hurts me in my heart for leaving her and the children. I now realize that everything I had accomplished had gone down the tubes. I got married too young, had four children, and left them all. I felt stupid.”

About the time that he and Loretta broke up, our mother called. Both despondent over the break-up of his marriage and bristling with pent-up anger at her and Simon, he went to Brookline bent on confrontation. He told our mother that she didn't deserve to see her grandchildren and that ”Simon should go to jail.”

To his surprise, our mother said she was sorry for her behavior. Peter melted. As he left, he said he needed time to think about it. But as Mother's Day approached, he had done enough thinking.

He sent our mother a card on which he had “crossed out all the good stuff” and wrote the following: “You will never see me or your grandchildren and you will never be able to hurt them as you hurt me.”

After putting this farewell Mother's Day card in the mail, Peter learned that he had lost his father. The loss of his father, Peter said, “sent me over the edge of no return.” He didn't want to live any more. Deciding to end it all, he gulped down a whole bottle of sleeping pills.

Passersby found him unconscious in the street near a phone booth and called the police. An ambulance was called and Peter's limp body was rushed to a hospital in Brookline. There doctors revived him and saved his life.

In a supreme irony, it was the same hospital where our mother was a nurse. She told doctors treating him there there that she wanted nothing to do with him.

Resuming his troubled existence, Peter went on a “women troubles” spree in which his “pecker ruled.” He entered into a five-year relationship with an older woman that he called Lovey. He summed up Lovey this way:

“We were on a love of crazy happenings that ran in circles for five years that eventually went nowhere. I finally left her. It had been a whirlwind of excitement with nothing accomplished but beautiful sex.”

Peter went on to marry and divorce three more times. Three of the marriages were short, each about a year, but one marriage -- to Eleanor – lasted 13 years. During the marriage to Eleanor, who had two children of her own, he hit a lottery jackpot for $60,000 and paid “$52,000 cash for a house in Maine.

One of the short marriages produced his fifth and youngest child, Christopher. He remembers trying to bring him a cake for his first birthday and being turned away by a restraining order taken out by his former wife.

“And after that?” I asked.

“After that, I went on my way again. I tried to see Christopher, but the years went by.”

I asked Peter a big question: “We know the kind of parent our mother was. What kind of parent have you been?”

“Fair,” he said. “Just fair.”

But he said that he has had all his kids, plus the grandkids, up to his place in Maine. “We go fishing, eat, hangout, and have a great time.” In the photo, Peter is shown with his daughter Athena and grandson Alex.

A skilled carpenter with an artistic flair, he creates many of the crafts that he sells. He designs and builds custom fences, wooden shelving, custom wood designs, and repairs lamps. Much of his work is custom-created to order and often includes original art work.

One time when he was selling jewelry, antiques, and collectibles at a flea market in Maine, he says that my sister Ruby come upon him purely by accident. He says he was so happy to see her. They talked and made plans to get together. Little came of them. Of that chance meeting, Peter said, “Small world, isn't it?” Here is one of his collectibles ads.

One constant in Peter's life has been entrepreneurship. In addition to his two stores, a taxi business, creating and selling arts and crafts, and raising turkeys, he ran his own collection agency for six years. “I was good at it,” he said, referring to the collection agency.

He specialized in accounts described by clients as “bad accounts” or “uncollectibles.” He has a dozen or more reference letters from clients extolling his bill-collecting prowess. One of them, from Airport Plaza in Sanford, Maine, wrote: “I used Peter Romanos for collection on a bad check that I had already tried to collect on and gave up. The next day, the party arrived at my store handing me the money due, including charges and apologies.”

He didn't have an office. He didn't need one. “If the client was a college,“ he said, “they would give me an office right at the college. I made the calls from right there, using their phones and facilities. It was a great business with zero overhead. Clients went around talking about all the money I brought in and that's how the business grew.” After his 13-year marriage ended, he sold the collection business and said he had no trouble doing so.

He went back to womanizing and building up his taxi business in Boston and antiques and collectibles business. Then he met Joelene. After marrying and divorcing four times, after numerous flings and break-ups, after years of upheaval, Peter seems to have come home. “I should have met Joelene years ago,” he said.

Joelene weighed over 300 pounds when he met her. She could not walk and was in a wheel-chair. She was told she would never walk again. Peter says he looked right past all the fat and saw something beautiful in her.

When she asked if he would help her, he said yes. And he did. He cooked healthy food for her, walked with her, encouraged her. The weight began to come off. As weeks became months, she continued to lose weight. She lost 157 pounds -- and has kept it off.

Today he and Joelene, who now weighs a steady 138, have a settled and happy life together at their home in Maine. They walk every day around the lake near their home. He does the food shopping and cooking; she does the cleaning and washing.

Weekends he drives his leased taxi in Boston. He drives 12 hours on and 12 hours off, about 600 miles a weekend. I called him on a Monday and he answered in a sleepy voice.

“You sound tired,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “I just drove 600 miles. I'm on my way back home to get some sleep.”

Weekdays Peter runs his antiques and collectibles business and spends lots of time with the love of his life, Joelene. Though not married, Peter and Joelene have been together for eight years. She is retired after 25 years working in day care.

“We don't need to be married,” Joelene said. “We're happy. I love Peter to pieces.”

It is easy to see that Peter feels the same way about her. Between them, they have eight grown children and 11 grandchildren. At Christmas every year, Peter dresses up as Santa for the grandkids and for underprivileged kids and loves doing it.

When he thinks of our mother and Simon, it is “pain, hurt, and run for your life.” He still has nightmares about them. But he said that “Joelene is very supporting and understanding and wakes me up when I cry in my sleep.”

So long and keep moving.

The Toxic Mother: "Shut Up. You Little Bitch!"

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 18:21:00 +0000

This is a story I would prefer not to write. Unfortunately, it is reality. So here goes...

Along with my joyous discovery of a long-lost family (see earlier posts), has emerged a dark side: of dysfunction, alcoholism, grinding poverty, child abandonment, and – worst of all – savage beatings of children. One aunt abused her seven children so terribly they were all taken away from her by the Mass. Dept of Social Services (DSS). Raised in foster care, they carried on the family tradition as dysfunctional adults.

Whether I like it or not, this is my family heritage. My own mother, I'm sorry to say, was a toxic parent. Or, more accurately, she was a toxic non-parent, an absence that, in retrospect, may have been her greatest gift to me. The photo is of my mother and me as a boy, one of the few times I saw her while I was growing up.

My mother had five kids and, after our father died young (27), she handed us over to DSS. At 6, I was the oldest. My brother Reggie, the youngest, was a baby, just three months. In between in age were my sisters Marion and Ruby and my brother Vic.

After unloading five living burdens, our mother never looked back. My brother Vic said, "She just tossed us in the trash and went on with her life." She remarried. She went to nursing school, paid for by her new husband, and became a registered nurse. She was no dummy. She went on to live a long, good life of travel, shopping, and good restaurants.

I've come to think that toxic mothers are more common than we think. Just the other day, a friend who teaches tennis to many youngsters in Worcester, happened upon the handiwork of one toxic mother. Noticing that a boy did not seem to be himself, he asked him what was wrong. The boy replied, “How would you feel if your mother had just punched you in the face?”

And that's all the boy said. My friend, and now you reading this, is left to imagine the hell that this boy is going through at home. His mother, the one person on this earth who can be expected to love and protect him, punches him in the face. He can't speak of it because it is unspeakable. That's fine with most of us. We would just as soon look the other way.

The result is that extreme parental abuse has been largely hidden, unspoken of, and denied. Ironically, the current hit movie, “Precious,” about a mother's breathtaking cruelty to her daughter, is up for an academy award. Which is not to say that, although “Precious” is based on a true story, that we are ready to believe that it is anything more than an aberration.

Well, tell that to my newly-met cousin who grew up as a real-life “Precious,” suffering horrific abuse at the hands of her mother. She has the soulful eyes and life weariness of one who has seen too much and hurt too much. Yet these are not victim's eyes, passive and incomprehending; they bespeak a fierce, knowing intelligence.

Lately, she has been finding the strength to talk about it and also write about it. Sometimes she stays up all night pouring her heart out onto paper. When I hear her talk about what she went through, when I read what she has written, I cry. I cry.

Here, in her own words, is what I mean:

“The beatings I got from my mother were brutal. She would lose control and not stop until she couldn't lift her arms anymore. I'd get slapped, punched, kicked and beaten with the belt. She'd literally tear my hair out. She'd beat me so brutally with the belt that I'd have welts all over my body. More times than not, I'd end up peeing myself. She didn't care if the belt caught me in the face. The whole time telling me how much she hated me and wished I'd never been born. She told me once that when she found out she was pregnant with me, she took hot baths and actually threw herself down a flight of stairs trying to get rid of me and that I was a 'stubborn bitch and held on.' Makes you feel wanted, huh?

“I learned at a very young age to read her moods and adjust accordingly. I never knew when a slap or a punch would come my way. I avoided her as much as possible. Just having to walk into the same room with her raised my anxiety level. I never knew how to act. If I looked at her, she'd slap me and say I was giving her dirty looks, when I wasn't! If I didn't look at her, I'd get a slap for 'thinking I'm better than everyone else.' I couldn't win - no matter what I did - I was getting it.

“This particular day, I have no idea what I did to set her off. It was late afternoon and I remember getting a beating and her closing my bedroom door when she left. I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up, it was morning. I went to open my door and it would only open a crack. She had taken a rope and tied it from my doorknob to the doorknob of the empty bedroom next to mine. I couldn't get out. I also hadn't eaten dinner the night before and was hungry.

“I kept calling to her to let me out and was told to just shut up. I asked my brothers to untie the door but they wouldn't - actually they couldn't - they knew what would happen to them if they did. I spent the whole morning and most of the afternoon in there - almost 24 hours - without food and without a bathroom. I eventually 'went' in the closet, I couldn't hold it anymore. I just sat and cried. I hated my life, I hated myself and most of all - I hated her.”

According to my my cousin, her mother's favorite expression was, “Shut up, you little bitch.”

As foster kids living in different and changing homes, I and my four younger siblings longed for our mother all during our childhoods. She never came for us and we could never understand why. Other kids had a mother; why didn't we? Every few years, she showed up for a quick visit, then vanished.

I asked my brother Reggie about his feelings about our mother when he was growing up. "Not a hell of a lot there," he said. "I didn't see her but a couple of times. I don't remember much about her." Reggie is shown below with our mother, in the only photo I know of the two of them together.

But then he did recall one incident. One day, he said, our mother drove up unannounced to his foster home. By now a boy of about ten, Reggie, came out of the house."I'm your mother," she said.

"No you're not," he said. "My mother is in the house." The foster mother inside was the only mother Reggie had ever known, though there was no love there; taking in foster kids for money was how she and her non-working husband paid the bills. Our mother promptly drove away.

And she stayed away. The five of us ended up spending our entire childhoods in foster care. All of us went on with our lives, finding our way in the world without the mother who gave birth to us. Today we have each other, our own families, homes, and successful lives – PLUS newly discovered aunts, uncles, and cousins.

For some unknown reason, perhaps a miracle or an act of God, the five of us seem to have broken with family tradition and achieved reasonably normal lives – though I know that my four younger siblings whisper that I have some way to go. And what you are reading may well prove their point.

Now we are old enough, secure enough, and happy enough to reflect upon this mother of ours, not in anger, not for retribution, but for the sake of the truth. The true story of our toxic mother can speak for itself, if only for the monumental question it poses: How could a mother give birth to five normal, healthy children and then abandon them for their entire childhoods and beyond?

When I was in my third year of college, my mother called out of the blue and said that she wanted to come up and see me play hockey. I was at Merrimack College in North Andover, Mass. The call was a huge surprise and I had no idea what to make of it.

Since she gave me up at age six, I had seen her only two or three times. Now she was telling me that she wanted to start over as mother and son. This was incredibly appealing for a 22-year-old who had yearned for a mother all his life. I had a flash of a mother hugging and kissing me and telling me how proud she was of all I had achieved on my own.

She arrived at the game with her longtime companion, Lois. After the game, the three of us – my mother, Lois, and I – talked in my rented room off campus. We didn't talk for long before I, as politely as I could, cut it short. Every word out of her mouth was self-referenced.

She didn't ask a single question about me. She had no curiosity whatsoever about how I had survived all these years, how I managed to be in college on scholarship, what my life was like, or my plans for the future. It was so obvious to me that her self-love knew no bounds.

She didn't want to be my mother. She wanted me to be her son. She was not bringing me love. She was there looking for it. The only thing we had in common, it was clear to me, was that that we were in the same hospital room in Boston when I was born.

She was a walking and talking psychology textbook definition of the morbid narcissist: so full of herself, her life, and her needs, that there is no room for others – not even her own child. She lacked all empathy, the capacity to feel how another human being feels.

I needed no textbook to tell me this. I felt it.

At 22 --I had served two years on active duty in the Army -- I had learned how to take care of myself. Had to, from the age of 10 or 11. I could sense danger a mile away. This selfish stranger wanting to be my mother set my warning bells clanging like crazy. I smelled toxic fumes.

In the beginning, I had no choice in who my mother was. But now, owing her nothing, I did. I called her the next day and told her as kindly as I could that too much time had passed, that we now had separate lives, and that maybe we should just let things stay the way they were.

It was a short conversation. She didn't try to dissuade me. She hung up and disappeared, again. As the years rolled by, I rarely thought about her. Off and on, however, I did question my decision to cut the ties to my birth mother. I always concluded that I was better off without her in my life.

My brother Vic had much the same reaction to her that I did-- and came to the same conclusion. When I told him that I was writing about our mother and asked him for his thoughts, he sent me this:

George: Per our phone call, I offer the following regarding our mother:

My first encounter with our mother was when we went to a boarding school to visit her and our half brother Peter. I was but 12 or 13 yrs old. What struck me was her absolute coldness. She did not speak to me or even acknowledge my presence. The visit was very brief and very disappointing. I decided right there that she held no real feelings for me and I none for her. This meeting shaped my opinion of her from that day on.

My next encounter with her was when I joined the USMC. I received a letter from the Commandant of the Marine Corps. My mother had found out that when I joined the service, I claimed my foster parents (the Foleys) as my legal parents. She wrote a letter to the Commandant accusing me of lying on my enlistment contract because I did not claim her as my parent. She further demanded that my records be corrected and that she be provided a portion of my service pay for support.

The Commandant of the Marine Corps refused her request for record correction and support. When I became aware of her action, I was furious and decided right there that she had no interest in me but simply viewed me as a meal ticket. I had dealt with this idea (meal ticket) for years with my foster parents who saw me as the same ticket. I came to live with this idea with my foster parents, but my REAL mother now viewed me as no more than her meal ticket.

I met our mother two other times during my life, once at my Sister Marion's (another cold meeting), and once at her apartment (another cold meeting). I have always understood the attitude of my foster parents and readily accepted that I was not a family member but a family asset. But, for my own mother to be so cold, uncaring, self-centered, and greedy I will never understand.

I am now most thankful that it was my foster parents that helped raise me and not my mother. My mother was a non-mother who I feel would not have given me any direction or help in preparing for this world. My foster parents at least sent me to a good school and kept me fed while my brother Reggie was the most instrumental in teaching me togetherness and real survival skills.

It pains me to say that I had no mother because of her selfishness, and no Father because of early death, but in the end maybe that was for the best!!!!

Vic

For the record, our mother also wrote to Reggie's commanding office when he was in the U.S. Marine Corp trying to get a monthly family allotment. Ditto when I was on active duty in the U.S. Army. I couldn't believe it. When I asked the officer if he was sure, he showed me her letter. When I told the officer the story of our mother, he was appalled and threw her letter in the trash.

When my sister Ruby heard about our mother's attempt to get money while we were away in the service, she was furious and confronted her. She blasted her, saying "If you dropped dead now, I would walk on you."

We all let her go.

Decades later, Ruby's daughter Linda, a niece I love dearly and for whom family is everything, decided that she wanted to meet her "Grammy." After no little investigation, Linda learned that she was living alone in Boston, her companion Lois having died years before. Linda got in touch with her and went to see her.

She was now in her 80's, ailing, overweight, and all alone. Of that first meeting, Linda said, "She had no friends or family, absolutely no one. She said that she had given up, had nobody or no reason to live, and was getting ready to die."What she did have were closets full of clothes and dozens of pairs of shoes. Lois had left her well-off and so she could afford to go on regular shopping sprees. Her apartment was packed with stuff she had bought on TV shopping networks.

When Linda asked if she would like to see the five of us, she readily agreed. Linda then persuaded the five of us to meet with her. Although decades before, we had all decided that it was best to stay away from this toxic mother, we could not be unkind to a lonely old lady in poor health and with not a living soul who cared for her.

And so the five of us trooped to her apartment to meet her. I had toyed with the thought that she might apologize and ask our forgiveness or perhaps express some sorrow for all that we had suffered because of her. It was a foolish thought. What we heard was how hard her life had been, about her proud purchases, and small talk.

Mostly, we felt sorry for her for ending up with such an empty life. My sister Ruby and Linda were especially thoughtful of her. They encouraged her to move to Westborough, Mass. where she could be closer to them. After she moved, we began inviting her to family functions. Ruby and Linda pretty much accepted her into their lives.

Marion,Vic, Reggie, and I kept a wary distance. We were polite when we saw her, but our guards were up. It was not for no reason that we had survived all these years without a mother or family of any kind.

As a person, she was still the same – totally self-centered. Even Linda, who had warm thoughts of having a new Grammy, says that she was "demanding." Linda said, "I would call her and the first thing she would say is, 'You haven't called in a week.'"

When I did not send her a card for Mother's Day, I received an angry letter telling me that I was “cruel.” Across the top in large letters, she had scrawled, “the slaughter of mother.” I still have that letter.

Yet, as she lay dying in the hospital, I went there, along with Marion, Ruby, and Linda. When she took her last breath, Marion, Linda, and I were holding her hand. She did not die alone. She died with family at her bedside.

At her death, the trust left to her by Lois and on which our mother lived and shopped and ate in good restaurants, reverted to charity.

When I asked Marion what she would like to say about our mother, she said, "Just one thing. The bottom line is that when our mother died, you and I were there holding her hand and the two of us were crying like babies."

At her wake, organized by a women's group helping the familyless elderly, the large hall was pactically empty of mourners. I have never seen such an empty wake. The five of us were there plus a few women from the women's group and a couple of others.

One was a young man who had taken pity on her. He had looked in on her and did little chores and errands for her. She had told him, we learned, that her children had abandoned her. For the record, we let him know who had abandoned whom.

Upon reflection, I suppose that I probably did abandon my mother. But I did so because my survival instincts told me that she was toxic and would only cause me harm. I couldn't afford a toxic mother and neither could my four younger siblings.

In my novel, “State Kid,” my mother was the model for the chapter entitled, “The Mother From Hell.” You can check out this chapter by clicking here.

Finally, after giving up the five of us, our mother remarried and gave birth to another child, Peter --- our half-brother. We found out about him when he was a teenager. He spent the first couple of years with our mother and his father before they were divorced. After that, he lived off and on with our mother and her longtime companion, Lois Simon, and an uncle.

Peter spent more time with our mother than any of us. What kind of mother was she to him? Only he would know. He is now a grey-bearded grandfather living in Maine and running his own taxi business in Boston. I had only met him once or twice over the years and we had no ongoing relationship.

Nevertheless, I called him and asked him what he had to say about our mother. Quickly getting over the shock of my call and the brassy question, he said, "Nothing good." And then he went on to tell me of skin-crawling horrors inflicted upon him by our mother.

"I'm lucky to be alive," he said.

Next time, Peter's story.

So long and keep moving.

Marion's 70th: A Surprise Party in the Loving Arms of Family.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 21:10:00 +0000

It was late morning on Saturday, January 23, 2010. It would be a day that Marion Connors -- my sister, and sister to our siblings Ruby, Victor, and Reggie -- never expected, had longed for all her life, and would certainly never forget.

She had been packing and getting ready to fly the next day to California to spend a few weeks with her daughter, Nanci. Her mind was on all that she had to do plus going out to eat later in the afternoon with her son, Jimmy. Around noon, he called.

He said that James and Emmalee, his two kids and her grandkids, had made something for her birthday out of clay. Although the clay hadn't yet fully dried, Jimmy earnestly explained, the kids were all excited to present it to her. Could she take a break from packing and stop by briefly?

These are two kids Marion loves to pieces. She would do anything for them and, of course, Jimmy knows it. In pulling this off, he had to be one devious and manipulative con artist -- and he rose to the occasion.

Not only that, he enlisted James and Emmalee as co-conspirators. When Jimmy and Marion arrived and were walking up the driveway, the two of them ran out babbling about the great gift they had made with their own hands for their Nana. It was all a big story.

And Nana swallowed it whole.
When she opened the door, she saw a houseful of family shouting happy birthday and blowing horns. James and Emmalee were jumping up and down, giggling, and loving the look they saw on their beloved Nana's face -- of utter disbelief.

Marion's shock quickly gave way to a teary smile. And then, with tears rolling down her cheeks, Marion was engulfed in a swarm of tight, prolonged,loving hugs.

Oh, did I mention that there was another schemer behind all this? Daughter Nanci was a principal in perhaps the most mischievous plot of all. Shortly after Marion arrived, the phone rang and it was Nanci calling from California. Marion of course was thrilled to get the call and the two chatted away when another shocker unfolded.
Nanci walked into the room. She wasn't in California at all! She was outside making believe she was. The two fell into each other's arms. Besides being thrilled to have Nanci right there at her 70th birthday party, now Marion didn't have to fly out to California alone the next day. Nanci had arranged for them to fly together. Below Nanci gives her mom a huge hug.
The two master planners in all this were Jimmy and his wife Janet. They made all the phone calls, sent all the e-mails, provided the food -- a banquet if there ever was one -- and, of course, provided their home. Jimmy also acted as master of ceremonies. As a "gift from family and friends," he presented his mom a big, fancy new TV to replace the little one she has had forever.

He invited people to come up and wish Marion a happy birthday. The first to come up was a guest whose presence made this 70th birthday party truly historic. For Marion, she was literally a life-long dream come true: family, real family, which Marion never had growing up.

Marion spent her entire childhood in foster care, as did her four siblings, Ruby, Vic, Reggie, and me. We had no mom, no dad, no aunt, no uncle,no cousin, not a living soul. And now, thanks to Vic's curiosity and diligence, we have discovered our long-lost family.

So when a little white-haired angel named Aunt Lillian stepped up to wish her a heartfelt happy birthday, Marion melted into her aunt's arms. It was something she had missed and longed for all her life. It was the birthday gift of a lifetime!

After the longest hug, after much wiping of tears, Aunt Lillian said to her niece Marion words that Marion never thought she would ever hear: "I'm so happy to have you in my life."

But it was not just one aunt there celebrating Marion's 70th birthday. Aunt Barbara was also there. Though it was too physically difficult for Aunt Barbara to walk up, she and Marion hugged, talked, and enjoyed each other at the party. Another chance to be a niece! Here are Aunt Lillian and Aunt Barbara in their party hats.
Jimmy called me up to wish Marion a happy birthday and say a few words. I gave her a big hug, saying, "Did you ever think you would see such a day? From no family, look around. You're surrounded by family who love you."

First Lillian and now me tugging at her heart. She wiped the tears.

I started to talk about how hard it was for Marion finding her way without family of any kind, how one reason she went into nursing was to get a roof over her head ...
"You're done," she said, cutting me off.

Here I was going to speak for at least a half hour, maybe more, and I get the hook. Me, the family patriarch! In front of our entire extended family! By the way, all five of us were there having a hell of a time, as you can tell from this photo of us.

I immediately knew that Marion was right. That was then. This was now. She and the other four of us have found our way. This was not about the pain of the past. This was a celebration of Marion and the family love she was enjoying now.

Here is a photo that says it all. That's me lifting up Aunt Lillian. I wanted to show everybody how strong I am at nearly 72. Judging by the look on her face, Aunt Lillian didn't mind being swept off her feet by an aging swain.

Now she, and all five of us, have not just Aunt Lillian and Aunt Barbara, but cousins: Lillian's daughters Ginny and Nancy and Aunt Barbara's daughters Christine and Kathy and cousins Cheryl and Brenda. They also gather Marion into their loving arms. Here cousin Ginny is shown with her mom, Aunt Lillian.
Like rock stars, Marion and Ruby pose with Aunt Barbara and Aunt Ruby while the paparazzi click away. Aunt Lucy is not in this photo because she is in a nursing home and was unable to come to the party. She was missed, thought of, and we hope to visit her soon.
Next, we move to the cutting of the cake, Marion blowing out the candles and making a wish, and receiving fun gifts. This is a photo of the scene.
By this time, Marion was over the initial shock and was done crying with joy. Now she wanted to just have fun, laugh, and do a little cutting up with family. Ruby brought a shopping bag of fun gifts that she presented to Marion. One was a glasses frame in the shape of the number 70. Here Marion wears her new glasses. Ruby obviously thinks she looks great in them.
Below Marion, Ruby, and Aunt Lillian admire a gift. The three have become a bit wild. After a recent visit at Ginny's, the three of them rented a hotel room and went out on the town -- with no chaperon. No one knows where they went or what time they got in. Ruby and Aunt Lillian are running off to Aruba in May. Shocking.
Not to be left out of the fun, the two young co-conspirators, James and Emmalee strut their stuff. Emmalee gives her uncle George one of her famous sassy poses. James proudly shows off the big poster starring himself in uniform on the football field.

So, yes, this was a 70th party for Marion that was both historic and a lifetime coming. For her,it was an impossible dream come true: at long last, in addition to Jimmy, Nanci, James, Emmalee, and four siblings, she now knows the loving arms of a wonderful, long-lost family she never knew she had.

Here's the whole gang at Marion's 70th birthday party:

Jimmy and Nanci made it all possible. And so it is fitting that we now wind this down with a photo of them with the birthday girl. Jimmy and Nanci, great job! Marion, happy birthday! We all love you.

So long and keep moving.

P.S.The next morning, Marion flew to California as planned. In the seat beside her sat Nanci -- as unplanned. Ruby will join Marion in California later and fly back with her. Nice to have family. And nobody knows that better than Marion.

"I Need a Drink": Lethal Alcoholism, Untalked of and Denied, Lurks Everywhere

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 22:34:00 +0000

"I need a drink." That was the message on a cardboard sign held up by a scruffy-bearded panhandler at a busy intersection in Central Massachusetts.

An honest alcoholic. That is different, though it is no surprise that the panhandler is one. And no one is surprised these days at all the movie stars and other celebrities being exposed as alcoholics with crazy, booze-drenched lives, if you can believe the tabloids and gossip TV.

What's surprising to me is this: having alcoholism and its incredible power to destroy lives march into my little life. For a non-drinker for whom bars and booze constitute an alternate and alien universe, and for one who normally has no brief for or against drinking, this is saying something.

It says that alcoholism must be everywhere.

Official figures from the U.S. Government as well as alcoholism treatment organizations such as Alcoholics Anonymous confirm that this is so. There are uncounted millions of us, neither panhandlers nor high-profile celebrities, for whom alcoholism is a background scourge. Unspoken of, routinely denied, this disease -- and that's what it is -- quietly goes about its devastatingly lethal business.

I'm not going to try to tell you all about alcoholism. For that, go to the web site of the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism I write here today only of examples that have walked into my life.

A call came from a childhood buddy that I used to hang out with over a half century ago in Stoneham, Mass. where I grew up. He said that another buddy from all those many years ago --we'll call him Jimmy -- was fighting for his life at the Lahey Clinic in Burlington, Mass.

The caller, whom I had only seen a few times since we were kids together, said that he had just come from visiting Jimmy. "He's in rough shape and we don't know if he's going to make it," he said. "But then we have thought the same lots of times before and he just comes back. Jimmy is one tough son of a bitch."

"What's he dealing with?"

"Everything. He's got COPD. He's having trouble breathing. They have him on oxygen. He can hardly talk. And when he does, sometimes you don't know what the hell he's saying. But you know, it was all alcohol. He drank and drank and drank and always said he was going to stop but never did. He was an alcoholic but would never admit it. Alcohol ruined Jimmy's life. And now it's killing him."

The caller knows that of which he speaks. "I'm an alcoholic myself," he said. "I was in denial for years before I admitted it and joined AA." He said he used to be just like Jimmy, drinking and drinking and convincing himself that it's okay. He said that Jimmy would tell him, "So what if I drink, I've made a lot of money."

Jimmy never moved out of our old tramping grounds. He knew everybody in town and everybody knew him. Go out on the town with Jimmy, and it was "set 'em up, Joe" and "one for the road," with the big spender picking up the bar tab.

For Jimmy, drinking was good business. He used to spend hours a day at the Redmen's and Bear Hill Country Club in Stoneham, Mass. drinking and doing business deals. "Jimmy had a great business mind," said another childhood friend from the old Stoneham days.

Jimmy parlayed his contacts and popularity into a fortune in real estate and as owner of multiple businesses, from restaurants to fence companies. It was said that he "owned the town."

My old friend caller told me that he was in the ICU talking with Jimmy about old times and my name came up. As we age, we can't remember the names of people we talked to yesterday; but names of childhood friends are evidently permanently imprinted on our brains. "Yeah, we were talking about you and so I told Jimmy that I would give you a call."

I can just imagine what Jimmy said. It would have been something like this: That (obscenity). What the (obscenity) has that (obscenity, a different one from the first)been doing all these years, playing with himself? That would have been Jimmy's way of saying that he has fond remembrances of me.

In high school, I used to hang out at his house all the time where I felt more at home than I did in my foster home. Jimmy's mom all but adopted me, giving me a key to the house and access to the refrigerator. I envied Jimmy because he had a Mom and family and I was a state kid.

Stoneham is an ice hockey town. Jimmy and I and many of our buddies played on the Stoneham High Team. Jimmy and I later played on the Merrimack College varsity hockey team. He was a goalie, a good one. During all this time, Jimmy loved his beer. I got used to seeing him with a beer in his hand, but thought nothing of it. His drinking was too common to notice.

I got drunk a couple of times in high school and got so sick to my stomach and got such a raging headache that I swore off drinking. Even during years of college and semi-pro ice hockey when the whole team went out drinking after games, I was usually the only one who did not drink. Jimmy started drinking and never stopped. By dumb luck, I stopped before I started.

I called my old friend to see how Jimmy was doing. He was doing a little better and was out of the ICU but still in the hospital. I asked that a message from me be passed on to Jimmy. I said, "Tell him that I think he's pulling the same old bullshit. This is nothing but attention-getting. I don't buy a bit of it. Tell him to get the hell out of that hospital and stop wasting everybody's time!"

"He'd like that," my old friend said. "I'll tell him."

He knew Jimmy would understand exactly what I was saying: I was thinking of him and pulling for him. Even after nearly 50 years of barely seeing each other, the old days never ended with the two of us. Jimmy is etched indelibly in my memory and my heart. If he died, a part of me would also die.

Well, I got a call a week later telling me that, after days of passing in and out of consciousness, Jimmy died. Before he did, doctors tried to get him to tell them if they should take extraordinary measures to save his life. Unable to talk, he signaled for something to write on. He was given paper and pencil. With difficulty, he wrote, "Pull the plug."

Jimmy's doctors did so.

Barbara and I went to Jimmy's wake in Stoneham. Because Jimmy was so well-known and so popular, the line was out to the street. It was like the whole town had turned out to say goodbye to a beloved native son. After a long wait in line, I offered my condolences to his wife.

"He was ready," she said.

"Yes, I heard what he wrote."

"I still have that piece of paper and I'm going to keep it."

Shortly after attending Jimmy's wake, I received an E-mail from another friend, also from out of nowhere. He said that he was looking for advice about a problem that had him "at wits end." The father of a friend had repeatedly tried to take his own life in the last week. He was saying that "life is worthless" and that "there is no point of living." He is an alcoholic, my friend wrote.

"What can I do? Should I do? What steps can I take to get him the help he needs?"

I replied immediately by e-mail. All I could think of was to refer him to Alcoholics Anonymous. I wrote: "I don't know if they will send volunteers to the home. But if you tell them that this is a case of an alcoholic trying right now to kill himself, they will swing into action. If they can't send their own volunteers, they can refer you to the right people."

That was a quick reply off the top of my head. I should have referred him to the U.S. Government's Center for Substance Abuse Treatment or CSAT. The Center maintains a 24-hour, toll-free number: 1-800-662-HELP. I did so later.

In a follow-up e-mail a few days later, my friend wrote that just before Christmas, and after a big snowstorm, the father "got lost" in the woods. He was found by rescue crews and treated for hypothermia at the ER. He has since been transferred to McLean Hospital and entered their alcohol rehab and depression program, my friend wrote.

Then, while having coffee with a dear friend, I casually said that my next blog was about alcoholism. My friend's expression went goggle-eyed and deadly serious -- and out tumbled these words: "My mom and dad were both alcoholics and so is my sister. She was just admitted to the hospital with terminal liver disease."

That was followed by a teary-eyed tale of how alcoholism has been a family scourge as long as my friend could remember. Part of that story follows in my friend's own words:

It was Christmas Eve 1969. My mother drove the Chevy wagon with all of us kids in it to midnight Mass. My sister was passed out in the back seat by the time we reached our 10-minute destination to St. Anne’s church. This Christmas Eve, like most that I can recall, my parents hosted a family party at our home.

My sister volunteered to make drinks for the guests. How cute, everyone thought, this 10 year old making drinks! Little did we know that my sister was also making drinks for herself, which explained why she was now passed out in the back seat of the family car.

This was my earliest memory of uncontrolled alcohol consumption in my household. Most family gatherings included alcohol. An uncle would stop by on a Saturday morning and out came the booze. It came out to celebrate, it came out to comfort, it was there to pacify, to socialize, to quell anger, to help find courage. Alcohol was always there. It was not uncommon for me to come back home for a visit and find my father passed out and lying in the hallway amidst a clutter of empty bottles.

My sister, unemployed and still living at home, took up residence in the family room. There she would drink and smoke cigarettes to her heart’s content. She had her favorite easy chair, television set always on, ashtray always full, and a vodka bottle within reach. What a life for a young woman in her early 20’s.

People noticed, but because of my parents’ lifestyle and the lifestyle of their friends, no one seemed to think there was a problem. How little we all knew.

Flash forward 10 years. My sister is admitted to a center for alcohol addiction. My brother paid cash for her 28-day stay. Less than two weeks following her discharge, my sister was drinking again. This time was different, though. She was drinking larger quantities and more frequently.

A few suicide attempts and continual dysfunction later, my sister was brought through an ‘intervention’ to another rehabilitation facility. This time she stayed three months. Everyone had high hopes for my sister’s recovery, but it wasn’t long before she was again in trouble with the booze.

During the ‘intervention,’ the alcohol-abuse professional advised us to be aware of ‘enabling’ - either directly or indirectly signing off on her drinking. Everyone listened, but no one stopped her from taking a drink.

Where the rehabs stopped, the hospital ER’s began. Two years ago my mother and I went to my sister’s bedside each day for 14 days while she lay in a drug-induced coma, on a ventilator, following surgery on a collapsed lung. My sister was so deep into her addiction to alcohol that the doctors had to give her drugs to ‘wean her off’ slowly. The doctors had to scrape one of her lungs to remove the nicotine buildup.

Two weeks ago I received a call from a cousin who told me that my sister was in the hospital with end-stage cirrhosis of the liver. Her kidneys were shutting down and she was bloated beyond recognition. She was ‘bleeding out,’ a term for bleeding uncontrollably internally.

When I spoke with the ER Doc, he said, “We are ‘putting out fires’ but there is nothing we can do to reverse the damage your sister caused herself by abusing alcohol and cigarettes”.

My sister is home from the hospital. She miraculously survived another episode. She has cirrhosis of the liver caused by alcohol abuse. If she picks up another drink she will die. She has refused rehab.

She has an insidious disease called alcoholism. Yes, I am sure that there are psychological issues that my sister must address. I am also certain that alcohol abuse is a downward spiral that robs a person of spirit, soul, friends, jobs, family, motivation and, eventually, life.

***
Then, out of the blue, I received an e-mail from another friend from college days. "Not sure you'll remember me after all these years," he wrote, " but thought I'd reach out.... He said that he had learned of my blog and "read it with tears on many levels."

I wrote back: "Of course, I remember you. You're a fellow scribe." Then I went on to tell him that my next blog was about alcoholism. "And now if you tell me that you are an alcoholic or that alcoholism has impacted your life," I wrote, "it would be too weird. It might drive me to drink."

And, wouldn't you know, he wrote back that he had two brothers who were both alcoholics. One, he said, was a functioning alcoholic. "He made it to work every day but it destroyed him physically and mentally and restricted his social life to a private club." The other brother, he said, "was in very tough shape while I was in college. He joined AA and turned it all around."

"Two brothers. My goodness. This alcoholism is truly everywhere," I wrote back.

What is it with this alcohol?

On the spur of the moment, just before New Year's Day, I decided to do something I had never done before in my life. Go out drinking? No. Go into a liquor store. What kind of people would I find there? Falling-down drunks? Ordinary people? Both?

I chose a big liquor supermarket on Park Ave, in Worcester, shown here. When I pulled into the parking lot, it was packed with cars. That in itself, I found extraordinary. But what I found inside, struck me as surreal.

The scene and the atmosphere were no different from the supermarket I had just come from where I had picked up some groceries. The people looked exactly the same, just ordinary shoppers pushing shopping carts through the aisles and weighing purchases. Some had little kids hanging onto the cart.

The only thing different was that this supermarket sold nothing but booze, and every kind that you can think of. I watched as a little boy, probably about eight or nine, helped his dad load six-packs of beer into a cart.

"Boy, this is a lot of beer," the boy said.

"Yeah, we're low," the father said.
Any close observer of humanity would take one look at the people in this liquor supermarket and easily identify one who did not belong: me. In this alcohol-accepting, if not celebrating, environment, I was an obvious misfit.

I was sure that the surveillance cameras had spotted me as a weirdo obviously up to no good. I half expected, at any moment, to be grabbed and hustled out the door. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I slid my camera out of my pocket.

I took a quick couple of shots, slipped the camera back into my pocket, and headed for the door before I got caught. In the parking lot, I took a picture of a father and a boy loading beer into the back of their pick-up.

This boy and the other kids like him that I saw are growing up with the idea that shopping for beer in a liquor supermarket is as normal a part of life as shopping in a food supermarket. But, correct me if I'm wrong, isn't food a necessity that we need to live while alcohol is a choice -- and one that can be addictive to the point of life-threatening?

Am I the only one who thinks that the scene inside this liquor supermarket is not as normal and as innocent as it appears? While selling liquor is legal and millions of us drink moderately and responsibly, should there be big warning signs outside and inside this liquor supermarket that drinking can take over your life, destroy it, and kill you?

Just asking.

So long and keep moving.

P.S. Alcoholism is an old, old problem. America's drinking history, from the revolution to Prohibition years to legalization to acceptance and normalization, is a baby compared to that of our mommy: England. In Arts and Letters Daily, James Nichols recently traced five centuries of drinking turmoil in the Mother Country. Indeed, alcoholism is sometimes called the "British disease." Here's all the perspective you need to blame it all on the Brits.

A taste: In 1628 one Richard Rawlidge complained that whereas in London there were less than 130 churches, there were ‘above thirty hundred alehouses’. In 1635 the playwright Thomas Heywood blamed the Danes for first bringing their ‘elbow-deep healths into this land’, but ruefully observed that while north Europeans all seemed ‘addicted to strong and toxing drinks’, it was the English who were ‘most forward to commit this grievous and abominable sin of drunkenness’.

http://www.historytoday.com/MainArticle.aspx?m=33784&amid=30297900

Today's "State Kid": No Longer "Orphans of the Living," Foster and Adopted Kids Celebrate Christmas with Loving Families.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:03:00 +0000

It was one joyous madhouse of happy families celebrating Christmas at the North River Community Church in Pembroke, Mass. Kids were getting their faces painted, having their pictures taken with Santa, playing in the game room, browsing in the Book Nook for free books -- not to mention free home-knitted winter hats -- and filling up on a delicious free buffet.

It may have been pouring rain outside and there would be no hay rides or pony rides, but inside the packed auditorium things rocked. With all the hyper-excited laughter coming from painted and unpainted faces alike, you couldn't hear yourself think. Hordes of happy kids were having the time of their lives.

You would never know that many of the youngsters were foster and adopted kids. What? Kids from broken families in which the state had to intervene finding families and love and being treated like normal kids?

Take the family of Bill and Toni Maher, for example, pictured here. Toni calls it her "crazy" family. All families should be so crazy. Dad Bill is holding adopted twins Rena and Robbie. Next is Andrew, Mom Toni holding Emma, and Connor. Andrew and Connor are the oldest and Bill and Toni's natural born children. Emma is in the process of being adopted.

What is critically important about this family is that I am making these distinctions, not Bill and Toni. They make no such distinctions. They have five children, period. They love them all, period. They are one family, period. And seeing them together, noting how Andrew and Connor pitch in to care for their younger siblings, I see one loving family.

Or take this family below from Plymouth, Mass. Maria, right, is the mom of five, but four of the five are adopted. She was the birth mother only for her son. But watching how proud and devoted she is to them all as they have their picture taken, I see one loving family.

And then there is Patrice and her husband who, after taking the required 8-week training program, have been approved as a foster and adoptive family. She received her first placement a few weeks ago, a beautiful 2-year-old boy. "We have been blessed," she said.

Patrice is shown here painting the face of a little girl. An accomplished artist, every face painting of hers is a work of art. In the other photo is a happy little girl Patrice had given a robot face. Toni said the photo "makes my heart sing!."

My, how times have changed.

Writing as one who spent most of his childhood (age 5 to 17) in the Massachusetts foster care system, along with my four younger siblings (Marion, Ruby, Vic, and Reggie), it never used to be this way. Then the norm was physical and emotional abuse, neglect, and poor people taking in bereft wards of the state for the money. I wrote about this in my novel, "State Kid."

The scene at this Christmas party was something that I and my four siblings could only have dreamed of. Adults who loved us and treated us like family? A stable home? Being treated as if you were – gulp – actually normal and worthy of parental love and not some kind of resident alien?

This joyous Christmas party, this celebration of love, family, and faith, filled me with ... How can a 71-year-old say this without being thought emotionally immature? Well, think what you will, here goes: it filled me with envy. May I be forgiven. May I grow up some day. Pray for me.

During my years in foster care, I had a social worker stop by the foster home every so often, but mostly she talked to the foster parents. I don't remember ever having a one-to-one conversation with my social worker. Probably it was because both the social worker and the foster parents knew she would get an earful-- which she would have.

The only time I recall being alone with a social worker was in a car, going to or leaving a placement or adoption party. And then it was all social-worker happy talk which, as a grizzled veteran of the foster care system, I knew enough not to take seriously.

And the idea that I the state kid and my social worker would have fun together at a rollicking, boisterous Christmas Party like this one would have been, like over the moon, like out there in fantasyland. But that's exactly what I saw social workers MaryAnn Vautrinot, Kathy Shea, and Paula Boudrot, pictured here, doing at this Christmas party.

They are clearly a new breed of social worker. They can have fun with their young charges while never ceasing to be their dedicated advocates. From initial placement in foster care to, hopefully, adoption, they pursue the best interests not of the state or foster and adoptive parents, but of every child in their care looking for love and family.

There has always been a shortage of foster and adoptive parents and that is true today. First, it is not easy taking in an often traumatized and emotionally needy child. It takes a special kind of person with a big and unselfish heart, one willing to give and give and give for the sake of a helpless and vulnerable child.

Toni and Bill are two such people. Maria is another. This party was filled with foster and adoptive parents just like them. They are on another level from the foster parents that I and my four young siblings encountered. They are givers, not takers. And they have met stringent state standards for foster/adoptive parents.

The second big reason for the shortage of foster and adoptive parents is that many people cannot meet the requirements. Social workers screen carefully, as one emphasized to me at the Christmas party. They make sure candidates want to foster and adopt for the right reasons, that they have enough room, that the home is clean, that they are responsible, that their influence on the child will be positive. Candidates must pass a rigorous 8-week course in order to be approved for fostering/adoption in Massachusetts.

For the official requirements, click here.

I doubt that the foster parents I and my four younger siblings had in our many years in foster care could have met today's stricter standards. Not one of them would have been caught dead at a Christmas party such as this one – if there had been one, that is. A seemingly unbreachable emotional wall between foster parents and their foster kids stood in the way.

Yet at this Christmas party, foster and adoptive parents and their kids had fun out in the open and together, for all to see, not caring what anybody might think. That old emotional wall that I knew and felt daily was nowhere to be seen. I was envious. I wished I and my siblings had been so lucky.

And then there are the volunteers whose selfless hard work made this wonderful Christmas party possible, like Chickie and Dave Celli. They are shown in this picture with Bill and Toni Maher as they raffle off prizes. Of Chickie and Dave, Toni said that without them, "this party would not be possible."

Food, oh glorious food! When I was in foster care, it was no seconds and one little glass of milk when I could clean a plate in a minute and chuggalug a quart of milk in about two seconds. At this Christmas Party, however, the kids ate like royalty – and as much as they wanted, all donated, prepared, and served by Cabby Brini. He is the owner of Cabby Shack Restaurant on the Plymouth, Mass. Waterfront.

Of Cabby, Toni said, "Without his help, this party would not be what it is today."

Chicken, mashed potatoes, stuffing, stringbeans, desserts ... you get the picture. Naturally, making up for the starving old days, I ate more than I should have. In the photo, a foster mom is taking some leftovers home. Also shown is Al Kapple, a volunteer and NRCC member. That's Cabby between two of his cooks, Lee and Keith. And of course that little walking work of art on the right is by Patrice.

The mind was fed, too. In the reading room, kids could browse tables covered with books. Each youngster could pick five books to bring home, free. There were plenty of books to choose from. Altogether, Borders Books donated 30 boxes of books for all ages.

There was even a game room, pictured here, staffed by the NRCC Youth Group which is made up of kids from 6th to 12th grade. These volunteer students organized the gaming under the leadership of Melinda Bertoni. The Game Room, new this year, was Melinda's idea – and it was a huge hit.

Also volunteering was none other than Bill Maher's mother, Grannie Maher. All year she has been knitting wool hats to be given free, "with love," to the kids at this Christmas party. The photo shows Grannie's hats. I was dying to grab one and would have if my wife Barbara, knowing me, had not given me a "don't-do-it" look.

I thought: hey, I may be emancipated from foster care, but I did my time. I want one of those hats. They were pure wool, hand-made, beautiful, and free. I felt that I was owed one of Grannie's hats. My wife Barbara shook her head no in that stern foster parent way I knew so well. Soon after this photo was taken, Grannie's hats were gone.

Yes, I know I should be happy for the kids who got them. I'm trying. I'm trying. But you know, besides hats, many of these kids also got something else I and my four siblings never got: adoption. Adoption is the Holy Grail of every foster child.

I remember going to adoption parties. Even if I stood straight as a ramrod and smiled until my face hurt and sold, sold, sold, all I ever got were lookers. Finally, when my social worker said she was going to take me to an adoption party, I refused. At that moment, I decided to be my own mother and father. I was nine.

In those days, "career" foster kids like me and my four siblings were common. Admittedly, with five of us, we were were in the hard-to-place category, along with kids with emotional and physical disabilities. But even kids without such impediments to adoption often spent years in foster care.

That was considered okay. Today it is not. Longterm foster care is now recognized as not in the best interests of kids and even emotionally hurtful. I can attest to that. For a child yearning for family and the unconditional love that goes with it, longterm foster care is like living with an open wound that never heals.

Today the goal is to get kids off foster care and back to their families as soon as possible. In Massachusetts, foster home placements last from three to 18 months. If reuniting with family is not possible, then the goal shifts to adoption.

This Christmas party is the glorious end result of that enlightened policy. Most of the kids at this party have either been adopted or on track for adoption. They had every reason to soak up the joy that was everywhere at this Christmas party.

One of the volunteers, Rick Harrison, really got into the spirit of things. He was there for parking lot duty, as he is for all NRCC events, but you would never guess that by looking at him. Here he is with his face painted and making with a growl.

A growl – that's what I got when I asked him to smile. But, as this photo shows, my wife Barbara had no trouble getting a smile out of him. Rick may be a grown man, but Toni says that he is also "a big kid."

At this great Christmas party, so was I. I was that foster kid of a half century ago at a Christmas party that has been a looooong time coming. And you can take it from me;I know this kid. The party made him feel like he had always wanted to feel ... just like any other kid.

So long and keep moving.

P.S. In a thank you note from Toni Maher, Bill Mayer, Chickie Celli, and Dave Celli to all the Christmas Party volunteers, they wrote:

"We want to thank you so very much for your hard work and loving spirits at the Foster/Adoptive Christmas Party. This party could not happen without volunteers like you. To see such happy children during one of the most difficult times of their lives had our hearts bursting with fullness of joy.

You were Jesus' hands' and feet on Saturday. You made a difference. The bible has so many fitting quotes that I can't list them all here, however, one came to mind that was in James 2:24 "So you see, we are made right with God by what we DO, not by faith ALONE."

We hope you enjoyed yourselves as much as we did!

Flu-Delayed Halloween: Seasonal Flu and H1N1 Could Not Stop These Other-Worldly Creatures from Scaring the Neighbors.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 12:25:00 +0000

The neighbors didn't know what to think.

Though Halloween was days past, a marauding pirate, a white-gowned “corpse” princess fresh from the grave, and various scary monsters and other-worldly ghouls, gathered at our house. On an otherwise beautiful and peaceful Sunday fall afternoon, they menaced every human being in sight.

Neighbors peered warily out of windows and cracked-open doors, wondering if they should call the police or at least Animal Control. One drove by several times trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Was the Pollock household, rumored to be, well, “different,” finally showing its true colors?

I hear murmurs of assent, loud ones.

The gavel pounds. Order in the court. Order in the court. The defense will speak. Go ahead, counsel.

Defense counsel: So many of the kids had the flu on the actual Halloween that it had to be canceled. They didn't get to wear their costumes, didn't get to do Trick or Treat, didn't get to take part in this hallowed rite of childhood. So the Pollocks simply rescheduled a Halloween II.They did it for a bunch of kids that the flu had cheated out of Halloween I.

The defense rests. The jury, now out, will decide if Halloween II was a good idea or not.

Of our nine grandkids, eight had been sick. Aidan, 7, and Nathaniel, 4, who are brothers, both got fevers. Aidan got Influenza A, a form of H1N1 or swine flu, which turned into pneumonia. Nathaniel had a fever, but managed to avoid the flu. Their parents gave antibiotics to both.

The two of them gave their parents, who are well aware of what pneumonia and flu can do, many anxious moments. Thankfully, the boys responded well to treatment. Both received the anti-viral Tamiflu. On the morning of Halloween II, a restored-to-health Aidan and Nathaniel put on an impromptu heavy metal (literally)concert in our living room.

Aidan and Nathaniel were overnight guests the night before Halloween II while Mom and Dad went off for a breather from days of sick watch. The boys could not stay for Halloween II because of a previously scheduled gig for the Pollock Band, a birthday party. The Pollock Band is going to be big.

Sisters Mia,7, and Bella,6, both got the seasonal flu. They are shown here. Mia is Her Majesty the Queen, royalty from crown to toe. Bella is the undead princess whose ashen face and blackened eyes mark her as a creature fresh from the grave. Max is the swashbuckling pirate. I am the out-of-place grownup male human.

In the third household of four grandkids, only Seamus, 6, did not get sick. His sister Riley, 2, and brothers Liam, 4, and Connor, 9, all came down with the flu. Riley is the large ladybug, Liam the little green monster, and Connor the bruising Boston Bruins defenseman.

At Halloween II, all the grandkids were their old healthy selves. They spent the afternoon chasing each other and pretty much acting like fiendish ghouls, grrring monsters, and slashing pirates. In the process, they trampled plants, spread mulch where it shouldn't be, and toppled my stone walls in two places.

I didn't care. I'll rebuild the walls and put the yard back together again. Healthy again and full of it, they had a great time. They played games nonstop, pausing only for eats and a group picture on the back porch. Here is a shot of the gang on the back porch, with little Seanie charging the camera.

The most popular game by far was banging out the candy stuffed into a pinata dangling from the garage entrance. With the smallest ones going first, the kids took turns banging for the candy. They cheered whenever candy fell out and raced to scoop it up. The photo shows Liam smacking the pinata with all his considerable might.

With flu pandemic having invaded my little world by attacking my grandkids, I began to pay attention. I found myself watching C-span and listening to Rear Admiral Anne Schuchat, director of the National Center for Immunization and Respiratory Diseases of the CDC (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention).

In her crisp U.S. Navy Admiral's uniform and quietly authoritative speaking voice and manner, Admiral Schuchat, a medical doctor, explained the flu pandemic for an increasingly frightened American public. She said that an estimated 22 million Americans have been sickened with swine flu since April. Of these, 3,900 have died.

She said that the data relected the virus's toll in its first six months, through October 17. Flu season in the U.S. Lasts through May. “I am expecting all these numbers, unfortunately, to continue to rise,” she said.

The CDC has announced that of the 3,900 deaths since April, 129 have been children. The agency estimates that 8 million children have had the swine flu, or H1N1, and that 36,000 have had to be hospitalized. Most of the deaths, about 2,900, have been people 18 to 64. The elderly, over 65, accounted for 440 deaths. Us oldies -- I'm 71 – apparently have built up some immunity to the H1N1 flu from exposure to similar viruses.

Admiral Schuchat acknowledged that vaccine shipments have been delayed and that many people have had difficulty getting the H1N1 vaccine. She asked Americans to be patient. “It's a marathon and not a sprint,” she said. “More vaccine is being ordered and delivered and used every day.”

The U.S. has ordered about 250 million vaccine doses from five manufacturers, with the largest orders made to Novartis AG and Sanofi-Aventis SA. But as the manufacturers struggle to grow the virus used to make the vaccine, estimates of its availability have been repeatedly been scaled back.

Admiral Schuchat makes the assumption that the vaccine is safe, without harmful side effects, and that all Americans should get flu shots. “We haven't so far seen anything that is of concern or extra concern,” she said, “but we're reviewing reports that we get every day.”

For a video of Admiral Schuchat new conference and further U.S Government information on the flu, click here.

The reality is that there is a good deal of ambivalence out there about the H1N1 vaccine. One doctor, Perri Klass, whose clinic vaccinates children against the H1N1 virus, wrote in The New York Times that his nonmedical friends seem evenly divided into two camps.

One half says, “Oh, my God, our doctor doesn't have it! Can you get me a dose?” And with the other half, it is something like, “Oh, my god, that brand-new vaccine – do you really think it's safe?”

Dr. Klass says that many doctors are getting frantic calls from parents desperate for the vaccine. But, at the same time, these same doctors are coming up against parents “who are determined to refuse that same vaccine,” Dr. Klass wrote.

And wouldn't you know, I happen to have my own expert on the H1N1 vaccine: my sister Marion. She is an R.N who was formerly Executive Director of Nursing at a large Massachusetts hospital. She is running H1N1 clinics for the Massachusetts Public Health Department.

She says it has been crazy. She described the scene at an H1N1 clinic she did this week at Galvin Middle School in Wakefield, Mass. “They start lining up at 2:30 for a five to seven clinic and the parents are there with babies, strollers, kids – lots and lots of kids – and the line is way down the street. The local paper, the Wakefield Daily Item, published a picture of the line.

“With one hour of prep, it is three hours of nonstop work with needles and injections. The little ones wiggle and squeal and it often takes two nurses to hold down a child. It's still like trying to hit a moving target. We give the H1N1 first and then the seasonal. You should hear the parents. They are so grateful. 'Oh, thank God,' they say. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you...'”

Marion said that so far it has been “an awful year.” Despite the clinics working 24/7, she said, “we have just not been able to keep up.” She has now run out of seasonal flu and does not know when she will be getting more in.

Our sister Ruby, a social worker and manager at a rest home, has the same problem. Normally she would have had all her residents vaccinated by now, but her outside supplier does not have the vaccine. As of this writing, Ruby does not know when her residents will get the vaccine. Living in a group setting, the residents are considered high-risk.

Marion said she is going to pass on her next scheduled H1N1 clinic. “You know what,” she said. “It's been too much, too much of a crunch. Plus I got a little sore throat. When you think of it, at the clinic there's lots of passing germs around.”

With a meeting coming up with my health care provider at the VA on December 1, I have some decisions to make. I have already decided that I will get a shot for pneumonia. Based on my age and health profile -- over 65 and no underlying health issues -- the VA has told me that I am not eligible for the swine flu vaccine.

Even if I were, I could not get it. As of November 15, the VA clinic in Worcester, Mass. where I go had run out of it. But should I get vaccinated against the seasonal flu and H1N1?

“Absolutely,” Marion said. “I've had mine and I've given my son Jimmy his.” That's one strong argument. Marion is an informed expert who falls squarely in the corner of those who believe strongly that the seasonal and H1N1 vaccines are a must and completely safe.

But there are plenty of physicians who disagree. Dr. Joseph Mercola is one of the fiercest critics of flu vaccines. “Studies show that flu vaccines are unsafe and ineffective,” Dr. Mercola says flatly. He describes influenza as a contagious viral respiratory infection that is typically overcome naturally after two or three days of bed rest.

He says that death caused directly by the flu virus is very rare. The vast majority of “flu deaths” are in fact due to bacterial pneumonia and a weak immune system, he contends. He writes: “For most people the flu shot does not make you healthy; it does just the opposite and weakens your immune system. If you follow a healthy lifestyle, you will not have to worry about getting the flu. Take it from me – I've never received a flu shot, and I haven't missed a day of work due to illness in over 20 years.”

For more on Dr. Mercola's views and studies on which they are based, see mercola.com.

Another influential critic of flu vaccine is Dr. Larry Palevsky, a Board-certified pediatrician who trained at New York School of Medicine. He favors natural immunity over vaccine-induced immunity because the natural illness has greater influence on the health of your body.

Says Dr. Palevsky: “In medical school, the mentors that I had saw children in their practices in the 40s, 50s and all the way up to the 80s getting these flu-like illnesses who were properly treated with rest, fluids and proper supplementation.

Those kids had developmental growth spurts after the illnesses were over.
There is something to say for these viral illnesses that impart a certain boosting of the immune system of your children. And if we’re not letting them have these illnesses, what are we doing to their immune systems? Aren’t we actually hampering their overall health?”

Dr. Palevsky goes on: You need to understand that there’s a significant difference between natural immunity and vaccination immunity. When children are born, they develop natural immunity to hundreds, thousands, millions, and even trillions of microorganisms that they breathe in, eat, and touch through their skin. Their immune systems at the lining of their airways, at the lining of their intestines, and on their skin are actively protecting their body from the outside world.

Those immune systems that are intricately and specifically located in the linings are very important to create memory and protection to the organisms that they continue to breathe, eat, and touch. That immune system response then has a domino effect on creating other memory and immune responses that give your body antibodies and protection.

That’s a very important step for how the immune system matures in our children. From the linings, the immune system receives information, sends out signals to all other parts of the immune system, and creates an immune response, memory, and antibodies.
On the other hand, when you inject materials into your body, you are bypassing that crucial first step called the primary line of defense.

With vaccination you are just creating an antibody. That does NOT impart long-term immunity because it does not create the kind of memory that occurs when you breathe it in, eat it, or are exposed through the skin, and then go through the course of the natural disease.

For more from Dr. Palevsky, go to drpalevsky.com.

Now I understand better why my naturopathic friends go apoplectic when I say that I am thinking of getting vaccinated for seasonal flu and H1N1. But I also cannot take lightly the strong support of the flu vaccine by Admiral Anne Schuchat of CDC. Nor can I discount the advice of another expert that I respect, my sister Marion.

And just the other day, The World Health Organization declared that antiviral medicines and antibiotics used in a timely manner can help save the lives of people sick with the H1N1 influenza. The WHO also issued updated recommendations through its Medical Officer in the Clinical Aspects of Influenza, Dr. Nikki Shindo:

“Firstly, people in at-risk groups need to be treated with antiviral medicine as soon as possible when they have flue symptoms. This includes pregnant women, children under two years old and people with underlying conditions, such as respiratory problems. Secondly, people who are not from high-risk groups, but who have persistent or rapidly worsening symptoms should also be treated with antivirals.Thirdly, people who have developed pneumonia should be given antivirals and antibiotics because bacterial infections can develop.”

However, Dr. Shindo does not recommend antiviral treatment for people not at high risk and who are experiencing only mild illness. At 71 and in good health, that would be someone like me. Does this give me an out on my getting a flu shot?

Yet, she goes on to say: “The pandemic virus can cause very severe pneumonia even in healthy young people, though rather minor in proportion. And the virus can take lives within a week. The window of opportunity is very narrow to reverse the progression of the disease. The medicine needs to be administered before the virus destroys the lungs.”

So long and keep moving.

P.S. For good basic offical U.S. Government information about seasonal and swine flu, see flu.gov.

Hail the Queen: On Her Birthday Weekend, the Queen's Wish is my Command. I Bow and Scrape Like a Foot Servant.

pollock.george@gmail.com (georgepollock) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 16:26:00 +0000

Barbara and I recently celebrated her birthday, a big one, her cough-cough fifth. For an entire weekend, she ascended a queenly throne and I was her slave, bowing and scraping before her. Her every wish was my command.

She ordered me around like a foot servant and I obeyed like one, scurrying here and there with lowered head and clasped hands. All weekend, she said, “I want this” and “Do this” and I said, “Yes, dear, yes dear. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

On Saturday morning, we went for a walk around a nearby college. When I started to go one way, she said, “That's not the way I go.” I stopped in my tracks, smiled and said, “Your way is my way.” And we went her way.

It was a gorgeous fall day and she thought it would be a good day to go for a ride. “Anywhere you wish,” I said. “I'll drive, you sight-see.” She smiled. Barbara enjoys being driven. I would be the Queen's chauffeur.

We had already talked about a slow, backroads drive to Connecticut. I suggested that while in Connecticut we might visit my former wife Phyllis who had entered a rehab facility. She was dealing with serious health issues.

Now I was fully aware that I was suggesting something your average wife would do only at gunpoint, if then. I was fully prepared to have her say no, accept it, and leave it at that. After all, that would be perfectly reasonable and understandable.

But Barbara, speaking and acting like a true queen, said that visiting Phyllis would be fine with her. “I think it would lift her spirits,” she said.

She suggested that we could take our time and go the back roads and maybe stop for lunch at an out-of-the-way place. “You got it,” I said. She mentioned that there was a great place that she once ate at with her (and now my) daughter, Misha, but wasn't sure where it was. “We'll find it,” I said, “and if we get lost in the process, it might be fun.”

So I chauffeured the Queen up and down Connecticut back roads while she took in blazing autumn color and country homes. We stopped by my old house on Hidden Lake in Higginam, where we had gotten married overlooking the water. The new owner took our picture on the spot where we had exchanged vows.

In a leisurely way, we managed to end up at the restaurant that she loved so much, The Cooking Company. On a beautiful, sunny fall day, we ate outside and I have rarely seen Barbara enjoy a lunch so much.

But don't take my word for it. At the end of this post is a short video – under a minute – of Barbara having lunch at her special place. Lunch was topped off with coffee and scrumptious pastries. Now I hate to spend money. I rarely go to a restaurant or store without complaining about the prices.

However, the Queen saw no sour look and heard no exasperated word from me about prices. Stepping completely out of character, I threw paper money around like confetti.

After lunch, we meandered around Connecticut back roads in the general direction of Middletown where Phyllis was in rehab. There was no hurry; Phyllis said we could get there when we got there. There was no schedule to worry about.

Between nine grandkids, and keeping up with people, and running complicated lives, Barbara is normally like most of us -- juggling a schedule. But today the mighty, all-controlling schedule was, along with me, a craven servant of the Queen.

In keeping with the aimless spirit of the day, when we got to the rehab center, we were in no hurry to leave ... and Phyllis was in no hurry for us to leave. We chatted for a while in her room. Then I pushed her wheelchair down the hallway to a porch where she could look out upon a beautiful day.

We stayed nearly two hours. Mostly, Barbara and Phyllis, wife and former wife, chatted away like only two women can do, while I took it in with some amazement. Though on oxygen, though in a wheelchair, though deeply worried, Phyllis, the mother of my two sons Greg and Jon, clearly appreciated our visit. She was as talkative as I have ever seen her.

As I pushed her wheelchair back to the room, I couldn't help thinking back to when Phyllis and I were young, got married, and ran off together to a great adventure – three years teaching in Africa, Kenya and Nigeria. I remembered her courage in having a baby, Greg, in a little bush clinic in Kenya and then dealing with a toddler son surviving both malaria(Kenya) and dengue fever (Nigeria), deadly diseases that kill millions of Africans today.

I could never have imagined that some day we would both be old and that I would be pushing her wheelchair in a rehab center. Where did all the years go? Saying goodbye and kissing her on the cheek, I saw a picture in my mind's eye of the way she was all those many years ago.

By the time we left, it was late afternoon and the sun was still shining brightly. Normally, we share driving. But on this birthday weekend, I was the birthday girl's chauffeur. I meandered over country roads in the general direction of home. As I did, Barbara was a tourist, taking in the passing scene: old homes, farms, barns, country stores, people on bikes -- a moving, living, authentic New England panorama.

She was like a wide-eyed little girl, entranced, content, relishing being out and about on roads and in places she had never been before. She looked just like she did years ago when I took her on her first trip to Europe and my son Jon drove us through Germany, Austria, and other parts of Europe.

Normally, Barbara is the adult and I am the kid. She worries about everybody and everything, does whatever must be done, and does it to perfection. I wing it and, if I am lucky, muddle through. (A question I have never been able to answer is: What the hell is a perfectionist like Barbara doing with a flawed character like me?)

Her feelings are easily hurt. Mine aren't (though my sons disagree with this). Though great with the grandkids, Barbara likes to be with adults and do grown-up things. I could play with grandkids all the time.

Yet as I chauffeured her through the Connecticut countryside, we switched roles. She was the kid and I was the adult. She was a little girl looking like she didn't have a worry in the world, exactly what I was a striving for. I wanted this to be her best birthday ever.

I worried, again stepping out of character, that it wouldn't be. And that was the only worry I had on this weekend in this crazy, economy-crashing, warring, self-obsessed, trouble-plagued world. Barbara and her feelings were all that counted.

Sunday was the Birthday Party, with a luncheon and cake at high noon. I organized it, doing the calling, making it happen – and somehow it did. It was small with just family, with lots of kids, and a few friends. We ate, laughed, sang happy birthday,and presented Barbara with flowers, cards, and gifts.

She was happy, laughing and carrying on while I videotaped her. When I presented her my gift,a new digital camera, I told her that I fainted twice in the store -- I hate to shop -- but that "they revived me quickly." There were lots of kids, such as Liam and Bella, pictured here.

When the party was over, the celebrating was not. That night we went out and did Karaoke and a group of us sang for Barbara. She surprised everybody by going up there and singing with us and two good friends Larry and Dolores. A special moment for Barbara came when daughter Misha, son-in-law Ed, and their girls, Mia, 7, and Bella, 6, sang as a quartet.

We still weren't done. The next day, Monday and Barbara's actual birthday, was another masterpiece of a fall day. She said she would like to go for a ride. Another one. With me driving, of course. Her Highness likes having a chauffeur. I knew she liked being driven. I didn't realize she loved it.

I asked her where she would like to go. “I don't know,” she said. “Somewhere.”

“What if we just drive and see where we go?” I asked.

Totally not her usual plan-everything-to-the-tiniest detail self, she liked that idea. Where was my worry-wart, perfectionist wife?

After breakfast and a nice long, brisk walk, I steered our trusty old Corolla toward western Massachusetts. More countryside. More leisurely turns onto backroads that went who knows where. We sure didn't know. Nor did we care. Much of the time we were half lost.

But the Queen sat there watching the autumn leafy show go by as if she didn't have a care in the world ... which, for her, a total departure from her usual self. She didn't know where we were going to end up and didn't care. She was -- gasp-- winging it!

I had never seen her so childlike and irresponsible. Yes! Another kid for me to play with!

Oh, by the way, I, the supposed adult, didn't know where we were going, either. But, somehow, we ended up in Amherst, Mass. I made like I had planned it all along.

“Surprised,” I asked, “at how well I planned this?”

“Yes.”

Of course, she knew I didn't. We were in fantasyland, exactly where I hoped Barbara would be on this birthday weekend. No responsibilites. No serious thoughts. No fears. No expectations. We were leaves blowing in the autumn wind, except we were alive.

Really alive.

We walked around the center of Amherst, which was swarming with college students from UMass and Amherst College starting on a new school year. Barbara is shown here in Amherst looking -- and acting -- like a college student. There's something refreshing about milling on the streets and cafes with young college students.

Somehow the students pull you into their aura of youth, which is all about today and tomorrow. Even a brief visit into their world, where everything is exciting and everything is possible, makes you forget that you are ancient.

And wouldn't you know, but the perfect place for us to have something to eat called out to us. I pretended that I planned for us to eat there and Barbara pretended to believe me. It was aptly named “The Loose Goose.”

We ordered delicious fresh salads and sat outside watching the parade of college students chattering away, treating us to snippets of breathless conversation about romance, studies, parties, sports, petty conflicts.

Then we walked around Amherst center some more. And, you're not going to believe this, but the perfect place beckoned for us to have coffee and dessert. A table for two waited for us on the sidewalk. I snapped this picture of the table and two chairs before we occupied them.

“I had them save this spot for us,” I said.

“Good job.”

We lingered. We sipped coffee. We treated ourselves to scrumptious pastries, whose outrageous cost I accepted without a peep. We talked. We enjoyed the bright fall day and each other.

The drive home, with me the chauffeur and the Queen the rubbernecking VIP, was unhurried and mellow. I had done my best to make my Queen happy on her birthday weekend. Had I succeeded?

While I was writing this, I asked Barbara to rank her birthday weekend from one to ten with ten being the best. She gave it serious thought. “I don't usually give out tens,” she said. “How about a nine and a half?”

“I'll take it,” I said.

But she came back to me later and said, “You know, I think I have to give the weekend a ten. Thank you for a GREAT weekend!” Exclamation mark needed! Big emphasis on “great.”

It came with smile as big as her heart and a hug as genuine as she is. She meant it.

I may be just a kid, but I can tell when my wife means it and when she doesn't.

So long and keep moving.