Oh Boston, You're My Home

I was born in New York by two parents from New York who each had siblings and parents from New York.  Thus, I was born into a family that rooted for Yankees or Mets and Jets or Giants.  When my parents relocated with my brother and me to New Hampshire, it was too late for any New Englanders to convert me to their one true religion: rooting for their hometown teams.  For better (the Yankees) or worse (the Jets,) I cannot fathom ever rooting for the Sox or Pats.  It’s just not in my DNA.  For example, “Sweet Caroline” makes me want to vomit and I strongly dislike the Bosstones. So as a consequence of my Yankee/Jet connection, I’ve suffered tons of abuse (I told you I was a Jets fan already right?) from my friends in New England since grammar school.

After graduating from UVM in 1997, I moved back home to Hooksett for the summer to make some money and regroup.  Like most college graduates, I was clueless as to the next step.  Fortunately, a couple of my high school buddies approached me with their idea about moving to Boston together.  That summer, we found an apartment in Fenway.

At first, living in the Green Monster’s neighborhood felt a little bit like being a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  In fact, I completed my first night out with the guys by sleeping in a Government Center jail cell.  Notwithstanding the rocky start, Boston began to grow on me after just a few weeks.

I celebrated my first Patriot’s Day as a Boston resident in 1998.  After experiencing the marathon as a spectator, I knew I had to experience it as a runner.  I ran as a bandit the following spring.  In 2002, I ran again but this time with a bona fide number. 

I finally graduated from law school one month after my last marathon.  That year, my first job as a lawyer was with the Middlesex County District Attorney’s Office as a prosecuter.  During that time, I worked with and befriended (or at least became acquainted with) a lot of state troopers and local police from Cambridge, Watertown, and Somerville among other towns.

In 2004, I took a job in private practice back in Boston where I’ve remained ever since.  Around the same time, I moved to South Boston and met Michelle. 

Michelle had lived in Southie since college besides living for a year in Watertown.  We got engaged in 2006 and bought our first home in Southie on the same day.  Greta was born in Boston two years later.  (Gus and Tilly were also born in Boston.)

When Michelle was pregnant with Gus, we relocated to Easton and began the adjustment to our suburban lifestyle.  In the ensuing three years, I think what I’ve come to miss most is simply the proximity to walk around in any of the city’s neighborhoods including but not limited to Boylston Street and Copley. 

But fortunately, I still work downtown.  And we go in occasionally as a couple or a family for various adventures.  My favorite Christmas present the last two years from Michelle was a “getaway” weekend where I stay solo in a Boston hotel to write and take breaks for inspiration a/k/a walk around the city or hop in a bar for a beverage.

On the day before this year’s marathon, Michelle and Greta were gone for the day.  I decided to take Gus and Tilly to Castle Island.  We stopped in Dorchester on the way out of town to visit my brother and his wife.  My buddy Phil heard we were in the neighborhood and invited us for a visit to his firehouse a few blocks away.  He offered to give us a special tour for the kids.  Unfortunately, the kids were too tired to make it work so we drove home.

Throughout that Sunday, I didn’t give much thought to the following day’s marathon. In all honesty, Patriot’s Day celebrations have been sporadic for me.  I can’t even remember the last time I actually went down to Boylston Street to watch the runners cross.  Part of the reason for the hiatus was definitely because of a “been there, done that” attitude, but also because I get just plain jealous whenever I watch any race that I’m not running.

On Monday around three o’clock, I was working in my office near South Station when I noticed the sounds of sirens and speeding cars.  A co-worker mentioned something about an explosion at the marathon.  Shortly thereafter, I noticed my cell phone wasn’t working right and next thing you know our office was evacuating. 

Once home, Michelle and I watched, listened, and read about all the horrors with reactions that probably mirrored exactly what you all experienced.  My first instinct was to check up on the status of any friends or acquaintances who may have been running or celebrating up there.  I also learned that Phil had been working directly across from the first explosion and thankfully, he was safe. 

Thoughts raced through my head as I waited for sleep that night.  Over the next few days, I struggled to comprehend the heinousness of the tragedy. 

On a primary level, I have been heartbroken for those who perished or were maimed by the bombings.  I am also devastated for the victims’ loved ones.  I can only imagine and hope never to experience the impact of such an atrocity on their lives. 

On a secondary level, I felt violated personally even though I do not personally know one person who suffered a casualty.  I realized my outrage was because the city where I’ve lived and worked and have come to love for the past 15 years, was attacked for no justifiable reason whatsoever.  It hurt even more because the Patriot's Day holiday celebrates exactly what is so wonderful about life and humanity. 

For whatever their reasons, the runners undertake a totally unnecessary challenge to their mind, body, and soul that requires months of commitment and training.  The spectators come to witness the runners’ confrontation with adversity and to encourage the athletes to succeed.  The symbiotic relationship between runner and spectator is almost a metaphor for life itself: we are either the one undertaking a burden to overcome or supporting those who need our help.

My head still swirled with contemplation.  Then Friday and the manhunt arrived.  I immediately thought of the police officers with whom I worked and met during my days at the DA’s office.  Without any verification, I know that many if not all of them were involved in what we witnessed.  Michelle and I rejoiced when the boat was discovered.

I admit this may sound kind of dumb.  But as a result of my sports teams’ allegiances, I’ve always felt a sort of disconnect between my identity and where I call home even though I’ve only really lived in New England my whole life.  After the events of this week, however, no such disconnect exists any longer.  I am now and will most likely forever be a Bostonian.  I write that admission with pride and satisfaction.  I just wish I realized it sooner.

~~~~

We owe a debt of gratitude to all of the first responders for their bravery, as well as for the exceptional jobs that they performed this week.  That means people like you, Phil, in addition to the police officers who assisted with the successful operation in Watertown on Friday night.

We should tip our caps to the public officials who simultaneously coordinated the community’s safety  and the accompanying investigations.  Too often, we voice our complaints when they are acting as politicians but fail to recognize when they acted as true leaders.  Kudos to the governor on down.

Also, let’s not forget about all of the medical professionals who pitched in this week, particularly during the immediate aftermath of the bombings.  They likely saved scores of lives because of their expertise.

Last but not least, we owe a big high five to the Hub and her people.  Boston is a city full of characters and character.  This week reinforced that sentiment, no doubt. 

On a closing note, I’ve decided to make a go of the marathon one more time next year.  Any of you feel like beginning the training with me in cold and wet December?  No?  Oh, you must not be from Boston.

Phil is in the center of this image.  You can see him without a hat in his black firefighter's coat and a silver B on his back.  We're all so proud of you buddy.

Spring Forward

I contemplated writing something like “The Winter That Never Dies” or “The Spring That Never Came” so that we might remember the strange weather of 2013’s first quarter.  Ultimately, I didn’t pull the trigger because I was afraid to jinx us and cause a sudden April snow storm. 

In any event, I don’t have a specific story for this particular post.  Instead, we’ll just go with the old “throw a bunch of crap that’s been marinating in my brain before I forget” montage.  While we’re at it, let’s sprinkle in a little Mad Men influence in light of tonight’s season premiere.

THE ROGER STERLING POWER LUNCH A/K/A LOUD MOUTH SOUP

In an effort to encourage Gus and Tilly from tossing their sippy cups overboard at the dinner table, THE WIFE and I constantly propose toasts and cheers with all the kids.  (Perhaps the rapid intake of wine is an ulterior motive as well, but I digress.)

Gus pronounces “cheers” in a pseudo Mass accent, which alarms and endears me at the same time.  It sounds like “chee-ahs.”  Next thing you know, he’ll be asking for “tonic” after his trip from the “bahth room.”

Greta, meanwhile, is getting much better at drinking out of a big girl cup.  She knocks it over only infrequently now, which is nice.  As for the vessel of choice, she’s rocking either a Hello Kitty shorty cup (her rocks glass) or a tall, pink Disney princesses collage (her high ball) that used to light up with a flip of a switch before it sat through an accidental dishwasher cycle. 

Tilly, when it comes to toasting, is far and away the most enthusiastic participant.  As soon as she detects that someone has lifted their glass to cheers, her eyes widen and she rapidly grabs ahold of her drink with one hand.  With a crazed-looking grin, she will swing her sippy cup wildly (still one-handed) as if she were imbibing with other Vikings in a medieval tavern.  We could do this for hours and she wouldn’t complain, I’m convinced.

DON’S IMPROMPTU REPAIR OF PETE CAMPBELL’S LEAKY KITCHEN SINK

We have a hand-me-down crib from friends of our friends, which we’ve been using for Tilly.  (Gus has Greta’s old crib.)  I’m pretty sure the manufacturer is out of business and this model has been recalled for safety reasons. 

Irregahdless, Greta gets a kick out of climbing in with Tilly to jump around, yell, laugh, and drive me crazy.  The other day, the jumping finally took its toll so Tilly’s been sleeping in a pack-n-play this week.  I told THE WIFE I’d try to fix it over the weekend.

Saturday morning arrived and THE WIFE abandoned the house with the kids (solid move, props to you WIFE) so I could attempt a repair amidst peace and quiet.  Naturally, I squandered the free time on other less pressing chores. 

I finally began fixing the crib yesterday afternoon but only after all three kids were back.  Of course that meant they were all up in my grille.  My head and arms were buried below the undercarriage like a mechanic under a car, as my belly and legs jutted out exposed to elbow drops and body slams.  Little faces peered in under the bed skirt, while my tools suddenly vanished and reappeared intermittently. 

After lots of twisting and pulling, pushing and manipulating, swearing and punching, I could not get the damn thing to reattach.  Greta had been working with me throughout the ordeal.  She was begging for a chance to use the Allen wrench to tighten up a bolt somewhere but I kept putting her off as I attempted to diagnose why the crib would not stay together.  Finally, Greta says “Hey dad, can I tighten this bolt?  It’s loose.”  When I saw what she was talking about, I realized that was exactly the fix we needed.

Long story short, one c-clamp, ten cable ties, a few bungee cords, some duct tape, Gorilla glue, and the advice of a four-year old later, we were able to put Tilly back in her crib for bed last night.  Thanks Gigi for helping me fix the crib that you broke!

THE JOHN DEERE RIDER MOWER INCIDENT DURING THE OFFICE PARTY SCENE

Almost immediately after we got home from Easter dinner at Nana’s, Gus wiped out on a shirt I hastily dropped on the ground while disrobing.  He split his chin open and incited temporary mayhem.  What’s a major holiday anyway without any blood stains on a seersucker bow tie?

As THE WIFE and I debated whether our first ER visit was necessary, we iced him down and gauzed him up.  Fortunately, G-man handled the situation like a champ and stitches were avoided.  He’s already healing pretty well.  Rain check on that ER visit.

ZOOBEY-ZOOBEY-ZOO

Greta’s standard outfit for practicing dance around the house is a bathing suit.  She will enter a room unannounced until we notice the attire and begin flattering her with compliments.  Then I play her “ballerina music” and we watch the performance.  Here was today’s outfit and yes it’s on backwards:

THE JAGUAR THAT LANE PRYCE COULDN’T START

Does anyone in America own a computer printer in their home that works on a consistent basis?  I’m pretty certain that ours worked for a day or so.  We may have even printed one or two pages.  Our “fancy” printer hypothetically has a scanner/copying function, though I wouldn’t know because neither command has ever worked for me every single time I have needed it. 

Every few months, I come back to the printer and hope that someone has fixed it since my last unsuccessful attempt.  Here’s hoping someone out there will give it a go the next time they’re over our house.

At least the printer’s heavy enough to keep the cabinet from moving when Tilly opens the drawers and crawls into it during one of her explorations.

ROLL THE CREDITS

That ends this week's snap shot of our family status circa April 7, 2013.  Enjoy the MM premiere tonight.

Toy Story T-Family Style

Hasbro, Mattel, Fisher Price, whomever – you can all send me a thank you note and royalty check later.  I have four ideas for toys and one for a product catering to parents that I’ve never seen and need to be made.  I have no idea if the goods would ever succeed on the market but I know at least my family would buy each of them, so that should obviously be sufficient grounds to at least launch some focus groups and an exploratory research panel.  Here goes.

1.) A freestanding drawer constructed of real wood that appears to have a truly functional purpose in the real world, as opposed to a plastic version that may fit nicely next to a toy kitchen.  The height would be adjustable but ideally at a level that is at the tippy-toe reach of a toddler. 

When the toddler reaches blindly into the drawer, he/she will find (toy) sharpened pencils and pens that he/she may chew, jam into their eyes, or use as a stabbing implement on his/her unsuspecting sibling.

I'd call it the "Juvenile Delinquent's Junk Drawer."

This drawer exists in real life next to our refrigerator and it’s one of Tilly’s hot spots on any given day.  Unfortunately for all involved, the pens and sharpened pencils are real.  The drawer is now empty.

2.) A freestanding door and door jamb that sits in the middle of a room.  A parent could adjust the resistance to control the level of noise made upon closure, which might range from silent to annoyingly loud slam. 

The door would have to at least have the appearance of genuine wood.  However, the edges would be made of some type of foam so that any fingers getting caught in between a door and a jamb would not be amputated. 

Gus would pay $1 million for this toy.  And it may occupy him for twelve straight hours, so long as an unattended stairway is not within sight.  Let's call this one "All Jambed Up."

3.) Notebooks, sticky pads, or packaging of any translucence that is actually a vegetable or fruit pulp with nutritional value.  The key to pulling off this sham is leaving the item in a location that suggests it was abandoned accidentally, say while attending to the diaper of a different child in the house.

Like a barn mouse, Tilly sniffs out these little gems from miles away.  I’ll stumble upon her as I turn a corner dirty diaper in hand after having just changed Gus and there she is, gnawing away on a grocery list or sticky notes from a deposition transcript I took home from work.  Maybe the product will be called “Edible Papyrus” or something to that effect.

Maybe we could resurrect fruit roll-ups and fashion them into some type of Trapper Keeper.  That would be like Tilly’s Thanksgiving/Christmas meal all combined into one secret snack club.

4.) A toilet bowl complete with water and flushing mechanism.  To ensure the bona fide appearance of this number one Christmas gift in 2013, I don’t recommend locating it in a bathroom.  Instead, I’d stash it in a closet or something with the door left slightly open.

Gus eyeballs the bathroom door in our house whenever he’s doing rounds just in case someone didn’t close it all the way during a hasty exit.  Upon seeing any daylight at the entrance, he charges in there and immediately inspects the john before he promptly splashes his arm shoulder-deep as if digging for catfish in a riverbed.

The "Hideaway Head" could retail for a cool $59.95 at Target on Black Friday.  Could you imagine the unintentional comedy of the television commercial?  

5.) The Dexter edition industrial-size plastic wrap wallpaper for moms and dads.  This product would be a transparent adhesive that lies invisible over kitchen walls, window sills, moldings, and other fixtures to protect them from the shrapnel in any meal involving kids under five within a twenty-five foot radius of the kitchen table.

I swear we painted our kitchen within the last two years even though it's beginning to look like an abandoned dining room from a house in Chernobyl.  We might as well let Crips and Bloods tag the place as if it was a subway car because it would look a thousand times better than the current state of dried-up, partially chewed remnants of fruit morsels and Cheerios that pock mark the vicinity at random locations from five feet and below.

3M is probably working on a prototype of this product as we speak.  Home Depot can set up a nice display at its entrance.  The DIY network might even have an episode to show nincompoops like me how it's so easy to install myself.

And there we have it.  If I see any of these products on shelves this year, I expect at least a free sample.

The Glass is Half Full

I’ve been at a loss for words the past several weeks.  Bad funk.  As for writing, I wasn’t struggling to come up with any ideas.  I just knew that I would likely regret whatever it was that I wrote because my pants were so full of poop. 

There is no dramatic backstory to explain.  No specific incident or anything like that.  Actually, my bad mood (not the first, not the last) developed mostly as a result of the banalities of my daily routines.   

One morning probably in February, my mind suddenly became overwhelmed with the grind of crying/teething/fighting kids, a house crumbling from damage caused by said kids, too much Disney/not enough Hemingway, grilled cheese sandwiches smooshed in hair and wiped on walls instead of meals with peaceful conversations, low energy, winter blues, etc.  And repeat the next day.  Every day.  Every week.  Then start again the following week.  Blah, blah, blah.  The only respite was going to work, but really, how messed up is it that a job becomes the place to recharge one’s energy? 

Fortunately, I maintained perspective.  We have our health.  We have a roof over our heads.  We have food in our bellies.  We have clothes on our backs.  As cliché as that may be, everything else is truly just gravy. 

But being American, I of course want everything, right now, because of my self-perception that I’m the hardest worker I know.  These yin and yang debates raged on mostly inside my head, while I toiled through the daily drudgery. 

I felt myself becoming unlike myself.  Almost like when Jack Butler (Mr. Mom) yells at Kenny for coloring outside the lines and enjoying the same television shows as his one year old.  Although I wish it was that lighthearted in my case.  (Again, no real drama but my heart is guilty for slacking off in the patience department to name one example.) 

Eventually, I think I just annoyed myself into a better mood.  I decided to be Billy Ocean when the going gets tough. 

I’m launching a system upgrade.  Dad version 4.0.  (Greta turned four last month.)  Hopefully, the new software will be the kind that doesn’t wreak havoc on the server causing an eye-rolling, belly aching uproar among the employees and calls every day to Help Desk people named “Joe” and “Bob” in sub-continental Asia.

With that confession out of the way, I’m ready to emerge from hibernation.  I’m re-booting the computer now.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

My buddy Joe was one of the first to get his driver’s license out of the guys I hung out with in high school.  Whenever I hear C+C Music Factory (which is extremely rare come to think of it,) my mind teleports to riding through the streets of Manchester in Joe’s Mazda 626 while Gonna Make You Sweat blared out any attempted conversation between the passengers.  Ah, the nineties.  I digress.

Tilly has recently transitioned somewhere from Australopithecus man to Homo habilis man.  Assuming the memory serves me correctly from World Cultures class, Australopithecus was one of the more primitive primates from whom humans evolved.  Homo habilis was the first species in the evolutionary chain who used tools.  I think.  Or maybe it was Homo erectus.

 

Irregardless, Tilly has begun mastering pulling herself up to stand.  The other day, I saw her standing at the toy tool table.  She was firing away at the circular saw until Gus came along and nudged her out of the way.  Tilly then grabbed a toy hammer and whacked away at her brother’s leg.  Hence, homo habilis.

Notwithstanding her evolutionary progression, Tilly’s eating quirks are probably more akin to Cro-Magnon man or possibly Neanderthal.  First, the volume of food she consumes is akin to the intake of a Biggest Loser contestant the night before they begin a competition.  Second, her table manners are atrocious.  We basically need a high-powered hose to blast away all the food scraps and crumbs that accumulate between her fingers, in her hair, on her cheeks, and in the folds of her neck after a meal. 

Most entertaining, though, is the sound that Tilly makes once we’ve begun to feed our little beast.  The only way I can accurately describe my baby’s happy hum while eating is well, um, the sound I imagine of a woman taking a bubble bath with several lit candles around her after a couple glasses of Chardonnay as she watches that movie about male strippers starring Channing Tatum and Matthew McConaughey.  I’m just saying. It’s funny and uncomfortable to witness at the same time.

That’s is for this week.  I’m off to download “Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)” because I can’t get it out of my brain.

Thoughts Too Long for Side Note at Side Bar:

THE WIFE graciously granted me a short parole this weekend so I could catch at least one of the four NFL playoff games.  I headed to Owen O’Leary’s, which is an Irish Pub and Restaurant just over the border between Easton and Brockton.  I’d never eaten there but I drive by it literally every single day, so it’s been on the list of places to check out for a while.

Upon entering, I deduced quickly that the average age of the clientele was somewhere between seventy and eighty years old.  Mind you, I was there on a Sunday at four o’clock, but I was still surprised at how much of a hot spot this was for the “well into retirement” crowd.

So this place is an old school type of family restaurant with very affordable entrees and Keno to boot.  The ambience is kind of dark and sleepy.  The décor is kind of outdated but clean and presentable.  Most of the couples ignored each other and their food because their eyes were transfixed on the monitor to see if they hit on their seven pick exacto.

I ordered the shepard’s pie and a stout.  Neither disappointed.  Good stuff.  Rumor has it that OO’s has a younger crowd during Pats’ games and when Stonehill’s students are back in session, but I’ll believe it when I see it…

I caught the Seahawks-Redskins game and just before it began, Erin Andrews (formerly of ESPN, Dancing With The Stars, and the unfortunate victim of a peeping Tom with a camera as she changed in a hotel room) came on the screen with a Fox pre-game report.  I couldn’t help but notice that everyone in the place all took a brief pause to look at the gorgeous woman.  I forgot how attractive she is…

I ask this sincerely because making fun of health issues just isn’t funny.  Has anyone heard Boomer Esiason’s voice lately?  Somebody give that guy a lozenge.  Just listening to him gives me a sore throat.  I’ll feel like a complete jackass if he genuinely has a throat sickness or something, but assuming that’s not the case, he needs to take some time off from work like yesterday.  Every time I hear him on the radio, I crave a hot toddy…

Speaking of the radio, the best report I heard after leaving the restaurant went something like this, “Thanks Jim.  I was just standing near the bench of the Seahawks and [the field goal kicker I think] was having his groin stretched feverishly.”  Personally, I’m pretty sure I know how I’d react to someone stretching my groin.  For said person to stretch my groin feverishly, well, I’d probably start making sounds like Tilly does when she’s eating a nice meal…

The Next Pollock?

Although the dark lit room of my art history classroom almost always lulled me to sleep – that is assuming I actually made it to class - I remember how several of the artists had groups of works inspired by a particular theme.  Goya’s black paintings, Gauguin’s Tahitian pieces, and Monet’s haystacks come to mind, for example.  In keeping with such a precedent, I present to you a collection of works by aspiring young artist Greta Teravainen. 

The Early Years: 2012 Holiday Gallery

My Family

Title: Tilly When She's a Big Girl

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Nana

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Gus

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Mom

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on (stained) paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Greta

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Dad

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Winter

Title: Snowballs a/k/a The Map

Date: December 8, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Snowmen

Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Our Christmas Tree from Last Year

Date: December 8, 2012
Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")
Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Untitled

Date: Undated

Type: Sparkle and glue on (stained) paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

The G Series

Title: G Path
Date: Undated

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Big G Path
Date: Undated

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Bigger G Path
Date: Undated

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Still Life

Title: Banana
Date: December 8, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: Rapunzel
Date: December 4, 2012

Type: Sparkle and glue on (stained) paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

Title: A Design (Bird in Flight)
Date: undated

Type: Sparkle and glue on paper (8.5" x 11")

Location: T Family Institute of Art - Kitchen

_____________________________________________________

We hope you enjoyed this collection from Greta.  Come back again for an exclusive interview with the artist...

A Little Summer in Winter

Back in fourth or fifth grade, I had a buddy whose family took me with them to a house party in Manchester on one July Fourth holiday.  Parents pretty much socialized inside the hosts’ house, while the kids ran amok outside.  I don’t recall whether the parents were not watching us closely or simply didn’t have much concern, but we ten or eleven year-olds were left to entertain ourselves.  To my utter shock and delight, it dawned on me that my peers were playing with lighters, matches, and – most importantly – fireworks.  When I look back on this occasion, it was probably one of the highlights of my short life up to that point. 

My parents were reasonably lenient about letting my brother and me engage in those “boys will be boys” activities, which were inherently dangerous but almost impossible to prevent unless they stood watch over us constantly.  You know, I’m thinking about things like climbing trees that were tall enough to kill or maim us, should a branch snap and we fell.  Or riding bikes helmetless while trespassing in the sand and gravel pits with signs clearly marked “Keep Out.”  Or hanging around the train tracks to put pennies on the rails before an engine came rumbling by Robie’s Store as we ate penny candy.  You catch my drift.

Still, my parents had their boundaries.  And handling flammable exploding projectiles was definitely off-limits.  Naturally, when the opportunity arose to handle this contraband unsupervised, I jumped at it.  Fortunately, this is not going to be a story where someone was terribly burned or lost an eyeball.  

The reason that I mention this memory is because Tilly has transported me back to that Fourth of July long ago.  The coolest part to me of playing with fireworks that day was lighting bottle rockets.  I would place the long and narrow red wooden stick with my right hand into an empty twelve ounce bottle that I held with my left.  Then, I’d light the wick until I saw the yellow spark and accompanying hiss.  Next, I’d hold the bottle up over my head at an angle to ensure maximum height until eventually – a sudden *whoosh* sound occurred and the rocket would lift off leaving a trail of sparks.  The moment would culminate with a loud, high-pitched *eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,* then a pause, and finally – the denouement – an exploding pop that temporarily rang in our ears.

Tilly makes almost this exact same noise when she is feeling ignored.  Typically, we’re at the kitchen table and we’re not feeding her fast enough.  Or, we may have left the table and abandoned her in her high chair, so she signals that we’ve left her behind.  When you turn around to acknowledge Tilly and confirm that you, in fact, heard her loud and clear, she smiles triumphantly and kicks her short sausage link legs.  I can’t help but laugh and smile back at her.  Or kiss her beautifully chubby cheeks.

As a result, I’ve re-named Tilly as the “Bottle Rocket.”  Greta, formerly known as the Pterodactyl when she was the same age, seems to like the name, too.  I hope it sticks. 

Now just in case my Bottle Rocket is ever at your house for a July Fourth party, or any party for that matter, she is definitely not allowed to light any fireworks – at least until I go first.