Maybe we should stay right here for a while. There is snow to the south of us, a ton of snow to the west in Buffalo (even talk of canceling Sunday’s Bills/Jets game) and apparently snow to the east. Matthew and Louise, on their way to Vermont, turned around in Watertown yesterday and came back.
I took the photo above a few minutes ago. We usually take the path that runs into the woods behind the willow tree but the sun felt especially good today so we stayed on the fairway. There wasn’t a soul out, just the way we like it.
Nick Massa’s grandparents. Photo on the wall at Nick’s Sea Breeze Inn, Rochester, New York
One of the last pieces of life’s puzzle is a prepaid funeral arrangement. If we had any sense we would be shopping for ourselves but we were helping my parents choose between two nearby places that we chose from a list that came from a friend of my father’s. One was moderately priced and one was considerably cheaper.
My parents have chosen a green burial with a shroud and no embalmment, a “direct burial” in funeral home jargon, basically pick up, preparation and delivery to the cemetery, but one place was about twice the cost of the other. So we read a lot into the transaction in these short meetings.
Both salesmen were late. We were late for both appointments as well but the salesmen were later. I don’t hold that against them. One was slick and well spoken. One was a kid who my father said looked like he just washed his hands and sat down. The slicker one slipped when he said they would probably just wrap the bodies in a sheet unless we provided our own shrowd. And the kid didn’t do himself any favors when he got off on a logistical tangent about how they dig graves when you’re buried next to someone else. “They dig slowly with the back hoe and if they hit the top of a casket they move over a bit.” I’m sure we were all picturing a shovel going through whichever corpse went in the ground first.
I’d go with the kid but my dad will call the shots. After the meetings we headed down to to Nick’s where my mother, Peggi and I all ordered the “Italian Special.”
We are attending to our neighbor’s fish while they out of town. When the water temperature reaches 45 degrees the fish go into hibernation and lose their interest in food. The pond temp was right on the cusp when our neighbors left. Peggi sprinkled the food in this morning and they ignored it. It’s 38 degrees out there but we gain an hour tonight so I’m not complaining.
Gerry and Diana Brinkman were in full costume last night at Atlas Eats, Gerry as kitchen manager and Diane as maître d’. Their daughter is now the head chef and last night’s menu theme was Spain. The fixed price menu is served two times and we were there for the late shift. The tapas portion included Gerry’s “Tortilla Espagnola,” a recipe he shared with City Newspaper back when he was running the Rochester Club restaurant. Spain’s national dish, it is incredibly simple but tricky to do right. We still have that clipping and follow his recipe whenever we throw a party. Diana gave us some Smarties as a nightcap.
We finished the night up near the lake at Mastrella’s in Sea Breeze. We had not been in there since the seventies when we saw a five foot Elvis impersonator bring the house down. This bar is like a movie set. I couldn’t tell who was in costume and who wasn’t. I love not being able to make that distinction. It was a perfect Halloween.
View of downtown Rochester from moms hospital roomlg
My current dentist has a cute little bulldog that he keeps in the office. It seems a bit unprofessional but he pulls it off. His office is out in Webster where I used to be a patient of his father. I went out with that guy’s receptionist. The elder recommended I see Dr. Cupolo for a bridge and I liked Rocco so much I switched to him. Dr Cupolo had an interest in a bagel store in Culver Ridge for while and his son ran the Victor Grilling Company. Today his son owns Rocco, a great downtown Italian eatery. The place is named for his father.
My mom used to take the six of us (my youngest sister had not yet arrived) up to Dr. Cleary’s office in the Medical Arts Building on Alexander Street. His office was on the sixth floor with a great view of the Emergency Department of the old Genesee Hospital. They had an elevator operator back then. We’d wait our turn while we read Highlights (Find Ten Things Wrong With This Picture), and ran up and down the stairway of the place. There was a soda fountain downstairs in the pharmacy but we never had any money for that.
Dr. Cleary was old school. No novocaine. “Hang on,” he would tell us as he swung that old, slow-speed drill with a 1/4 inch bit around. He was a Red Wings fan so we talked baseball and between patients he would smoke cigarettes in the office.
I just rode my bike over to the hospital where my mom spent last night. She has a few blood clots that they are attending to but she slept well. When I walked in she had just finished a breakfast of pancakes and bacon.
Someone had looked at the weather and warned us we had better get going unless we wanted to get caught in the rain. It was our second day in Maine and of course we were headed out for another walk, this time in the opposite direction of yesterday’s adventure, out to Pemaquid Point and its storied lighthouse. Years ago my father took a watercolor class near here and they sat on the rocks at the end of the point while looking back at the lighthouse. He has the painting on the wall in his art room. The weather remained sunny. The day was filled with magic.
We found a spot where the tide had rolled large round rocks back and forth thousands of times wearing tracks in the large stone surface and rounding the bowling balls of the gods. The lanes ran downhill out into the sea and diminished into the sun. We got lost in the nonstop sound of the waves so much so that I considered infinity. Is this what afterlife looks like? Have we already moved on?
Back at Alice and Julio’s we decided not to go anywhere for dinner. Jeff prepared a knock vegetable pasta dish from on-hand ingredients. We never left the table. The night went on forever. We were lost in the rhythms of Julio’s animated Castilian pronunciation. I had a view of three of Alice’s paintings, some of my favorites. Peggi asked Julio, who has split his life two if he dreamed in Spanish or English and Julio said “both, depending on where he is in the dream.”
Buildings near Saxon Recording in Rochester, New York
What do they call those big rocks, really big rocks, that stick out of the ground in the Adirondacks and White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Green Mountains in Vermont and even in Maine? Maybe they are everywhere. There is a name for them that I have heard my father use and maybe Bob Mahoney, a geologist. We spotted a few near the side of the road. We needed internet access to find out.
As luck would have it, Alice and Julio used the term in conversation our first day in Maine.
My grandmother Tierney’s birthday party in 1950 with me in my father’s arms
We arrived a little late for our family reunion in the park pavilion. I don’t think they can really call it a “reunion” if it happens every year but it is not my call. We’re always a little late and so are most of the people in our family but this year everyone had eaten and the charcoal fires had already died down. We had thawed out some hot dogs, ones left over from another family picnic, but we forgot them. My brother-in-law offered us two left-over Hebrew Dogs, those skinny dark red links, not the fat juicy things that made this town, and we made do.
I sat next to our Niagara Falls cousins who had brought along this picture of the family. Their mom wasn’t married yet so she was pictured without my uncle. The first of seven, I was the only kid in my family at the time (upper right in my dad’s arms). My cousin, Greg, who is my age, is in his mother’s arms at the other end of the photo (see enlargement). By the time I had identified everyone in the photo and confirmed with my cousins, the meal was breaking up.
I was talking to Greg’s brother and a call from Greg came in on his phone. Greg is living in Arizona now and I hadn’t talked to him in ten years. He used to live in a house behind us on Brookfield Road and we played all the time. We double-dated and even went out with the same girl at one point, my dentist’s receptionist. He went to McQuaid and his parents threw him a graduation party where he took me aside to tell me, “Don’t tell anyone but I didn’t graduate.” He worked at Gray Metal across the street from Maracle industrial Finishing where I worked and we’d go out at night. He and his first wife bought a house near our’s in the city. He had two Great Dane’s and I went down in his basement one time and watched him scoop up the piles of dog shit with a snow shovel. He got into even larger animals and went to school to be a farrier. He shoed the Rochester Police Department horses when I was working for the City. My cousin was ready to let the call go to voicemail but I said, “I’ll talk to Greg” and he passed me his phone.
Greg was harboring some sort grudge that we were able to get past in the first few minutes and we had our own little ten-year reunion.
Produce stand in the country near Rochester, New York
It’s bounty time here in the northeast. The carefully tended gardens are offering far more than we can consume. So it was a little strange to come across this roadside stand without any corn or blueberries or peaches. Everything is in season.
We brought back three good sized eggplants from our garden with a handful of oregano and a bag full of tomatoes. Our neighbor was marveling at the beautiful purple fruit on our counter and he offered his Jamie Oliver recipe for “Mellonzanne alla Parmigiana.” His recipe suggests that you grill the eggplant slices on an outdoor barbecue, no drenching of the poor thing in egg and batter just roasted dry on the grill. We used our fresh tomatoes, some onions and parm from our brand new fridge. You bake the dish for a half an hour and it was fantastic. The eggplant was light and creamy, not heavy and greasy.
The guard behind the emergency room check-in desk yelled “Where are you going, mam?” My dad was sleeping, I was on my way home to sleep for a few hours and this woman in a blue hospital gown and socks was trying to get out. She said she just wanted to step outside and the guard said, “I can’t let you do that.” He was someone not to mess with, former military, muscle bound, busting out of his security uniform.
He looked uncomfortable, like he couldn’t even let his bulging arms relax at his side. “Did you have an IV? It looks like you did?” “Look, I just want to have a smoke,” she said. “Didn’t they give you a patch.” “They did but I just want to step outside.” “I can’t let you do that.” A fellow guard called upstairs and said, “You have a patient down here who is trying to leave the hospital.” I got out while I could.
Mark, Ann and Paul Dodd on steps of 68 Brokfield Road house in Rochester, New York
I loved Richard Linklater’s “Boyhood.” I think it is a masterpiece, an understated, big slice of life, some twelve years worth. Oddly, it didn’t feel like a movie. It was as comfortable as a daydream, the unconscious desire we all have to recapture the time when we weren’t trying to recapture anything. The long movie felt short and crystalized out of the blue with the closing line, “It’s like it’s always right now.”
“Indian Pipes” are sometimes called “Corpse Plants” because they have no chlorophyl. I always thought they were mushrooms. The ones we see around here are white when they’re fresh and black as they die. We were knocked out by the delicate purple vessels we stumbled on in the mountains.
The apartment building where my parents live had an art show this afternoon and my father held court with his paintings and sketch books. A woman brought quilts and a copy of the “American Quilts” book that she was featured in. A man brought a wooden model of the USS Ammen that started making while he was stationed on the battleship in WWII and another woman showed her abstract work. She “likes to start with nothing.” Pete Tierney, who is 101, sat behind a table with his hand carved birds. A younger resident showed us a picture of a painting her grand daughter had done. It was featured in an article about 25 artists under 25. She said I always tell my kids, “You are only as good as think you are.” It was really inspiring. I came home and got to work.
Red pick up truck near the Public Market in Rochester, New York
We felt a little guilty watching the Flash play their last match of the season on ESPN2 last night. We could easily have been downtown watching the game in person but it was a real treat to see our favorite players up close. And the Flash Mob drum section sounded especially good on tv.
The Flash lost but it was a good match with the lead changing hands a few times before it was over. All three of the Spanish Flash players were on the pitch at the same time with Adriana scoring on a cross from Wambach and Sonia Bermúdez putting a wild long shot in the upper right corner. Brittany Taylor, Zerboni Samantha Kerr were all in top form and it is always great to see Jasmine Spencer come on late in the match. I hope they’re all back next year.
Our bikes were crammed in the back of the Element when we found a parking spot on the corner of Latta and Lighthouse, right in front of Holy Child elementary school, a short block from the river and the lake. It was a gorgeous day, pure blue sky, very low humidity and maybe seventy-five degrees. We sprang the bikes, put on our helmets and followed the boardwalk up river.
We stopped in that first block to marvel at the big boats docked along the shore. The seedy part of town looked like it was getting a facelift. Was it Scuttlebutt’s or the Charlotte Social Club that just got busted for running a gambling ring? Maybe it was the place that had a great big Hemingway mural on the side of it’s building. The restaurants and yacht clubs on the east side of the river were in full summer bloom and a group of young girls was headed up river, each in a small sailboat of their own. It was all very dreamy.
We headed down a gravel path that ran right along the river but turned around where the path narrowed. We interrupted a couple there, on the ground near some bushes, that were already rounding the bend of third base and they didn’t look like they were gonna stop for us. We turned around and took the paved path down to Turning Point Park where the boardwalk runs out over the wetlands in that wide water portion of the river where they used to turn around big freight ships. Ducks, turtles and herons all call this place home. Yellow and white flowers were blooming on the Lilly pads and fisher-people with the funkiest equipment imaginable are throwing lines in the water.
The path on south side of the park took us up to Lake Avenue near Riverside Cemetery so rode just a little further to the Catholic section, Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, where we hunted down my parent’s newly carved stones.
Nageldinger grave site in Rural Cemetery, near Lodi, New York
Of course we’re afraid to talk about death. Most people don’t want the party to end or even acknowledge the inevitable. But having helped nudge my parents to get their affairs in order I have a clearer picture of the mess I would leave behind if I stepped in front of an SUV tomorrow.
Our friends, Roc and Barb, passing through town from Bloomington, had just done a project with “A Stroke of Instinct” author, Jill Bolte Taylor, and they let us know that if we checked the “donate my organs” box on our license, it doesn’t include your brain. I was trying to imagine what someone would do with my brain. And then they told us about an old friend whose father died and left a mysterious bank account which they traced back to a second family that the guy had on the sly.
At the very least, a will is in order. Rich Stim gave us a Nolo package a few years back but we never followed up with it. It came on a pc disc and we put our pc in the trash a few years back. The article in the local paper on Rochester’s Death Café noted that most people aren’t afraid to die, they just don’t like picturing the complications that lead up to it.
Three deer in the woods near our house, Rochester, New York
We watched a fox for a bit until he got suspicious of us and darted into a hole. And there is a crop of deer that just don’t have any reason to be afraid of people. But as we cut through the park we came across a large four legged animal not far from the “Dogs Must Be On A Leash” sign. His presumed owners were lagging behind. We cautiously watched the dog before proceeding and shouted up to the couple, “Is that your dog?” Well, the dog must have just taken a dump (we didn’t see that) because the guy then walked ahead and scooped something into a bag as if we caught them not picking up after their dog. We asked if they could put the dog on a leash and they said what every dog owner says, “He won’t hurt you.” I said, “We’ve been bit twice” and the woman said, “Maybe it’s because you act afraid.” I thought, “Fuck you” and said, “No, it’s because we’ve been bit twice.
This is not a “which comes first, chicken or egg” situation. The first time I was bit I innocently put the back of my hand down for a dog to sniff. The dog grabbed my hand and I couldn’t get it out without ripping my fingers to shreds.” The second time I was bit my neighbor’s new “Seniors for Seniors” dog was apparently “protecting” my neighbor while I talked to him. The dog bit me on my ass.
This may be just a coincidence but the only car parked near the “Dogs Must Be On A Leash” sign had “Don’t Tread On Me” bumper sticker on it. Is there a dog libertarian movement underfoot?
I had a dream, nothing as rich as Dr. King’s, about a new client we had taken on. We had agreed to tackle the task at hand and were trading contacts when they learned we didn’t have a cell phone. How can this be in this day and age? “What if your car broke down?” The ending is fuzzy but I had a sinking feeling when I woke up. I think we lost the clients.
I did a little running around with my dad. Most stops had to do with doctors, a check-up, blood test and new batteries for his hearing aids. We stopped for lunch at one of his favorite haunts, a Jewish delicatessen called Fox’s. My dad ordered “Balogna & the Beast” and a root beer. I had a sandwich called “My Generation” and a chocolate egg cream. This place is only open for lunch yet it always crowded. My dad bought a chocolate cookie to go for Peggi on the way out.
It used to be five bucks for a load of stone. The Penfield quarry now charges ten but it is still a steal. Peggi and I shoveled a ton (literally) of crushed stone into our neighbor’s pick-up yesterday. There are about ten different size stone piles here to choose from. We filled the truck bed with the finest grade and then loaded ten buckets or so of stone that was about two inches in diameter. We’ll use the crushed stone on our road and the course stone will go down in a drywell that we plan to dig for better drainage near our mailboxes.
I shoveled a lot of stone when I was working for Mitchell Construction Company in Bloomington. I was on a three man crew that built forms and poured concrete for garage floors and sidewalks. But before we finished any concrete we had to shovel dump truck loads of stone into the forms.
The boss of our crew was named “Frenchie.” He had a party boat that he and his wife rode in on one of Indiana’s manmade lakes in the summer. They drank tomato juice and beer cocktails. The other guy on my crew was named Wayne Anderson. He turned us onto Al Green. The only reason he was hired was because the 30 person company needed to have at least one black employee in order to bid on University jobs. I remember one of the guys on the carpentry crew asking me, “What’s it like working with a nigger?” The owner of the company drove a convertable Mercedes sports car like Robert Wagner in “Hart to Hart.”
Hope Solo in goal vs. Flash in Rochester, New York
Hope Solo was back in the goal against the Flash tonight. We stalked her before the game. It was her first game since her arrest for domestic violence last weekend. She has apologized to her fans and says “adversity has always made us stronger.” Can’t argue with that.
Abby is still out for the Flash and wasn’t even in town but the Flash are playing better than ever. They were up 1-0 tonight against first place Seattle but then kind of ran out of steam in the second half before going down 2-1.
5 dollar parking sign in front of City Blue on Scio Street in Rochester, New York
Anybody remember where Backstreets was? I think it might have become a gay bar before it went under. They got busted at one point because the owners had illegally tapped into a power line out front and rigged so their utility bills were next to nil. I think I played there with New Math. Maybe it was Personal Effects. You could get near deadly shocks from the PA system by touching the mic and the monitor at the same time or something like that.
It was a hard rockin’ joint on Charlotte Street before the turned it into a gay club and they have pretty much torn down every building on that side of the street. Well, that is where we have parked for the last few nights of Jazz Fest. It might be a brownfield. In fact it is a brown field as in all mud. We refuse to pay to park downtown. That’s the way it has always been. There are spots.
