
Dave Griffiths
Valentine’s Day is almost upon us. Happy to say that commercialization of this holiday is less obnoxious than Halloween or Christmas. A card or flowers or some candy usually suffice. We all need a reminder of what we mean to each other.
I’ve been married for nearly 43 years. Life itself is the only thing I’ve been involved in longer than that. Here’s a sample of what it’s meant to me.
If a wife or husband isn’t your best friend, you have my sympathy. Mine is always there, never shy about correcting me when need be, and never absent when I need a smile, a hug, a shake of the head at some smart-alecky remark, and a “good morning!” no matter how things went the night before. And — this is a big one for inflated masculine self-image — she’ll admit when she’s wrong and apologize.
The knitted-brow on her lovely face when they wheeled me into surgery, then a smile as I emerged from anesthesia, meant more to me than words could muster.
We lost three little ones to miscarriage, a stillbirth at seven months, and a preemie named Amy who lived 49 days. When others might have lapsed into months or even years of grieving that their bodies had let them down so badly, she took charge and lined us up for special trips to Chile and Guatemala. You can ask our two adopted sons what kind of mother she turned out to be.
There’s more, most of it private. But I do recall a story a journalism student of mine at Penn State uncovered. In small-town central Pennsylvania, a wee girl was crying quietly and trembling as she climbed the steps to her first kindergarten day. Right behind her, a first-grade boy she didn’t know took her hand and they walked into the building together. They kept walking back and forth to school and beyond, hand in hand, until one day they got married.
Now on to less mushy stuff.
Baseball’s only a few weeks away, and the stat-happy Boston Globe sports department is on a numbers orgy explaining the Sox’ needs at the plate and in the field. Spare me all the charts and OPS (on-base percentage plus slugging) and OBA (on base average) and WAR — wins above replacements, which has never been explained in plain English. For cryin’ out loud, who’s being replaced and why? Just tell me, “The Sox need right-handed power and an elite closer,” and I get it.
I’m impressed that the Globe’s resident stats nerd knows all that stuff, but why the impulse to share it via boring numerals? Of course, the great baseball writers — Roger Angell, Roger Kahn, Tom Boswell, Jim Murray, etc. — did cite batting averages and RBIs (runs batted in) and ERA (earned run average for pitchers). We all know those metrics, but the best scribes matched timeless prose to the grace and power and mercurial speed and ballet-like infield defense, all linked to names that mean more to me than any politician or entertainer. And while I’m at it, stop telling me that young players have “tremendous upside.” The word “promising” works just fine.
I used to love a day at the track. But I’ll never bet on horses again because friends who’ve raised those magnificent creatures say that three-year-olds (Triple Crown) are far too fragile and immature to be racing. What’s more, the big tracks have reported an alarming number of deaths.
My best memory from those days? A horse named Bodacious Tatas raced on one day’s card at Pimlico. I bet on the name, and he (or she) finished last. I just hope they retired the animal.
Once more a trip to the vittles side of our time on Earth. What beckons you on the road can be just as memorable as the destination — depending on relations with your in-laws if they await you, of course. It’s Miss Worcester, a small diner just off I-290 that would make a primo mid-morning stop on your way to Hartford and beyond. It seats about 30 people in a few tight booths and the counter. Go for the counter, where the lone short-order cook wields the spatula and pancake batter scoop in a seamless star turn.
Then there’s the separate menu for French toast, crunchier than the soggy texture of my youth and endowed with flavors that I have never seen before on a breakfast bill of fare, including one example that accommodates peanut butter, fluff, and banana. Fluff?
As the legendary Shawnee chief Tecumseh said: “When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength. Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself.”
Dave Griffiths of Mechanic Falls is a retired journalist.
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