Summer, Part Two

If you remember, the last time we met, we were enjoying lunch after a morning of playing outside. It was a summer day and we were children and the days were long and filled to the brim with fun and life and noise.  

Plus, if it was noon, I’d already skinned both my knees.

See the bells on the handle....

The morning was spent climbing and jumping, smacking springy pink balls against walls and wondering when -- exactly -- the Good Humor man would push his cart down the street, jingling bells announcing his arrival. Very few of us have money but we're excited nonetheless.

After lunch, the weird twins from around the corner might stop by. Two pre-adolescent fraternal lummoxes, they are – in theory – too old to play with us. They wear matching sundresses and have wild hair and the red head will soon teach me how to swear. It is with her that I discover my love of profanity and receive encouragement on how to artfully combine these robust new words into useful combinations. 

Her sister, Lummox #2, will tell me grisly stories about ghosts in graveyards that will not only make me sick with fear but will remain with me to this day, causing vague unease when I recall the details. 

Stoops are for sitting.

If the afternoon got rainy, we’d disperse. I would sit in my vestibule with a book and a bowl of dusky grapes or juicy cherries and read. I’d tilt my folding chair farther and farther back until my grandma would intervene and the warm pavement would emit the distinctive aroma of summertime rain. 

Sometimes we’d even be treated to a “sun shower” during which we’d prance about, literally shouting with joy.

Look at the size of that trunk!!!

My grandfather didn’t like the heat and prevailed upon my Uncle Tommy to procure something we’d only dare dream of. The day the air conditioner arrived, lifted out of the cavernous trunk of my uncle’s 1965 Pontiac, I marveled at its size which was, approximately, that of a piano. Way too big for the bay window, it sat on the floor of the living room and made the room so frigid that we’d wear sweaters. It was fantastic. In the winter, we kept plants on it.

But night was the best. 

When I was very young, it meant a bath, fragrant talcum powder applied with a huge puff and fresh pajamas. Put to bed before dark, I resented my early bedtime only until I fell asleep which was almost immediate. 

But, when we were older, extended families and friends would gather on the stoops as the kids played under the street lights. Every night on his way to work, one of my friend’s fathers would trudge to the subway station.  Head down, in shirt sleeves and a brimmed hat, he’d already worked a full day and his obvious fatigue was a disquieting  reminder that, apparently, it was a lot harder to be an adult than a kid.

Our biggest problem was choosing what flavor ice pop we’d pull from the refrigerated case of the bakery around the corner. They cost a nickel and cherry flavor would dye our lips bright red and we’d pretend  we were wearing  lipstick. My favorite flavor was lemon which was white as snow. We’d saunter home with sticky hands and faces and the mosquitoes, alerted by the sugar, would flit around our heads and whine into our ears.

Each day flowed into the next. Summers were long but inevitably we’d notice the days growing shorter but back then, everything seemed to happen in its own good time.

We didn’t go on vacation. We didn’t need to “get away.” Every day was already vacation.

Enjoy your summer, dear readers. There’s still plenty left.

Summer, Part One

When I was a kid, summers were a rough and tumble affair.

Each glorious day was greeted with the anticipation exclusive to childhood.  If I concentrate very hard, I can almost still feel it.

After a breakfast of brightly colored and sugary cereal, running high on the ensuing sugar rush, my playmates and I were unleashed upon the sunny streets. There, the stink of yet uncollected garbage collided with the floral breeze of the mock orange that thrived in my tiny front yard, creating a pungent blend of sweet and sour that if I sniff today, rockets me right back to Brooklyn in July.

The memory of the aroma of the Mock Orange brings tears to my eyes.

Status symbol

Contrary to popular belief, our days were not unstructured--we had our own standards and routines. Dressed for duty in cotton play clothes and summer sneakers, some of us sported the distinctive blue status rectangle of Keds on the backs of our shoes. I was a PF Flyer girl—something years of therapy couldn’t erase and, if I’d lost the battle with my mother on a dreaded “pedal pushers” morning, it could be a dark day despite the radiant sunshine.

Unfortunate wardrobe choices were forgotten once the group convened. Lucky to have a household of kids next door, we were often joined by friends from down the street in either direction and we’d choose our games depending on the assemblage. No one would look for us until lunch time. 

Freedom was ours.

When we were very little, time might be spent floating sticks competitively in puddles that had formed after an overnight rain. Or we’d take our “route” which meant climbing over a prescribed course involving ledges, walls and fences. Feet mustn’t touch the ground or you’d be “out” and this game meant lots of injuries. 

Often, by evening, we’d sport a patchwork of bandaids and be smeared with various antiseptics. Most mothers preferred brown pigmented peroxide and Mercurochrome which was red as blood while my mother chose colorless approaches like Bactine and witch hazel. No one used bug spray and we were often bedaubed with Caladryl as the mosquitoes celebrated the succulence of our youth. Sunscreen was also unheard of and by summer’s end, we were well-browned.

We played games called “Johnny, May I Cross Your Golden River” and “Green Light Red Light 1-2-3” as if our lives depended on it and there was never a day without a fresh hopscotch board carefully drawn on the sidewalk using the pavement squares as a guide. 

The configuration we drew
was different but you get the idea.

We didn’t use chalk. We used a variety of plaster chunks we’d scavenged near construction sites, unconcerned that we might be releasing toxic materials into our lungs, tossing pebbles into the squares again and again until it was time for games played with a pink Spalding ball. 

“Stoop Ball” meant tossing the ball against stone steps or we’d place a penny on a sidewalk crack and bounce it back and forth, trying to hit the coin. These games were catalysts to conversation and we’d chatter and gossip about the things that mattered: what flavor ice pop we’d buy later, was Davy Jones was cuter than Mickey Dolenz (obviously) and how, in the name of good God, did Mary Poppins get all that crap into her bag.

When it lost it's bounce, we'd refresh it by rubbing it on the concrete. We'd
have to buy a new one every few weeks,

Interrupted by lunch, we wore no watches but knew when we were due home thanks to apparently innate homing devices and were rarely late for meals. We’d run home to eat, refreshed by strategically placed box fans and linger in un-air conditioned apartments. Window shades might be drawn halfway to block the heat as we washed down our sandwiches with Hi-C or Kool Aid.

“July” will continue after lunch and next time I see you here at “Susan Says….” Until then, enjoy the summer!

Give me Electricity or Give me Death--Almost Literally.

This morning, just as I was about to start making the magical elixir of life, aka a pot of coffee, I heard it.

The click.

Then the beep of my carbon monoxide detector as it lost power. Then the silence. The power was out.

Those who know me are familiar with what happens next. I, literally, flip out. 

When the kids were little and my mother was around, I would control my irrational behavior to a point--participating in the family activities of lighting candles, telling stories in the dark and passing out whatever ice cream treat was in the freezer before it melted.

I could take this up to a point but would soon punctuate the festivities with bursts of hysteria, "What if the power never comes back on?" was a favorite refrain. Sometimes I would actually burst into tears as I suffered almost immediate withdrawal from the busy whirring of appliances. I'd hover by the television, trying to will it back to life like Uri Geller used to bend a fork.

I'd threaten to check into a motel. Run away. Put the house up for sale. Return to the city where this only happens once a decade.

When the kids got older, we'd manually heave open the garage door and drive all over the neighborhood, curious to see where the line of darkness ended and blessed normalcy began again.

Today, upon hearing the dreaded click of disconnection and then the ensuing silence that settled about the house like a heavy blanket, I stood and blinked in disbelief. My cable box, dead and unlit, stared back.

The sun is brightly shining. There is no ice storm. No gale force winds. No lightening. Why, I asked the universe, WHY????

Since the phone goes dead when the power is off, I must resort to using my cell to call the power company. Since I forgot to recharge it, the cell is also dead. I do more staring. What to do?

I tear out into the garage and--get this--turn on the engine of the car to plug in the phone and make the call with the motor running. I never said I was smart, remember?

Of course, I have opened the small door (can't open the big doors since they are electrically operated) but by the time I get through to the cheerful automated whore on the other end, I have used up every combination of foul word mathematically possible and am, literally, starting to get nauseous from the carbon monoxide.

Usually it's a simple phone call.

Years ago, a caller would receive a little good-natured sympathy from a human at the end of the line but, lately, it's an electronic voice.

Today the voice has all the info wrong---address, phone number--so I wonder if I have been turned off as a result of mistaken identity. But I can't stay on the phone much longer. If there had been a parakeet in the garage, he would have already been feet up.

As the fumes build, I call Seth and ask him to make the phone call from work, running out to the driveway where I breathe fresh air to clear my lungs. I realize that I won't be able to post my blog, flush the toilet or wash my face (the water pumps are all electric) or brew coffee. I feel the old hysteria rising as I head back inside.

Just as I am about to start chewing on coffee beans and sniffing Sharpies, I start to feel calmer.

Suddenly the quiet of the house is less a threat than a tangible peacefulness. I am confused by this as rarely do I react to anything with calmness. My personal immaturity is legendary.

But the rage continues to dissipate and I pick up a book that I've been reading half-heartedly since last week.

Buzzy climbs into my lap and we sit for about an hour. The book transports me as Buzzy makes little running motions in his sleep (he is chasing a mouse-sized Justin Bieber in a dream, no doubt).

When the electricity clicks back on, I am startled. Back to my routine now, the enforced dreaminess of the power-outage is over....

Thank God. It wasn't as bad as I thought but this ain't Little House on the friggin' Praire, now is it?? Time for Cash Cab and coffee.

What? Did you think I was going soft on you, people? Not likely.

A Small Town Fourth

When I was a kid, the Fourth of July meant hiding in your house all day.

Firecrackers were a popular projectile in the 70’s and my mother was firm about not going far from home but we had our own anticipated traditions.  

Though way too “off the boat” to grill,  we still made sure to have hot dogs and other things American to enjoy until it was time to sit on the stoop in the evening and watch distant (therefore, safe) fireworks over the apartment building across the street. 

We ate ice cream from bowls as the smell of gunpowder hung in the sultry air over 55th Street. The next day the garbage trucks would rumble through the neighborhood  and tired men would sweep up the thousands of fire cracker wrappers that had collected against the curbs.

    

Here, many miles and years away from childhood, the Fourth of July is more as I imagined it should be: smiling and waving at familiar faces in a local parade, hot dogs on the ball field with home-town politicians making speeches and grills getting fired up in too many backyards to count—the combined aroma of sausage, steaks and burgers forming an aromatic haze over the entire town. 

Though I tend to be more inclined to feel estranged from the mainstream, I get into it on the Fourth whether at my house or yours and proudly scratch my mosquito bites the next day, happily confident that the ketchup stains on my jeans and the sunburn on my nose make me as American as anyone whose ancestors arrived on the Mayflower.

      

My sons are home for the weekend and, since it’s been a cherished tradition since our very first year in New Fairfield, again they sat—side by side—on the curb, watching their town parade go by. We knew what to expect once the festivities began. 

There would be local teams and scouts, political hopefuls, fancy cars, gleaming fire trucks and my favorite part— the veterans, visibly older but carrying their colors, some proud, some sad, but all determined to be counted on this day. Each Fourth, of course, there are fewer who remember World War II, their numbers thinning as the years fly by.     

One particular gentleman caught my attention as he approached. Straight and handsome in the passenger seat of an open Jeep, this veteran of the Second World War noticed my boys in the summer heat and looked at them very specifically, his head turning towards them as he rode by. Tom and Charlie were unaware but my husband and I both took notice.  

Whatever this fellow may have been  thinking as he looked at my sons, his actions many years ago—whether he served stateside or on his belly in a muddy trench across the ocean, laid the groundwork for their presence on that curb, squinting into the sunshine, enjoying hot coffee and bacon, egg and cheese on a roll.  

What privilege. What plenty. 

A classic--rent it!

    

I’ve seen enough Jimmy Stewart movies and hummed along to enough Irving Berlin medleys so that this moment was not lost on me. The tears rolled down my face until I was hit by a Tootise Pop thrown into the crowd. Since it was cherry, I gave it to my husband—that’s his favorite flavor. 

So, as they came from other countries to make their home in a new world where independence was eventually declared and later celebrated in countless cities and small towns across America, so we came to our new home here. 

Brooklyn is all hipster-ed out these days. It's likely no one throws firecrackers at kids anymore. They probably toss artisanal pickles at each other for fun. But we, former stoop-sitting city dwellers, sought something better. Whether we found it is not the point. The point is that we sought it—a yard, a parking space, a place to plant a garden, freedom from congestion and lousy air, the kind of place we dreamed of as kids as we hid from firecrackers in Brooklyn. 

      

Whether we like what’s happening in our country today or not, I challenge you to find a better spot on earth. Since I’m pretty certain that there’s something in the Declaration of Independence  about the inalienable right to be corny, I always exercise that right on the Fourth of July..   

I hope you did, too. 

There's always room for a fart joke.

    

Cribbage, Baby!

If anyone notices Seth looking dazed and unhappy lately, it’s a direct result of a well-deserved come-uppance he has recently endured. 

I know. You’re all shaking your heads, muttering, “That man needs no comeuppance…he is a saint…after all, he lives with that crazy “Susan Says…”  

Allow me to explain........

Despite the fact that I am terrible at games, I have enjoyed playing cards with Seth over the years. A chronic “kibitzer”, I miss points, forget rules and am easily distracted by butterflies and such while he possesses strategic abilities light years beyond my scope. 

Factor in serious issues with basic mathematics and while he wins, I lose. I’m used to it. My kids were better at Go Fish and my mother used to beat me at Old Maid. Even Uno was a struggle. The numbers and colors were tricky and I would often shout Uno for no reason other than the simple joy of shouting.

This all suited (Get it? Card pun!) Seth perfectly since the modest and thoughtful man you meet at the supermarket just happens to be a relentless maniac when playing a game. 

As he is winning, he will crow and exult, leap up to pirouette or do the chicken dance, wag a finger in my face, perform joyful slapstick and call me names like “Loser Pants.”  All that niceness you see comes at the price of this behavior. I have learned to live with it.

Our long-standing game of choice had been Gin Rummy. As cocoa in the kitchen tuned to cold beer on the deck, we’d assume our roles of loser and winner and all was well.  But Seth got greedy. Deciding that Gin was too simple for a mind as clever as his, he became fixated on teaching me Cribbage, a far more complicated card game with a wooden board and pegs for scoring. 

“You’ll love Cribbage, “Susan Says...,” he’d say with a gleam in his eye. What he meant was “I will win every game, you blog writing loser.”

I finally agreed to learn Cribbage. It has lots of rule: suits, flushes, runs, adding anticipating, eliminating and deducing as well as things with funny names like "nobs" and "muggins." I longed for the comfort of a pleasant hand of gin.

I was very intimidated as Seth explained the fundamentals and my general apprehension caused a scene or two as I needed demonstrations repeated over the course of several days. I even visited Youtube for help. 

Seth assured me that I would soon understand the strategy and rhythm of this new game, barely containing himself as he envisioned endless wins. He preened in anticipation while I resigned myself to the glum certainty of loss.

He was generous at first. As I attempted to master the game, Seth mastered the inflections of dripping condescension. He chortled kindly as I screwed up--correcting me sweetly, tossing me an extra point or two but, all the while, basking in the certainty that he would soon be steamrolling his way to victory as I fumbled, my cards spilling this way and that as Buzzy watched sympathetically from his Zappo’s box.

Well, it just so happens that the scales of karma were just back from the shop. Their springs and cogs had been lubricated by a little thing called irony because suddenly I was not only understanding the game, but amazingly,  I was winning. 

A lot. 

And guess what!! It appears that winning is a lot more fun than losing!! 

Who knew?

Despite my husband’s half-hearted claims that he is “proud of me” and that it's “nice to have a worthy opponent,“ I watched his dreams of conquest turn to hollow congratulations and, eventually, sullen glaring as I racked up the wins. It reached a head on Father’s Day when he suddenly needed a morning nap, stomping off to the couch with his little blankie and itty bitty pillow. 

It was then that I momentarily considered throwing a game or two. The key word there is “momentarily.” I like winning.

He has hopefully suggested that my new found status as a card shark is only a fluke. He may very well be right but, until then, watch out world---I’m a winner!!!

Not a winner.

The Grouser and the House Diva

The archetypal diva...

The other day I announced to Seth, in a tone that even I secretly noticed was annoying, “We are going to watch a movie tonight!” 

Seth genuinely shocked me with his response, “Well, maybe I don’t want to watch a movie!”

What??? Who wouldn’t want to watch a movie? 

But, most importantly, was he defying me?

It appears that yes, in fact, he was. Not to mention that I think I heard him call me Atilla at some point in the fracas that ensued. 

Taking stock of my surprise at Seth’s attempted (we did watch a movie) rebellion, I conjured a mental montage of our marriage over the last several years and arrived at the conclusion that I might actually be just a tad bossy.The delicate angel on my right shoulder immediately suggested that marriage is a democracy, that I should soften my edges…that I should remember what happens to big-mouthed women. 

...and an actual grouse. You will
note that it looks angry.

The more robust devil on the left, however, was defensive, reminding me that big-mouthed women become secretary of state and get talk shows. Although the Hillary reference threw me, I whisked the petite angel off with a snap of the wrist and asked the busty one if she wanted a Diet Coke.

Over the next few days, while this situation was still on my mind, I sat beside Seth as we watched the news. As is his habit, he talked throughout the entire program--finding fault with our government, foreign governments, public leaders, the commercials, the anchor’s neck tie, the girl scouts and little baby bunnies. I turned to him and said, “You know what? I’d rather be bossy than a grouser.” This caused a lot more grousing and another discussion (or was that an argument since there was yelling?) of our various personality disorders patterns.

We agreed that we, like many couples, have some definitive roles--- I am the “House Diva” and Seth is “The Grouser.” 

This situation, of course, has guidelines…..

Maria Callas....a true diva.

The House Diva has an important role.

She is in charge of maintaining and enforcing the social calendar. The Grouser then bitches about her choices. The Diva decides whether to mulch again this spring and the Grouser rails against it. She suggests a drive to Ikea to investigate under-cabinet lighting and the Grouser carries on all the way there, later questioning the order of the universe as he eats his plate of Swedish meatballs with lingonberries.

The House Diva keeps the house humming. She checks the date on the sour cream and makes sure the Grouser has clean socks. The Grouser appreciates some of the House Diva’s ministrations yet grouses about things over which the Diva has no control. This might include mudslides in California (“Why the hell does anyone build a house on a cliff??), climate change (It’s solar activity, dammit!!) and why, if he is so darn smart, can’t Stephen Hawking be propped up more comfortably in his wheel chair?! The House Diva, though irritated by all this, usually allows it so the Grouser does not, literally, explode.

And, a Cleavage Diva.

The House Diva and the Grouser do have a few things in common. They both lose their phones and car keys constantly and enjoy pizza. The House Diva rants when her keys go missing but the Grouser blames society. The Diva chooses the pizzeria and toppings and the Grouser carries on about the lack of fountain root beer -- "I don't want it in a can.Waaaahhhhh!" -- and is furious that the levels of oregano in the shaker on the table are getting low.

These two also agree on certain television shows but the Diva will fast forward during the more boring vocalists on The Voice while the Grouser complains about song choices, Pharrell’s weird jewelry and the most recent incarnation of Adam Levine’s hair.

"You say diva like it's a bad thing...."

Occasionally, roles can be reversed. The Grouser can be a diva, too. In fact, Seth is the Travel Diva, forcing us to arrive at airports seventeen hours before our flight causing the House Diva to grouse bitterly about driving in the dark, short term vs. long term parking and (quietly) about how the pilot appears drunk. The Travel Diva will then join in the grousing so you’ll note that roles can overlap.

Both The House Diva and The Grouser agree on this point: this is marriage. There must be tyrants and complainers to make it all work. And you damn well better agree with that.

Fifty Shades of Oy Vey

It’s Mother’s Day. 

Did you think I was kidding?

The kids are far away this year but have acknowledged the day to my satisfaction. Since, they claim, there was no groupon for a gilded sedan chair carried by six brawny  New York City fireman (am I right, ladies?) wearing only their water proof over-alls to carry me around the house all day, we made do with phone calls and lovely flowers.

That, however, does not fill a day.

Especially one where women all over America are being rushed through rigidly enforced “seatings” and eating rubbery chicken marsala in crowded restaurants.  Sigh…that actually sounds really good to me.

Of course there is laundry and the litter box is a bit ripe in the mid-May warmth but the rule is that mothers are forbidden to perform unpleasant chores such as cooking, dishes and, especially, scooping cat poop. Also, Seth is out doing “stuff” which I suspect is husband-speak for “Quit pouting and stop drunk dialing the kids.” So I am alone. 

With the TV.

That means but one thing: watch something Seth would never choose to see. 

That might mean a frothy rom-com or one of those shows that chronicles the early weeks of a litter of kittens. For those who aren’t seasoned veterans of the remote control, those shows do exist…and I meow them. But, today, there is no room for cuteness. There is only room for one thing--pull down the shades with me, America: we are watching “Fifty Shades of Grey.”

The movie, for those of you who have been hiding under a sedan chair or simply choose to live a life out of the gutter, is a clever idea: an actual love story cloaked in the extremity of black leather and chains. 

Exploring a menu of sexual dominance and submission was the vehicle which made this routine tale a boffo best seller, first in the form of a trilogy of books  -- which are little more than horrible writing punctuated by what, essentially, is porn -- and today’s movie.

It also made the writer, E. L. James, rich beyond measure. I have yet to stop asking myself why I didn’t think of this approach first. Ms. James says the idea came to her in a dream. 

I only dream that I’m running through the darkened halls of my high school wearing a panda costume not having studied for an important exam being given in a room I cannot find. These dreams, unfortunately, do not translate into successful fiction but, thanks to Fifty Shades, a sizable percentage  of women in America wish their husbands bough their underwear from Fruit of the Loom's new leather line.

Having recently come to “Demand” TV, Fifty Shades has been nagging at me for a while. I read the first book and half (okay, for God’s sake, three quarters) of the second but, after one too many “descriptive” passages, I realized there are only so many ways to “skin a cat.” *

I soon lost interest .

The real Fifty Shades.

In a nut shell, our leading man, Christian Grey, likes to boss his girls around. In a big way.

It also doesn't hurt that he is drop-dead handsome, dresses in the finest fabrics, lives in a zillion dollar apartment and owns the universe. Anastasia Steele, his victim/love interest is virginal, naïve and mumbles.

Starting to get the picture?

Bought in bulk by Mr. Grey...

Virtual unknowns were ultimately cast in the leads because no self-respecting actors would touch the parts. It will be interesting to see if Jamie Dornan and Dakota Johnson will ever work again…out of the porn industry, that is. Truth be told, they weren’t all that bad, but if I had been the director, I would have sent Mr. Dornan packing as soon as I noticed that his eyes often do not blink at the same time and that Miss Johnson has a facial portfolio of one and a half expressions.

Anastasia Steele, our heroine – who quickly goes from wearing dowdy skirts and peter pan collars to sleek dresses with no panty line, if you catch my meaning - -- is falling in love with the young multibillionaire who has little interest in personal ties (only cable ties). Emotionally stunted somehow in his youth, he is a mysterious mogul  who likes to give spankings. The catch is that Anastasia is crushing on this dashing nut job who has everything but a dental drill locked in his special “playroom.”

I prefer a game of Scrabble in my playroom.

Anastasia soon puts up with all varieties of lunacy (never once suggesting to Christian that he may want to chat with a therapist) including what I found much scarier than a riding crop and alligator clips: Christian’s penchant  (and, apparently, the  author’s vision of how seriously rich people recreate ): piloting horribly dangerous forms of air travel from helicopters -- where our hero pays zero attention to the controls -- as well as some sort of futuristic plane that doesn’t seem to have an engine.

All in all, there was lots of lip biting, meaningful eye contact and enough naughty bits to cause me to leap several feet in the air when Seth barged in, er, I mean arrived home.

Let’s face it--If  you’ve read the book, you know you are going to watch the movie when your husband is on jury duty. If you haven’t read it but want tips on etiquette when hanging  from the ceiling while wearing a blindfold and handcuffs, then I definitely recommend it.

As for me, if anyone ever uttered the words “This is called a flogger,” I would have immediately been clawing at the door but there’s nothing like a little sado-masochism to make your Mother’s Day more interesting. I hope you all enjoyed your day, too.

* Apologies to Buzzy for inappropriate use of a cat metaphor.

I do not accept your apology.

My Coach, Mr. Fab

After my son, Charlie, recently learned that his beloved baseball coach, Chris Fabiani, left our hometown to coach elsewhere, he requested to be a guest columnist in the newspaper and therefore, a guest blogger, for this week. I am, of course, delighted to welcome my son to my blog and hope it's not his only appearance in this space. Here is his tribute to his former coach and lifelong mentor…..

Millennia from now archaeologists excavating New Fairfield’s Tegmeir Field will find a decayed baseball buried somewhere near right field. The only people who could tell you why that baseball is there would be long gone by then - the 2001 WPBA 12-year old travel team and their coach, Mr. Chris Fabiani.

Recently Chris Fabiani, lovingly known as Mr. Fab to generations of aspiring New Fairfield Major League Baseball players, took a coaching job outside of town. 

For years, Mr. Fab coached here, starting with our WPBA travel team and eventually taking over as the high school freshman baseball coach. I wanted to take the opportunity to remember a few stories from my time with Mr. Fab and thank him for all he’s done for this town and those he coached.

Mr. Fab knows baseball and is a fantastic technical coach, but that’s only part of what makes him special. Mr. Fab never lets his players use age or inexperience as an excuse. He expects everyone to acquit themselves as adults, own up to mistakes, and respect him as well as each other. 

Playing for Mr. Fab was fun--after all, he’s a funny guy, but it was also demanding. There was no babying or coddling. In a world of participation trophies, Mr. Fab mixes tough and fair, fun and serious. If you want recognition from Mr. Fab, you earn it the old fashioned way.

Mr. Fab, knowingly or not, also teaches his players lessons with utility far beyond the confines of a baseball field. When I was 10 years old or so Mr. Fab wanted me to try third base for an inning. It was a new position for me and I nervously took my spot at the hot corner. As it goes in baseball and life, the ball finds you when you don’t want it to. With runners on first and third, a batter hit a sharp ground ball right at me. Instinct took over and I fielded it cleanly, but then froze. The runner from third broke home and I was stuck between throwing home to get him out at the plate or taking the easier out at first. Instead of doing either, I panicked and did what any nervous 10 year old would do: Started biting my fingernails. There I am, with a baseball in my mitt, a runner heading to first and home, chewing on my finger nails. Everyone was safe. 

Suddenly Mr. Fab's voice boomed like a foghorn from the dugout: “Get your fingers out of your mouth and throw the ball!” 

The inning ended and on the way in Mr. Fab rubbed my head. “Come on, are you serious? You’re better than that!” He never let me forget that moment and to this day, I use the memory as a prod into action when frozen by indecision.

Mr. Fab also has a great sense of humor. Once, at a skills competition, he engineered a perfect practical joke on a poor unsuspecting player (me). Positioning a cameraman to the front, he slipped silently behind me and plopped a Yankees helmet on my head. Now, I am a proud Mets fan and was horrified enough to have such blasphemous equipment on my head but imagine my further horror when I realized Mr. Fab had sent that picture into this very newspaper to be seen by the whole town. 

Another time, during a particularly awful season — where every hard-hit ball of ours went right to a fielder and every one of their dribblers found its way through the infield — Mr. Fab arranged a ritual burial of a baseball, signifying the end of our bad luck and a rebirth of our season. I can’t remember if it worked, but I’ll never forget the vaguely religious ceremony Mr. Fab concocted for our benefit. Somewhere out there in the right field foul territory of Tegmeir Field that ball is still buried.

Fun stories aside, Mr. Fab is special because he cares and works hard for his kids. He’s special because he’ll drag a bucket of balls to the field and throw extra batting practice and he’s special because he’ll spend hours trying to teach you a knuckle curve, which never, ever, ever works… sorry, Mr. Fab, but it’s true!

Mr. Fab has spent a lifetime crafting young ballplayers and helping turn them into men. He’s done it for hundreds of people in New Fairfield, and we were all better for it. Speaking for the NF kids you’ve coached over the years: Thank you, Mr. Fab, for demanding the most of us, treating us like adults, and making us better young men. The lessons you taught us on the ball field stay with us still.

Good luck on your new team, although I suspect it was actually their good luck to land you as their new coach.

Charlie Szold

Anything for Love? Nah.

Most of you know that I am a potential “crazy cat lady.” 

Despite the fact that I am, in essence, operating a rest home for geriatric felines, complete with deafness, senility and horrifically inappropriate litter box behavior, I still dream of being welcomed into the local cat shelter with the words, “Pick out as many as you’d like, “Susan Says.”  What I bet you don’t know is that I have always wanted a chicken of my very own, too.

Or, if possible, multiple chickens. 

The only thing between me and a yard filled with happy, well-adjusted chickens providing fresh eggs as well as a pleasing sound track of clucking and scratching, is my husband who thinks the cats are more than enough. There also might be a few pesky town zoning restrictions about farm animals on one’s property but that’s another story.

Over the years, thanks to Seth’s selfishness, I was ready to settle for just one chicken. Based on a favorite series of childhood stories of how my mother, in a Brooklyn apartment, had a chicken for a pet, I felt this was not only a family tradition but also entirely plausible.

I've long harbored somewhat deranged visions of happy times with a friendly pullet pecking about in the living room, sitting on my lap during “Dancing with the Stars” or nestling on the kitchen counter as I putter with the pots and pans.  Accordingly, I launched an annual campaign – beginning when the baby chicks arrive at Agway – to achieve this goal.

Seth has been steadfast. No chickens. Or, he suggested, I could divorce him and replace him with a chicken. While this was never entirely out of the question, the unpleasant specter of chicken poop, always lurking in the recesses of my mind, kept this at bay. 

How did one deal with a pooping chicken? I’d never discussed the daily logistics of chicken ownership with my mother during our trips down Memory Lane. We only talked about the fun stuff. Ultimately, my mother’s pet was “taken to a farm” and we’d never addressed the possibility that  “farm” might have been euphemistic for” fricassee,” either. Based on my mother’s innocent smile, I don’t think this occurred to her.

So do I.

This year, while visiting the chicks at a farm supply store, I upped my campaign and went after Seth with all my wiles which, unfortunately, are neither cunning nor seductive. I am, however, an accomplished whiner and sniveler and, later that night, after a beer or six, Seth uttered the magic words. “You can have one chicken.” It was a true miracle!  I was stunned….and scared. Now it was real.

Repeat after me: "Awwwwwwww."

His requirement was that I first thoroughly research the matter and, happy to oblige, I discovered that lots of people do, indeed, keep a chicken in the house. Apparently, chickens are smart and social and even get along with cats. The big problem is that, if you do not want chicken poop all over your home, they must wear diapers. 

You read that correctly: Diapers. Chickens in diapers. Diapered Chickens. No matter how I combined the words, I could not believe it.

Diagram of diapered chicken

Certain this was a joke, I googled on and it ain’t no joke. House chickens wear diapers. In fact, there are instructional videos on youtube showing insane people wrestling chickens into diapers of which there are many types and designs. They cost about fifteen bucks a pop and even come in seasonal designs called, among other things, “Christmas Poinsettia” and “Cranberry Swirl.”

And, like that, my lifelong fantasy of having a pet chicken, went away forever. 

An actual diapered chicken.

I may do a lot of crazy things but diapering a chicken will never be one of them. As I sat by the computer, I could think only of the song from that wonderful record album of yesteryear, “Bat out of Hell” by Meatloaf and I sang  quietly to myself, “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”  I used to wonder what Meatloaf was implying with those lyrics and now I think I know. Neither he, nor I, will ever diaper a chicken. And that, my friends, is that.*

                                        A great song....even if it is actually about diapering chickens.

*I do, however, thank Seth for his generosity and will reward him with a nice tray of chicken parm.