Thank you, and goodnight

The time has come to bring this journal to an end.

It began on AOL as "Trickle of Semi-consciousness" in April, 2003. It migrated to Blogspot in November of 2005 as "Single Man Writing", and evolved into "Brininess and Volubility" as the course of my life changed. Much to my amusement, it made a minor internet celebrity out of my mother, who never touched a computer in her life.

Now I find that it has become somewhat repetitive and is on the way to becoming stale. I think a private, family-oriented photo-blog suits me better as I embrace grandfatherhood and approach the age of sixty. I would like to acknowledge the loyal band of readers that has paid heed to my words. You are not many, but you are kind.

I leave you with some Irish reggae from my boys from Galway.

A Very Grammy Christmas

My Christmas visit to my mother at the aptly named Queen Anne Nursing Home held a couple of surprises this year. The Grammy's recent hospital stay has knocked some of the piss and vinegar out of her. She was a bit distracted, but actually downright agreeable.

Her first reaction to my arrival is always a review of my appearance. Recent reviews have generally been either "Paul, are you putting on weight?" or "Paul, you need to get some Just for Men hair coloring." This visit, she astounded me with "Gee, Paul, you look good."

Her physical decline was evident when I had to help her remove the wrapping from her gift; she used to tear off the paper like an eight-year-old. As I opened the box, she blurted out, "You are so nice."

Caught off-guard, I replied, "Did you ever think those words would come out of your mouth?"

"No," she said, and we both laughed.

Usually the Grammy looks for excuses to extend visits, but this time she went back to watching a 30's music singalong DVD after a brief amount of time. I told her I had other gifts to deliver, and she waved me off with an "OK, Santa, see you soon."

When I called my brother in Maryland to fill him in on the visit, he expressed concern that she might be receiving medication that is disorienting her. We're going to check into that, but on the other hand, she seemed comfortable, content, and was certainly pleasant.

Come to think of it, I'll have what she's having.

Oh, yes he did...

Other than this one entry a few years ago, I seldom think about, read about, or write about anything to do with fashion or style. To be truthful about the matter, I have to admit that I've supposed that the time-honored, comfortable aging preppie with outdoorsman tendencies look that I've settled into is largely above reproach.

Then, a while back, while reading the Boston Globe, I noticed a photograph of an older male modeling an outfit. "Gee, that kind of looks like me," I thought, fully expecting the accompanying article to heap praise upon the outfit's timeless appeal.

However, to my chagrin, the writer--some graceless whelp named Christopher Muther--had done the opposite. The article was headed "Oh, no he didn't!" and was aimed directly at guys like me who have "all but given up on their appearance."

His first target was my jeans. Calling them "dad jeans", he criticized their color (too light) and their cut (nondescript). He made the sarcastic observation that they were "even sexier when worn with white sneakers." What? My New Balance 601's are no longer cool? I hunt all over for those things. He went on to propose that guys like me go out and buy some "dark rinse" jeans. Bull. We sat out stone-washed and acid washed, and we'll sit out dark rinse, too.

Then the temerarious twit went on to my khakis. Oblivious of their undiminished stylishness, he seemed to think that the only reason to wear pleated khakis was as a backdrop for the old guy cell phone holster, sardonically pointing out that modern cell phones like the Blackberry are "small enough to fit in your pocket." But, ha! The joke's on him! I not only don't have a Blackberry, I have--when I remember to carry it--a Tracfone, which fits snugly into my Swiss Army phone holster. How cool is that?

Mr. Muther concludes that guys like me seem to feel that 2002 was a very good year, and we're going to keep reliving it. 2002? That just happened. How about 1992? Or '82? Now you're talkin'.

Wronged Songs

When Ronald Reagan was running for President against Jimmy Carter, his campaign began playing Bruce Springsteen's latter-day protest song "Born in the USA" at his rallies. The selection was quite remarkable for a couple of reasons: First, that anyone who who anything about Springsteen would know he would never support Reagan; and second, that it was obvious that no one in Reagan's campaign had ever listened to the song's lyrics beyond the chorus.

The Republican co-opting music of left-leaning musicians became epidemic in the recent election. Huckabee was asked to stop playing Boston's "More than a Feeling" on his bass guitar. The Wilson sisters of Heart had to request that the Palin people stop using "Barracuda" whenever the Alaska governor appeared to, um, share her wisdom. Jackson Browne, a long-time progressive activist, is suing the McCain campaign over using his "Running on Empty" in a television ad critical of Obama; incredibly, McCain's lawyer responded by claiming that Browne was "using" McCain to publicize his new release. Bon Jovi and the Foo Fighters also protested the use of their songs.

My suggestion to the Republicans is to stick with Gretchen Wilson and Hank Williams, Jr. However, if they really feel the need to commandeer Bruce Springsteen's music, I'd like to suggest the following songs for next time around. If Newt Gingrich makes a comeback, he might select "Hungry Heart." A good choice for Sarah Palin would be "The River." And if Huck wants to learn another bass line, he might enjoy "Part Man, Part Monkey."

I'll let you figure out why.

Thanksgiving, c.1982

Two thousand and two was not the only Thanksgiving made infamous by the Grammy.

When my sister Nancy and her husband Paul moved into their new home around 1969, my mother (she was the Grammy of only one back then) heaved a sigh of relief and immediately heaped responsibility for all family holiday observances upon the young couple. Over the decades, their hospitality has been constant and unrivaled, and in recent years their daughters have sustained the tradition.

However, and I can't recall the circumstances, there was one year in the early eighties when the Grammy stepped to the fore and offered to provide Thanksgiving dinner. My mother was never exactly known as a Martha Stewart prototype, and we siblings were a bit apprehensive--we'd grown up eating hot dogs split down the middle and Cain's Sandwich Spread sandwiches. We could only hope for the best.

Then, a couple of days before Thanksgiving, my sister called.

"Mum called me," Nancy said. "She wanted to tell me she bought the turkey."

"That's great!"

"Uh, there may be a problem. She said that the turkey weighs eight pounds."

"Eight pounds! There are 12 people coming! Eight pounds! That's not even a big chicken!"

"I tried to tell her, but she won't listen. I don't want her feelings hurt. We have to call everyone and tell them to take just a little turkey."

And so we did. Everyone around the table loaded up on mashed potatoes and took sparse portions of the bird. I had a drumstick and "the Pope's nose" (the fatty meat around the tailbone); my sister had one slice of white meat. The Grammy smiled blissfully, having provided such a feast. She was the Hostess with the Mostest.

As they cleared the table, the Grammy sidled over to Nancy and showed her the meat platter with a few stray pieces of gristly thigh meat.

"See? There's leftovers," the Grammy smugly told my sister. "I knew all along that turkey was big enough."

Great Big Sea at the Orpheum 10/24/08

My brother's hastily arranged visit from DC afforded us the chance to catch Newfoundland-based Great Big Sea at a nearly-sold-out Orpheum show. We (John, brother-in-law Paul, nephews Kevin and Mark and I) met in the North End, five Irishers devouring pasta at Cantina Italiana on Hanover Street.

We walked west through City Hall Plaza and down Tremont Street to the theater. Our seats were located behind a low bulkhead which gave us an unobstructed view of the band and a place to rest our pints.

Great Big Sea is hard to categorize. They perform original music, Celtic songs, Newfie folk songs, 80's covers...and on and on. The five musicians play acoustic and electric guitar, bouzouki, drums, bass, bodhran, accordion, harmonica, organ, fiddle, pipes, and whistles. Their followers know the songs by rote; they sing and dance to the wild ones and fall silent for the acappella numbers.

I've always enjoyed the traditional songs the most, but this concert featured several songs form the new album Fortune's Favor that I felt were stunning, including "Dream to Live" and "Walk on the Moon". A traditional ballad called "England" gives Sean McCann a chance to show off his remarkable tenor.

The clip below is a couple of years old, but "Mari-mac" remains a highlight of every GBS concert.

The Grammy Gives Us a Scare

As a hospice nurse, Kathleen has seen dozens of patients whose need for constant monitoring necessitates their placement in nursing homes. From that point, her experience has been that the patient usually begins a decline that lasts from days to months, often no more definable than a simple "failure to thrive". In fifteen years of hospice work, she has never seen anyone respond to nursing home care like the redoubtable Grammy.

My mother, the Grammy, took to the Queen Anne Nursing Home as if it were her long-sought destiny. For years, her favorite pastime had been lying in bed propped up by pillows, watching television while food was brought to her; here, that's what is expected of her. At 86, with slowly advancing dementia, her sole remaining pleasure is working her way through a feed of fried clams, shrimp cocktail, or Italian pastries.

The Grammy fires down an order of fried clams. Photograph and seafood courtesy of brother John.

However, on my visit last week, the Grammy was in obvious discomfort. She was coughing and in pain, to the point where she ate only the eclair, leaving the cannolo and the neopolitan untouched.

I tried to cheer her up by reminding her that her other son John would be visiting soon. In true Grammy fashion, she responded, "Do you think he's gay?" (Since discovering that she has a gay nephew, the Grammy is now suspicious of everyone.)

"What?" I responded. "Why would you ask that?"

"Well, he never seems interested in any girls."

"What about the one he married?"

"John's married?"

"Yes, and has a son. Gordon, your grandson."

"Oh yeah. Gordon. How's Gordon doing?"

Despite the unintended levity, I was not surprised when my sister called the next day to tell me that the Grammy had been taken to the hospital. John was coming up early from DC in case this was the beginning of the end.

When I visited the hospital, the Grammy did not look good. She was on a heart monitor and receiving oxygen and antibiotics. She acknowledged my presence, but was groggy and unable to converse. She occasionally moaned. A note on the television said that my sister, my niece, and their husbands had visited, but the Grammy had remained asleep. I have to admit to thinking that this might be her time.

But...no. A visit from brother John and sister Nancy the next day found the Grammy wide awake, communicative, and looking for goodies. By the end of the day, she was back reigning o'er Queen Anne. There are more clams to be eaten, more memories to be confused, more relatives to be suspected. The Grammy's work is not done.

Breckenridge

Breckenridge is a ski resort town about 90 miles west of Denver. We stopped at a winery, Canyon Wind Cellars, in historic Georgetown along the way. There we sampled five or six wines and bought the two we liked the most, a rose and a petit verdot.

Georgetown was one of the more elegant mining towns, with Victorian architecture and a train station. A train loop (above) is still operated for tourists. A mile away on the other side of Route 70, Silver Plume still looks like a rustic mining settlement.

The scenery along Route 70 is often spectacular. The boaters on this lake must really enjoy the snow-capped backdrop.

Breckenridge had closed Main Street for its annual beer festival, featuring local and German brews, along with live bands, grilled wursts, and even wienerschnitzel. When we discovered Sarah's cousin working at the ticket counter, we wound up with more free beer tickets than we could use.

A few of the Breckenridge ski runs are already covered with a smattering of snow. The peak is 1299 feet, and we could feel the thinness of the air when we carried our suitcases up the stairs of the lodge. The evening was cool enough for a woodfire.

Sarah, Conor in his new hat, and Kathy at a scenic overlook. The brown trees have been infested with the pine beetle, killing millions of trees in the Rockies. In some places, fully half the trees were dead or dying.

Colorado Venues

Our Colorado hosts, Kathy's son Conor and his wife Sarah, had planned a full slate of activities for our visit. We visited Red Rocks, a nationally renowned outdoor music venue. The Allman Brothers, now featuring Warren Haynes and Derek Trucks, had just played there.

Conor and his Mom watched the roadies setting up for the Monolith Festival.

On Friday evening, we attended the Rockies v. Dodgers game at Coors Field.

Manny Ramirez, who had dogged his way off the Red Sox, now plays left field for the Dodgers. I gave him a few leather-lunged reminders that his peers had recently voted him the worst fielder in baseball, but I doubt that he heard me.

We also took the world's fastest tour of the Coors brewery--straight to the tasting room for our three free samples each.

Coming home to a place I've never been before

Tomorrow we leave for Colorado. I expect to find actual proof that there is more to America than the two coasts. My mountaineering experience is limited to the Green (Vermont...hey! hence the name!) and White (New Hampshire) Mountains, and the Swiss Alps.

I do feel that my visits to the Hofbrauhaus in Munich have prepared me for the Breckenridge Oktoberfest. I'll bring the Nikon.