It’s six degrees outside, the snow crunches underfoot, and the drafts in our house force us to huddle around the wood stove. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been thumbing through photos of our trip to see Peter in Hawaii three years ago. Diane and Peter “relax” in the lobby of the hotel before we leave for the airport.

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Susan’s plane arrived right on time – 2:16 P M – and from Logan Susan publicly transported her way to the West Concord T stop, which is but feet from Concord Park. Maybe thirty seconds into her visit, Flo assaulted her with complaints about “The Hole. “ The glop they serve, the atrocious bingo, the lack of a bathtub (“I can’t live another month without a tub.”) and the people. However, she did say she liked the coffee. And we thought Flo was a CP convert.

Sadly, our plans to scurry to La Cantina for cheese quesadillas and, most importantly, margaritas with rocks and salt (they make the best) were scuttled. The town suspended the Cantina’s liquor license. We settled for near undrinkable margaritas (too sweet) at Scupper Jacks.

Susan’s plane arrived right on time – 2:16 P M – and from Logan Susan publicly transported her way to the West Concord T stop, which is but feet from Concord Park. Maybe thirty seconds into her visit, Flo assaulted her with complaints about “The Hole. “ The glop they serve, the atrocious bingo, the lack of a bathtub (“I can’t live another month without a tub.”) and the people. However, she did say she liked the coffee. And we thought Flo was a CP convert.

Sadly, our plans to scurry to La Cantina for cheese quesadillas and, most importantly, margaritas with rocks and salt (they make the best) were scuttled. The town suspended the Cantina’s liquor license. We settled for near undrinkable margaritas (too sweet) at Scupper Jacks.

“Just heard Terry Gross do her 1990 interview with Paul? Brown, who died last week at 53 of a heart-attack. He was the fireman who became a writer. I actually mentioned him to you, as the result of an NPR broadcast in a late nineties that featured his life and work.

I thought you could publish your life on the internet, and, low and
behold, that’s pretty much what happened. The Blog appeared. Now you’re being discovered: by your self, your family, not mention an endearingly wide circle of friends. Maybe that’s where it ends, happily, without the wide world looking in, and the heart attack looking out.

When I thought I would write you about this story, I suddenly remembered how I had been reading the obituaries since I was ten. Not formally, but I’d always notice in the succeeding years how I’d fixate on the death of some kid slightly younger than me. My reflex would be …Well, I made it past him.

Funny how I hardly ever think about those thoughts, yet they were a regular fixture in my thinking for years and years, only to be replaced, for some time, by the feeling that I would be shot in the back on a dark city street, or in restaurant, which is why I hated sitting with my back to the door, and why dark city streets make my neck hairs stand on end. And why, I suppose, my dream would deal with that anxiety by featuring a dark urban night, where I suddenly faced a circle of figures with clubs, to which I responded, “Oh, I get it, this is a stickup.” And so it goes. There’s the fireman, dead. You, writing about deaths and your near-death experiences, and there’s me, still in my childhood factory of apocalypses, ringed by a good humor zone. ”

South Haven and Annandale are the towns nearest to Torroemore.


An estimated 1,000 people turned out on a frigid night in Annandale Monday, Dec. 13, to greet the Canadian Pacific Railwayís Holiday Train and donate items of food to the Annandale Area Community Food Shelf. The 12-car train, outlined in thousands of lights and with a Christmas tree atop the locomotive, pulled to a stop at the Oak Avenue crossing near Annandale Memorial Park.

Auntie Sue and her daddy.

Ginger and Diane in Monument Square in Concord in 1969.
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Diane’s high school boyfriend, Craig, died last week and his memorial service is today. As Diane said, “I thought those emails from West Nyack would never end.” Ginger offered to accompany Diane, and together they drove to New York. They left yesterday and spent the night in the Comfort Inn in Nanuet.

Monday night, Diane, doing her best to fit her journey to New York into her already overloaded family/work/holiday schedule was obsessing about, well, everything.

“What are you going to wear?” I asked. I thought the question would help her focus. Diane prepares the night before for her work day and frequently asks, “What should I wear?” I always glaze over.

“A black skirt and a green or black sweater. And if it’s cold, my black coat. Is that too much black?”

“For a funeral?”

“I can’t decide between my black skirt with the circles at the bottom or my shorter wool skirt. Which one do you think I should wear?”

“I like the shorter wool skirt.”

An uncomfortably long pause.

“Do you even know what the skirt looks like? The one with the circles at the bottom?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

A much shorter pause. I could feel the guillotine descending.

“Do you know what my black wool skirt looks like?”

“Of course not.”

Patti, Florence Hotze (Flo’s mom) and Diane.
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Michael, Patti and Diane. The year? A long time ago. The event? Might have been a Canning anniversary celebration. Why post it? I stumbled onto yet another box of old photos as I was cleaning our guest room, preparing for Susan’s arrival on Friday.
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Steve Howard and the Accidentals playing at last Thursday night’s opening at Frederick Scott Gallery in Sudbury. Not pictured: Matt, Robby, Diane, Chris, Mark, and Caroline.
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Part II of the King-Is-Dead Trilogy
by Rakk

( Part I )

A retired wizard, Dom Zarro, from the far-off and fabled lands of Oz,
happened to settle down in the little borough of Bowie-by-the Bay, and
began to look for challenges and challengers to meet his mettle. He had
heard about this father-and-son duo who played racquet-le-ball, and
decided that he might un-retire his old racquet, and see if he could
generate a little action, perhaps even to the point of reviving his
old skill on the court. It had been many years since he had played,
and many a flagon of Old Tooths Ale had bulged his belly, but he was
pretty sure that the grazers and Z-slashes remained in his repertoire.

By chance, one day, when he was leaving The Ace-in-the-Corner Pub, he
almost ran into a man hurrying along the cobblestones with an oddly
shaped package in hand. “Begging your pardon, my good man”, he said,
“are you a player of Racquet-le-ball? And in that packet, is that by
any chance…” “But sir”, said the hurried gentleman, as he paused
to look carefully at the wizard, “Do I have the pleasure of meeting
The Dominator?” Dom Zarro smiled and replied, “It has been many years
since I have been called The Dominator! Please call me Dom.” The
other said, “And please call me Rakk.”

Not a day passed before the two gentlemen found themselves on
the court. And certainly, the years had taken a toll on The Dominator,
but still, his Z-slash shot was a fearsome one, as the ball ripped
from the left wall to the right on his serves. And when he happened to
occupy the front of the court, the Z-slash shot kissed the front wall
so slightly and low, it required a dive of desperation for Rakk to
return it. But Rakk had observed the sag of Dom’s belly, and used his
old strategy, serving to the right wall, then the left, then the right,
until Dom was gasping for breath, and barely able to continue.

The games continued on a regular basis, once a week, always two days
before, or two days after a father-son game. Rakk was careful not to
wear himself out by scheduling games too close together. The wiles
and sneaks of the wizard paid off when the father had to contend with
the ever-growing skill of the son. The Z-slash shot completely
baffled the son, and every trick that The Dominator pulled out of his
decades-old repertoire transferred over to the father’s games against
the son. Months of brutally desperate games passed, and it was as if
the son was not playing his father, but The Dominator.

But time wore on, as it will, and still after months the son had not
beaten his father. Time made his legs lengthen in adulthood, so also
his arms, and it became harder and harder for the father to sneak a
ball past him. His speed and agility increased as fast as his height
and reach, and the grazing Z-slashes had to be ever more accurate for
the father to win.

——-end of part II———