Dan dancing with Drucilla Strain at our wedding reception in 1984.
View larger image

View larger image
Here’s another photo (Adam spied her in First Snow) of my dog, Fang. Her previous owner called her Jill, Jilly Cakes, Jilly Pops, girly names to be sure. That was before the dog learned to join me at construction sites where men, standing knee deep in snow, rip walls down while dressed in animal skins . The name Jill? It had to go.

Fang is a man’s dog. She wakes me in the morning (bark, bark), alerts me to invisible threats (bark, bark), and, as I say, joins me at work. Pictured here, you can see a slavering Fang preoccupied with a baseball (fond memories of her previous owner’s son?). Soon Fang will be fitted for tool carrying cargo bags. Last night she chased down a doe and brought me the hind quarters for dinner.

Disclaimer: “The editoiral board at 136 Central St. is not responsible for the content, the opinions, the thoughts, the daydreams or pretty much anything that spews forth from the creator of this blog. “

Part III The End
by Rakkity

The father-son games took on a serious character that infected outside life. Sometimes the weekly game of racquet-le-ball with the son and the game with the Dominator fell on consecutive days, and the tendons complained with a vengeance. Dancing across the court against the son one day, the father stretched too far, and stopped short with a sudden pain in his calf. He found himself unable to walk except with a mincing single-step, and a week passed before the over stretched limb mended and games could resume. Later, in a game against The Dom, in a battle that was fought to the penultimate service, he collapsed on the court in a collision with a wall that suddenly materialized in the wrong spot. Recovery from this took only a day, but brought on a sense of impending doom.

The father had a respite when The Dom went on a long journey to see his ancient Nanny in his Oz homeland, and, coincidentally, the son betook himself on a journey to explore the far corners of the kingdom with his friends. The father relaxed and recuperated by competing against the daughter, and was fresh for battle when the son returned six fortnights later at the end of summer.

The first autumn game against the son was a lopsided victory 15-0 for the father. From that the son learned, by his absence from the court, he had lost some of his “feel”, and this turned his mind to the science of the game. He began to go for the “kills”. But his wits were not quite up to the treachery of the father. In the son’s absence, the father had noticed that one of the daughter’s shirts wasthe identical blue of the playing ball, and it was difficult to see the ball in play when it passed in front of her. Eager to take all possible, even minuscule, advantages as they presented themselves, he acquired a vest of bright blue. In subsequent games against the son, he contrived to rotate after returns so that the ball would pass between his body and the line of sight of the son’s. The split-second disappearance of the ball caused a slight hesitation in some of the son’s shots, giving the old man a slight advantage, and an occasional point that might not otherwise have been his.

The father began to try the move-to-center ploy, in which after service, he would solidly occupy the center of the court, the most advantageous location for the return. He would not quite cause a “hinder” (the term for blocking a return). The scores became a little closer as the son adjusted to the these distractions and improved his smash and spin. Taller, and longer-limbed, the son simply stood behind the father and struck the ball by reaching over and around his obstructing father.

During another game, the son made a spectacular dive across the court, “killed” the ball a hands-breadth above the front wall, and made a spectacular collision with the side wall. The father said to the son, who was resting on the floor with a satisfied grin, “You may recall the former winner of the Outer Kingdom Games last year. Don Herbango Golongo-Gofargo. He won a game with the same kind of dive, except that he didn’t survive the collision with the wall.” His son was shocked. “you mean he died?” Well”, said his father, thinking that he could cool his son’s exuberance, “his body survived, but his mind is still locked in that dive. He lies on his bed with a smile, and when anyone speaks to him, he swings his arm wildly, rolls his eyes as if making a kill, drools a little, and falls back to his bed asleep.” The father noted with some satisfaction that the son’s next few dives were more cautious, but his memory was short, and soon he was colliding with the walls with abandon again. “So much for cooling exuberance”, thought the father.

The games went on much as before, the father winning systematically, exploiting what edges he could find. A close game ensued. The father’s brow dripped with sweat, and some drops of perspiration fell on the ball. During his serve, he noticed that the wet ball made an unusual spin on its bounce, baffling the son. He put that into his repertoire, not for general use, but for occasional crucial services. The sweat ball won now and again, and the son never seemed to notice the treachery.

The father’s desperation continued as the season’s weather cooled. One night on his way home, as he bounced his ball on the cold curbstones of the lane under the lamplights of the lane, he noted that the ball was gradually losing its bounce as it cooled in the frigid air. His thoughts turned to treachery and sleights of hand. The next game with his son was of a late frosty evening, and as the father walked to the game, he carried one very cold ball in a small open-weave basket by his side, with a second warm ball in a pocket by his belly. He carried both balls into the game court, the cool one concealed in his treacherous blue vest.

The father had won (as always) the previous game, so the son (as always) had the first serve. The father gave him the warm ball, which bounced its normal bounce, and the father had some fortune in sending it to a quick “kill”, which the son missed despite a desperate dive. The father reminded the son that Golongo-gofargo still lay in a coma. It was the father’s serve now, and with a flick of his wrist, he contrived to replace the warm ball with the cold one. His service smashed the ball into the corner, where it died with a feeble bounce. The son’s furious swing just barely grazed the ball. Before the son could recover and touch the ball, The father was already on his way to the the corner to retrieve it, “What was that?” the son cried. “Oh some new spin the Dominator taught me yesterday,” laughed the father, as he set the ball for another serve. This time it was to the other corner, and the ball died almost as before. The son managed a feeble return, which the father was able to kill. “Well, that’s two points anyway”, he thought, “but the ball is warming up now, so it’s a regular game from here on out.” The son was on his game that night, and lost only 12-14. The cold ball had been the margin.

The father was getting worried. He couldn’t use this trick again. He experimented with warming up the racquet strings, cooling them down, but nothing worked reliably. He studied the techniques of The Dominator that week, but he had mastered them all. The Dominator had little more to teach. Science and treachery seemed to be winding down.

Time moved on, and the season turned. The leaves were falling from the trees, spattering the ground with copper and gold, when the son made his great step forward. In a match that lasted two hours, the father won the first game, 15-10, and then the second game, 15-11. Sweat dripped from the brows of both players. The ball itself was drenched, and its spin was out of control. The father was breathing deeply, thinking deeply; the son was composed and alert, and breathing gently.

The final game went all the way to 14-14. The serve changed hands half a dozen times without a score. The rallies continued with a dozen returns, and still there was still no further score. The son served; his drop shot fell off the back wall, the father scooped it, returned it low to the front, the son dove and killed it a half a hands-breadth above the floor. The old father stood frozen, unable to move, while the son beamed with a toothy grin on his face.

Outside the nightingales sang. The church bells tolled the hour. The evening breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. Inside the court, the two players stood and looked at each other. The father smiled and put out his hand toward the son to shake, and said, “The king is dead, long live the king.”

–the end—…

I was showing Susan old family photos when I stumbled onto this one. I know the people, but what was the event? And is that a baking tray of beef balanced on an old coffee can? And a container of something I’d never admit to eating – Cheese Whiz?
First row: Mark Schreiber, Sammy, Karen Schiff, B.J. Sullivan, John Lewis.
Back row: Ginger, Greg, Bonnie, Brian, Tess, Me, Diane, Bonnie Bortle and Jim McMahon.
View image

Photo Gallery

DAN DOWNING

Whereas McAllen saw a white Christmas (Cristyís poolÖ) , in Boston in was a white day after Christmas.

Becca, having made it back in one piece by train — broken foot in a cast — is on her way with Sarah and Pat to Connecticut, Barbara L has moved to rehab at Emerson with hers, the Jims are on their way home with Casey, Greg’s picking up his Mom at Logan, and quiet again reigns at Linda and Dan’s. And Paxie says “I need rest”.

Only a few images remain.

DAN DOWNING

Whereas McAllen saw a white Christmas (Cristyís poolÖ) , in Boston in was a white day after Christmas.

Becca, having made it back in one piece by train — broken foot in a cast — is on her way with Sarah and Pat to Connecticut, Barbara L has moved to rehab at Emerson with hers, the Jims are on their way home with Casey, Greg’s picking up his Mom at Logan, and quiet again reigns at Linda and Dan’s. And Paxie says “I need rest”.

Only a few images remain.

Diane’s a cooking, Flo’s pacing, Susan is airborn, Matt is playing with his new iPod, the Finlays are probably packing for their road trip to Acton… and me? Dodging all responsiblities as usual.

I’ve heard about the Yankee Jazz Stompers for quite a while, from Flo, who sends me the print out of the weeks events at Concord Park. Yesterday, as we were dropping Flo off after lunch, I could hear music wafting from the entertainment room and it was indeed, The Stompers.

Patti Finlay, Christmas 1997, Torroemore MN.

A blog with photographs to rival mine.

A glimpse into the Downing family Christmas.

Peter and Emma Finlay, Christmas at Torroemore, 1997.
View larger image

Diane bought a duffle bag with this cardboard inside – It’s sole purpose to maintain the shape of the bag. We were about to toss it when we spied this warning label.

View larger image