The holidays are over, and as I look in the mirror, I see a flabbier version of myself staring back, a look of confused anxiety on my face as I realize what six weeks of over-indulgence can do to a man. This year was gonna be different – this was the year I stayed away from third helpings of the festive pecan sugar log, rejected another lap around the buffet table, the year I avoided the face-first forays into the creamy Frito-laden dip. That plan ended the minute the eighth swan went a’ swimming, unfortunately, leaving me swollen, sullen and looking for the ghost of Jack Lalanne, and he isn’t even dead yet. When New Year’s Day rolled around, I seized upon the first day of the New Year as the perfect time to right my ways.
But then the cheese called. Well, not the cheese itself but the cheesemonger, dashing my hopes for a slimmer future. Cheesemonger? What in the name of Cheez Whiz is a cheesemonger, you ask. Until two weeks ago I too had no idea, but any job that features cheese in the title can’t be all that bad, so I went to learn more, casting my weight loss plan aside like an unopened Absizer.
There are those who care more about the Doodle than the Cheez, who consider cheese a sidekick and nothing more. Then there are those who see cheese for the glorious creation it is, finding a partially filled glass of milk and caring nothing about the half-empty versus half-full argument, demanding only to know what moron blew the chance to turn that milk into cheese. I love cheese not as the corner man but as the main event - the Muhammad Ali of the meal rather than the Bundini Brown. Cheese, I believe, is the pinnacle of human existence, the reason for life itself, and the only real thing that separates us from our simian cousins. Cheese – the fat man’s candy, milk’s leap into immortality – it has many names, each of them beautiful. I will never have enough cheese.
I enter Butter’s on Main Street in Concord, and Keith Dickey is standing there, waiting for me, a look of detached determination on his face. He greets me and hands me an apron. “Are you ready to work,” he asks with a wry smile. Keith’s been the proprietor of Butter’s since he opened its doors in the summer of 2006. After years as an archaeologist and then an investment banker in Manhattan, Keith, his wife and daughter moved to Concord, and soon after he poured all that archaeology money into Butter’s, creating a destination for cheese lovers across the Granite state.
After a quick tour of the store, a beautifully renovated space with exposed brick, cases teeming with cheese and fancy meats (think prosciutto, not porterhouse), shelves stacked with gourmet snacks, crackers, oils and wine, Keith gestures to an enormous wheel of cheese resting on a butcher’s block table in the store’s front foyer. “You’re going to cut that up,” he says and points to a table nearby covered in cheeses of all sizes. “And then we’ll tackle those.” I’m reminded of the line from the film, Field of Dreams, when Kevin Costner’s dad asks, “Is this heaven?” I expect Keith to read my mind and respond, “No, Tim, this is a cheese shop,” but he just smiles and gets me working on the wheel.
My first job as a cheesemonger, or one who sells cheese, is to cut it before I can sell it. The title of cheesemonger, I later realize, is a more unofficial one, like “parade grand marshal” or “celebrity spokesmodel,” except that this requires fewer decorative sashes and more skill. Keith introduces me to a beautiful wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and we wipe it down to remove the excess oil. He explains that this 80 lb. wheel of Italian cow’s milk cheese has aged for at least two years, its birthday burned into its rind. He offers a quick lesson in how to open it. I learn that a true cheesemonger never cuts this wheel; rather he breaks it into pieces slowly, using a set of special tools – a cross between spackling trowels and fancy hood ornaments. Within seconds my heart rate’s racing as I drive the tools inch by inch into the massive circle. A small crowd gathers – it’s not every day you see a small man wrestling with a large wheel of expensive cheese – and as I twist the tools in the opposite direction, the wheel opens and the most amazing smell releases into the air, drawing the three or four onlookers closer. Keith offers us a taste of the uneven shards, and the cheese explodes with flavor. It’s sweet, salty, robust and delicate. Parts of it crunch like candy as others melt softly in my mouth. Keith stands back as we each seem to be discovering this cheese for the first time, blown away by its aroma, texture and taste.
But I’m here to work, so I keep cutting, the halves into quarters, the quarters into eighths and so on until Keith and his team wrap the cheese into sections for selling. Next up we attack what looks like a curling puck, and I learn it’s an Ascutney Mountain cheese from Vermont, its slightly hard texture yellow with the milk of the jersey cows that’ve had a hand in its production. Its taste is dense and rich, not quite as intense as the Parmigiano but subtler, more subdued.
We finish with the Ascutney Mountain, and Keith gives me a lesson in wrapping. “True cheesemongers take special care to wrap cheese the right way,” Keith explains as he shows me the correct technique. “You don’t want any wrinkles – the ghost effect is the goal,” he says as he deftly wraps a half-wheel of the cheese we’ve cut without a single fold in the plastic wrap to be seen.
I continue cutting, first a soft Fourme D’Ambert, using a wire to slice it into two large discs, then use a double-handled, 24-inch blade to open a five-year old huge wheel of Gouda, its smokiness shattering my taste buds as I pop the gleaned remnants in my mouth. We talk cheese as I work.
At this point, I feel like the Trekkie at a Star Trek convention who’s wandered into Leonard Nimoy in the men’s room and struck up a conversation about the episode where Abe Lincoln and Captain Kirk band together to fight Genghis Khan and the Klingons. Keith tells me about the foundations of cheese making (“It’s all about the milk,”) and how there are strict rules governing around selling cheese made with raw versus pasteurized milk. Keith says things like, “My Stilton is stuck in the harbor,” “You don’t want bleu on your cheddar,” and, “Notice the piquant flavor.” And by the time he describes the “mushroomy nuttiness of Brie,” I feel like my older sister during her Leif Garrett stage, listening to his record as she flips the pages of Tiger Beat with Leif shirtless on the cover. Dreamy.
Keith continues, tells me about the role of rennet, the enzyme essential to the cheese making process. He explains how bacteria is to cheese what Big Papi is to the Red Sox – the critical element that turns regular milk into a winner. I learn that bleu cheese’s mold comes from penicillin and that the crust on the outside of a nice wheel of Brie is all mold as well. “All cheeses are living, breathing things,” Keith explains as I cram another fistful of soft Brie in my mouth. I can barely form sentences now I’ve eaten so much cheese, and when Keith offers me a few sips of wine he’d been sampling earlier, I might not make it home in one piece. We say our goodbyes, and as I leave, my hands and shoulders sore from the cutting and opening, my New Year’s resolution is in tatters. But I don’t care. Weight may come and go but cheese is eternal.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Monday, December 3, 2007
Tim O'Shea Must Shut Up!
“No talking. At all. The whole day. Are you crazy?” This is my reaction as I read my invitation to the White Mountain Sangha, “a day of silence and inquiry,” so that I might discover my “deepest nature” and “share in beautiful silence.” Considering silence and deep thought fit me about as well as a two-piece bathing suit, I’m skeptical. I tell my son Sam about the idea, and after informing me that a story like this will be “the most boring story in the world,” he declares, “You can’t stop yourself from talking.” I’m not listening because I’m too busy telling him about my favorite kinds of apples and how Saving Private Ryan is such a good movie and that Kevin Garnett sure will make the Celtics better this season and that I had a crush on Linda Ronstadt as a kid and that Buzz Aldrin would have been a really cool uncle and some other stuff I’ve been meaning to tell him.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.
Despite Sam’s misgivings, I head to the Universalist-Unitarian church on a recent Saturday, armed with a bag lunch and a willingness to try out this silence thing at the Sangha, or “spiritual community.” I take my seat and mentally declare that my lone goal for today is to utter not a single word. Margaret Fletcher, my host and today’s organizer, begins with a set of shared rules. Among them, “We agree not to make non-spoken speech so we don’t interrupt the silence that someone’s cultivated today.” I guess my plan to use my self-taught mime techniques is out the window. Margaret continues, telling us about the afternoon’s planned “free-form walking meditation,” which sounds a lot like the Grateful Dead’s third set at Hartford ’87 (“’Space” into “Drums” into “Franklin’s Tower” with a brief free-form walking meditation as an encore”), but I’ve agreed not to be judgmental so I keep my lip buttoned and settle in.
Norman Scrimshaw, the Sangha’s leader, enters the room, filled with twenty-five of us, some on the floor and others in chairs. Norman is a barrel-chested man with remnants of a sturdy head of white hair, and as he takes his seat on a platform in front, he has a look of pure calm on his face. For the next twenty minutes, Norman reels off Zen-like quote after quote, pausing ever so slightly while saying things like, “The mind loves attention,” “To be nobody is extraordinarily peaceful,” “While meditating, let go of the ambition,” and “The heart dwells in silence where there is no judgment.” This is like two full semesters of eastern religion in less than a half-hour, my mind swelling as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me without looking like the charade I am.
A gong sounds as a woman gently strikes a large bowl, and the first meditation begins. She now makes circles around the bowl with her mallet, and the sound grows louder and louder, like no noise I’ve heard before. The tone now blankets the entire room and massages my brain, and I watch the others start their meditation. I try to spend the next forty-five minutes as motionless as possible, but having no idea how to meditate, I close my eyes and try to give into the silence. Between Journey’s “Open Arms” playing inside my head, the image of the pile of leaves that needs raking on my lawn and the age-old question of why Dee from What’s Happening was so darn sassy, the first session flies by and I’m exhausted, leaving me to wonder why people think this is relaxing.
Next up is the satsang, or “gathering in truth.” Norman poses ideas to the group such as, “Awakening is opposite from denial and judgment,” and “Practice radical acceptance – accept the way things are about the world and about yourself.” A few participants ask Norman questions, but I’m far too intimidated to speak; besides, I’m not breaking my vow of silence. The audience is riveted. Some, like me, take notes while others wait on every word from Norman’s mouth, and I understand why. His delivery is so smooth and simple, and his message –focus on yourself, accept yourself and don’t judge – is a pretty good approach for people like me, a 40-year old guy with an expanding waist, a shrinking hairline and a legitimate concern that I’m actually getting shorter.
After another meditation session, it’s time for lunch. I’d put some thought into what to bring. An iceberg lettuce, carrot and radish salad followed by a big bag of Pringles seems wrong for a silent lunch so I opt for a turkey wrap and a handful of Fig Newtons, the quiet cookie of choice for meditation enthusiasts and cat burglars across America! We eat in silence, staring at our meals, careful not to make eye contact. To the casual observer, we must look like the misanthrope section of the high school cafeteria, each of us silently plotting our revenge for all those wedgies we’ve endured, but we’re the exact opposite, each of us choosing to be our own best friends for this lunch break.
The gong sounds, and we head back to the room. I can’t wait for the next meditation. The one just before lunch was not as cluttered as the first, and I’m hoping to think a little less and just be for a spell. Okay, so maybe I doze off for a bit, but when the gonging bowl calls us back to satsang, I’m relaxed and engaged.
After another chat with Norman, my judgmental ways creep back in. We’re into our fourth meditation session, and I’m distracted by a man sitting on the floor. He’s the only one moving, methodically swaying back and forth, like a slow-motion bob and weave. He’s also asked a few questions during the satsangs, and frankly, some of his “questions” sounded more like statements, as if to say, “I’m super excellent at meditating, and I want you to know this.” Well, if Norman says we should leave ambition at the door and Mr. Bob and Weave doesn’t oblige, then I’ll judge him, silently, of course.
The final meditation begins, and I notice that Mr. Bob and Weave is taking huge breaths; he’s starting to sound like a mating humpback whale. I try to shut that idea out and focus on my silence, but seriously, he’s really making a lot of noise with that breathing. I start to get angry and consider breaking this silence with a “Dude, put a yoga sock in it. We’re trying to be in the here and now, but that noise is keeping me in the there and then!” But I remain silent and refocus my mind on nothing. I close my eyes and let his whale song opera wash over me. Pretty soon I’m in my own world. No more ‘80’s arena rock lyrics, no more bills to pay, no more emails to answer and no more cetacean love songs. Nothing but silence.
As the church bells announce that it’s four o’clock, many in the group take a moment to ask one last question or to say a few words of thanks. I’ve met my goal and been silent the whole day, but it’s quittin’ time and I’ve got something to say. I take the microphone, thank the group for inviting me and then make a quick joke about how writing a story about an experience where there are no stories will be a tough task. This is apparently a clever joke for those in the meditation know, and it gets a nice laugh, but as I get ready to toss out a few more Zen-filled zingers and establish myself as the Don Rickles of the meditation set, Mr. Bob and Weave takes the microphone and makes one more statement about his tremendous meditation acumen, and I’m pretty sure I even see Norman’s eyes roll a bit at that one.Driving home, I think through Norman’s comments about “being present” – about having a “calm abiding” that allows you to be completely aware of the moment you’re in now. It gets me thinking. Am I ever really present? Do I put my energy towards what I’m doing now rather than recalling things I’ve done or need to do tomorrow? Do I let go of the mistakes I’ve made or things I’ve failed to do? Nope, not a chance – not by a long shot. But it’s good to know there’s a path to get there, but I first need to get this Journey song out of my head.
Monday, November 26, 2007
SF Man Part Two - I Am Not Dougie!
Part Two – I Can Hear You Getting Fatter
When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.
When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Short Fat Man Tears ACL, Gets Shorter and Fatter
Part One – Mental Toughness, Physical Weakness
The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.
The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid
I’ve come to Hopkinton to find Frank. Standing in Blaser’s Fireside Tavern in the early evening of a warm late summer night, I’m talking with my contact, Jay Bowe. Jay’s invited me to join her and the team from ECTO, the East Coast Transcommunication Organization, for a night of paranormal investigation, or what laymen might call “ghost bustin’.” Jay introduces me to Nancy Blaser. She and her husband Terry have owned Blaser’s since 1999, and Nancy assures me the place is haunted, recounting story after story of spectral encounters. This is when I learn about Frank.
Frank Mills is Blaser’s resident ghost, and he’s been haunting this place since he shot himself dead in 1926, distraught over the death of his young bride the year before. Nancy must serve quite a pepper steak for anyone, dead or alive, to stick around the same place for seventy years, but before I can order from the pub menu, I head upstairs to meet the team. The ECTO members are easy to spot – they’re the ones dressed in black with the expensive AV equipment. One guy sets up the video cameras, microphones and VRCs; another unpacks his temperature gauges; a woman plays with a pendulum while another boots up a laptop. Between the dark clothes, facial hair and high-tech equipment, I feel like I’m backstage at an Allman Brothers concert, but then Tim Derr, the ECTO member specializing in EMF (electromagnetic frequency detection), introduces himself and shows me his tool of choice, the copper dowsing rod. I’d always thought dowsing rods were for mildly nutty people looking for water as the PBS cameras roll, but Tim is normal, chatty and definitely not nutty. Tim explains that dowsing rods can be used to detect changes in electromagnetic frequency, “a good sign that there’s spectral energy close by.”
This prompts another member, Ron Pinkham, with a gift for “spectral videography” to tell me, “It’s all about energy. These ghosts have energy that always exists, so we use these tools to find the energy.” Just then, Tim’s twin rods start spinning around as he approaches the stairwell, prompting Ron to use a hand-held EMF meter, but instead of stumbling upon our first ghost of the night, Ron and Tim agree that there must be power cables running behind the wall, Ron remarks, “That’s not paranormal, that’s just dangerous.” He continues, “Most of what we do is prove each other wrong. We want to make sure what we find is legit. We tell each other all the mistakes we’re making so we can prove the good stuff.” I can’t help but think these guys would make great house inspectors.
I need to be straight with you – I’m a believer. Granted, I might not sleep in cemeteries on Halloween and know my sisters rigged the Ouija board, but I’ve no doubt that some departed souls just never got the memo about the big sleep. And I admit it doesn’t take much to scare me – one scene in The Sixth Sense made me yelp aloud in a packed movie theater like a pre-teen girl with a wooly spider in her popcorn, and I often run faster than Edwin Moses getting up my basement stairs, just in case someone or something is following me, which I’m pretty sure is true most of the time.
It’s getting dark outside, and the team continues to set up. ECTO’s two leaders, Karen Mossey and Mike Sullivan, give me a quick overview of the world of paranormal investigation. Karen’s specialty is EVP - electronic voice phenomena - and she shows me her digital voice recorder, explaining that spirits, “manipulate the energy in the recording devices,” sometimes leaving behind their voices. Mike then gives me a primer in EVP, playing a series of creepy recordings, where I hear voices say things like, “We’re the hunters,” in a chilling, old-fashioned accent, and another that says, “I love you,” but not in the way you’d really want whispered in your ear. I listen and nod, but all I can think of is that I’ll never invite Karen to my house – with my luck, she’ll wander around with her voice recorder discovering the one ghost who loves to mock my personal hygiene. “Nose picker,” it would say or something just as revealing.
Mike, who’s been doing this kind of work for thirty-plus years, tells me that images of ghosts most often appear as reflections in mirrors or glass objects, which explains why he’s arranged a dozen or so old bottles and small mirrors throughout the third floor and why he takes photo after photo like an over-medicated tourist with film to burn. Mike shows me a photo from his collection, a tiny one of a man wearing a morning coat and bowler, and I get queasy because I’m pretty sure I’m staring at a picture of a man who’s been dead for fifty years. I bet if I fake left and run right, I can make it downstairs and to my car in twenty seconds, but it’s dark in the parking lot and who knows what’s out there waiting for me, so I thank Mike for the lesson and gird myself for what’s next.
The team gathers, and Karen begins in the near-pitch black on the third floor. I ask no one in particular if I should have some sort of safe word if Frank gets me in his ghostly clutches, like “binkie” or “mommy,” but the team is in no mood for jokes. Karen asks for quiet, calling out to Frank, urging him to join us. We’re greeted with silence, save for the soft snapping of digital photos. ECTO then moves into overdrive, using every tool at its disposal, exploring all parts of the tavern’s second and third floors. Karen hands me a thermalined monocular, a night-vision scope, and I walk around in the dark, praying that I see only people I recognize through the green-tinted lens.
The more the team explores every corner, I wonder if they’re frightening the ghosts away. If I were a ghost, these black-clad leaders of the AV Alumni Society calling out my name might make me hide in the floorboards for the night. I ask Audra Pinkham, Ronnie’s sister, if ghosts can be scared off, and she tells me, “If ghosts aren’t ready to go to the light, they are not ready and they are not leaving.” I prep my best Jo Beth Williams imitation, (“Carol Ann, stay away from the light!”) but think better of it and get back to my night vision duties.
Somehow, I find myself alone on the third floor in absolute darkness. I knew this was a bad idea. I’m in the one area in New Hampshire where ghosts book their appearances months in advance, and we’ve baited Frank into showing his ghostly face right in this room! But before I can hyperventilate into unconsciousness, I hear something downstairs. I hustle off to find the group huddled together, excited about a discovery, the first of the night. Karen presses play on her recorder, and we hear her voice call out, “Is there anybody here? Speak if you are here. Who is here?” And then we hear one word, spoken in a low, peculiar voice. The voice says, “Frank.” The team is ecstatic – real EVP proof that Frank has arrived! They may be thrilled, but my stomach feels like my pancreas is holding onto my duodenum for dear life, the three of them scared out of their wits, just like me.
As we listen again and again to Frank’s voice, I’m struck by the fact that these people are like the paparazzi – they sit around with expensive cameras and gear, waiting for a glimpse of someone special to show his face and then they pounce.The group heads back upstairs, but my night’s over. Tim’s dowsing rods may have found something else, and Karen’s planned a full séance to continue the chitchat with Frank, but I’ve heard enough to know there really are things that go bump in the night. Besides, it’s getting late and this crowd looks like it could go all night. I need to get home to go to sleep. With the lights on.
Frank Mills is Blaser’s resident ghost, and he’s been haunting this place since he shot himself dead in 1926, distraught over the death of his young bride the year before. Nancy must serve quite a pepper steak for anyone, dead or alive, to stick around the same place for seventy years, but before I can order from the pub menu, I head upstairs to meet the team. The ECTO members are easy to spot – they’re the ones dressed in black with the expensive AV equipment. One guy sets up the video cameras, microphones and VRCs; another unpacks his temperature gauges; a woman plays with a pendulum while another boots up a laptop. Between the dark clothes, facial hair and high-tech equipment, I feel like I’m backstage at an Allman Brothers concert, but then Tim Derr, the ECTO member specializing in EMF (electromagnetic frequency detection), introduces himself and shows me his tool of choice, the copper dowsing rod. I’d always thought dowsing rods were for mildly nutty people looking for water as the PBS cameras roll, but Tim is normal, chatty and definitely not nutty. Tim explains that dowsing rods can be used to detect changes in electromagnetic frequency, “a good sign that there’s spectral energy close by.”
This prompts another member, Ron Pinkham, with a gift for “spectral videography” to tell me, “It’s all about energy. These ghosts have energy that always exists, so we use these tools to find the energy.” Just then, Tim’s twin rods start spinning around as he approaches the stairwell, prompting Ron to use a hand-held EMF meter, but instead of stumbling upon our first ghost of the night, Ron and Tim agree that there must be power cables running behind the wall, Ron remarks, “That’s not paranormal, that’s just dangerous.” He continues, “Most of what we do is prove each other wrong. We want to make sure what we find is legit. We tell each other all the mistakes we’re making so we can prove the good stuff.” I can’t help but think these guys would make great house inspectors.
I need to be straight with you – I’m a believer. Granted, I might not sleep in cemeteries on Halloween and know my sisters rigged the Ouija board, but I’ve no doubt that some departed souls just never got the memo about the big sleep. And I admit it doesn’t take much to scare me – one scene in The Sixth Sense made me yelp aloud in a packed movie theater like a pre-teen girl with a wooly spider in her popcorn, and I often run faster than Edwin Moses getting up my basement stairs, just in case someone or something is following me, which I’m pretty sure is true most of the time.
It’s getting dark outside, and the team continues to set up. ECTO’s two leaders, Karen Mossey and Mike Sullivan, give me a quick overview of the world of paranormal investigation. Karen’s specialty is EVP - electronic voice phenomena - and she shows me her digital voice recorder, explaining that spirits, “manipulate the energy in the recording devices,” sometimes leaving behind their voices. Mike then gives me a primer in EVP, playing a series of creepy recordings, where I hear voices say things like, “We’re the hunters,” in a chilling, old-fashioned accent, and another that says, “I love you,” but not in the way you’d really want whispered in your ear. I listen and nod, but all I can think of is that I’ll never invite Karen to my house – with my luck, she’ll wander around with her voice recorder discovering the one ghost who loves to mock my personal hygiene. “Nose picker,” it would say or something just as revealing.
Mike, who’s been doing this kind of work for thirty-plus years, tells me that images of ghosts most often appear as reflections in mirrors or glass objects, which explains why he’s arranged a dozen or so old bottles and small mirrors throughout the third floor and why he takes photo after photo like an over-medicated tourist with film to burn. Mike shows me a photo from his collection, a tiny one of a man wearing a morning coat and bowler, and I get queasy because I’m pretty sure I’m staring at a picture of a man who’s been dead for fifty years. I bet if I fake left and run right, I can make it downstairs and to my car in twenty seconds, but it’s dark in the parking lot and who knows what’s out there waiting for me, so I thank Mike for the lesson and gird myself for what’s next.
The team gathers, and Karen begins in the near-pitch black on the third floor. I ask no one in particular if I should have some sort of safe word if Frank gets me in his ghostly clutches, like “binkie” or “mommy,” but the team is in no mood for jokes. Karen asks for quiet, calling out to Frank, urging him to join us. We’re greeted with silence, save for the soft snapping of digital photos. ECTO then moves into overdrive, using every tool at its disposal, exploring all parts of the tavern’s second and third floors. Karen hands me a thermalined monocular, a night-vision scope, and I walk around in the dark, praying that I see only people I recognize through the green-tinted lens.
The more the team explores every corner, I wonder if they’re frightening the ghosts away. If I were a ghost, these black-clad leaders of the AV Alumni Society calling out my name might make me hide in the floorboards for the night. I ask Audra Pinkham, Ronnie’s sister, if ghosts can be scared off, and she tells me, “If ghosts aren’t ready to go to the light, they are not ready and they are not leaving.” I prep my best Jo Beth Williams imitation, (“Carol Ann, stay away from the light!”) but think better of it and get back to my night vision duties.
Somehow, I find myself alone on the third floor in absolute darkness. I knew this was a bad idea. I’m in the one area in New Hampshire where ghosts book their appearances months in advance, and we’ve baited Frank into showing his ghostly face right in this room! But before I can hyperventilate into unconsciousness, I hear something downstairs. I hustle off to find the group huddled together, excited about a discovery, the first of the night. Karen presses play on her recorder, and we hear her voice call out, “Is there anybody here? Speak if you are here. Who is here?” And then we hear one word, spoken in a low, peculiar voice. The voice says, “Frank.” The team is ecstatic – real EVP proof that Frank has arrived! They may be thrilled, but my stomach feels like my pancreas is holding onto my duodenum for dear life, the three of them scared out of their wits, just like me.
As we listen again and again to Frank’s voice, I’m struck by the fact that these people are like the paparazzi – they sit around with expensive cameras and gear, waiting for a glimpse of someone special to show his face and then they pounce.The group heads back upstairs, but my night’s over. Tim’s dowsing rods may have found something else, and Karen’s planned a full séance to continue the chitchat with Frank, but I’ve heard enough to know there really are things that go bump in the night. Besides, it’s getting late and this crowd looks like it could go all night. I need to get home to go to sleep. With the lights on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
