Kid Stuff

In November 2009, I was struck with the idea of writing a children's book. My son, Owen, loves subway trains, especially Boston's MBTA system. In trying to find Christmas gifts that year that related to subway trains, I didn't find much other than a few books that were below his reading level. I figured I'd try my hand at writing a children's book or two about subways.

I started out simple, with a rhyming alphabet book for preschoolers. I shopped it around to literary agencies, but got little interest. One agency, having read my query letter, asked to see the whole manuscript, but eventually turned it down. At the same time, I began working on a subway-themed counting book. I completed a first draft on that one, but haven't returned.

As for the alphabet book, that, too, took a back seat once I set my sights on finishing "(C)rock Stories: Million-Dollar Tales of Music, Mayhem and Immaturity," the short story collection I'd been working on for nearly 10 years.

After my short story collection was published, in late December 2010, I spent some time marketing and promoting that book. Eventually, Ireturned to my alphabet book with fresh eyes. I still liked the book, but figured I could use a few other opinions. I sent the manuscript to a few friends and family members, looking for honest feedback that would help me get it published.

I received constructive criticism, for which I am thankful. Still, I'm having a hard time hammering a new draft into shape. The basic problems, as one friend pointed out, were that the book mixed in too many technical subway terms, and it didn't tell a story

Now, as regular DaveTronik 2000 readers are aware, I'm pretty familiar with Boston's subway system, and with the trains, especially on the Green line, having taken countless trips with Owen. I grappled with the idea of making the story specific to the MBTA, but after considerable time spent trying to fit the rhymes and letters into that mold, I abandoned the idea.

Lately, I've gone back to the drawing board, trying to tell a story that follows the rhythm and pace of the trips that Owen and I take. I'm having better luck with this idea, but I'm still finding it very hard to tell a story, make it rhyme, and use preschool-level words. I'm going to get it done, but it's taking longer than I'd hoped.

When I'm satisfied, I'll try shopping it directly to publishers. I don't have an illustrator on board, but my understanding is that if a publisher likes the idea, they'll put an author in touch with someone to do the art. Seeing how I'm not a celebrity, the chances of publishing a picture book are small, but I know that my idea is fresh and if I can show them that I have at least one other similarly themed book in the works, that can only be to my benefit.

(Since my foray into children's book writing was inspired by my nine-year-old, I've of course also thought about writing chapter books for kids his age, but by the time I get around to that, Owen will be way too old to care about them.)

Now, here's a complicating factor: in recent weeks, I've been making up bedtime stories for my daughter, Amelia, who's four. I've created two characters that I'm considering using for books. I'm not going to let out too many details, and I'm not sure if I'm really going to follow through, but I get excited when I tell stories to Amelia using these characters, and would love to explore them on paper.

OK, all this kid talk has made my thirsty for an adult beverage.

I Love a Parade...and a Carnival

Each summer growing up, I looked forward to the annual Simsbury Volunteer Fire Company's carnival the way a drunk joneses for his next bottle of booze. The carnival was held the same week in July. The festivities opened on a Wednesday (or maybe Thursday) and went through the weekend, with a parade on Saturday night. I got almost as excited for the parade, with its scores of area fire departments, marching bands, trucks, police cars, clowns throwing candy, etc., as I did for the rides and games of skill at the carnival.

I loved the Ferris wheel, the Rotor, the Spider, the Goolamajig -- OK, I don't remember the names of all the rides, but I loved everything about the whole event.

I would go to the carnival on one or two of the early nights. It was held at Weatogue Park, where I sometimes played softball, or knocked around golf balls or just ran around or rode my bike. I loved the games, from tossing a ping pong ball into a fish bowl (I'm glad I never won; I didn't actually want the fish), to pitching nickels in order to win all sorts of glassware: Miller beer mugs, parfait glasses, ashtrays (it was the '70s), banana split dishes -- you name it, I won it and stashed it in my closet for years and never used any of the stuff for anything other than storing loose change.

On Saturday evening, my family and I would walk down to the corner where our road, Mountain View, met with the parade route, Latimer Lane. We'd hang out with my friends the Keegan boys and bounce around until the parade started. We could see up the hill to where the parade started. There was always a police car at the head of the line, and when we saw it moving down, we'd yell out, "It's starting! It's starting!"

Fire trucks from all around Connecticut and parts of Massachusetts (and perhaps Rhode Island and New York) streamed by, honking horns, blaring sirens, flashing lights. There were bands made up of firemen (there may have been a few women, but it was mostly men back then), a high school band or two, with baton twirlers. Old fashioned fire trucks, ambulances and other public safety vehicles filled things out.

My high school's theater group even rode by in a truck, promoting whatever show they were putting on that summer ("Guys 'n' Dolls," "The Fantasticks," etc.). It was quite the community event.

The parade wound about another mile or so to the carnival grounds. My friends and family, of course, made our way to the park, usually taking the train tracks as a shortcut. The firemen had a special section near the back of the grounds, near the brick tower where they performed rescue and fire drills, where they caroused with their wives and families. I used to think it would be so cool to hang out in that roped-off area.

After more rides and games and food (cotton candy, popcorn) I went home, my carnival and parade needs sated for another year.

The next morning my friends and I walked back down to the park to look for money, discarded prizes and anything else of value. One time, I found a $5 bill, and being the goody-goody that I am, I turned it in to some people breaking down the event, just in case someone came back looking for it.

The fire department canceled the event in 2000, after nearly 50 years, after realizing that the amount of work that went into the event wasn't worth the meager tally of dollars flowing in. For more, see this article.

In 1979, when I was 14, a local church, St. Mary's, started a competing carnival, which still runs in June after 32 years. While that carnival doesn't have an attendant parade, and never seemed quite as glamorous as the firemen's carnival, I'm glad my hometown still has an event like it.

I was reminded of carnivals and parades after recently taking some pictures at the St. Mary of Carmen Society festival in my adopted hometown of Newton, MA. Known as "the festa," the event is put on by an Italian-American group associated with a local Catholic church.

The carnival, which I've attended with Owen in years past (although not this year), runs from Wednesday to Sunday in the middle of July. At 10:00 on the final night, there is a candlelight procession from the parade grounds to the church. Parishioners and residents of The Lake, as the section of town is affectionately known, follow behind a statue of Mary, singing songs in Italian and holding candles. Along the route, people launched numerous fireworks, which add to the festive atmosphere, but, in my opinion, take away some of the solemnity.



I walked right in the procession, alongside many older Italian-American men and women, and although I had no idea what they were singing, or had any sense of the tradition, I was moved. I have no ethnic customs in my family, so whenever I get a chance to soak up somebody's else's, I enjoy it.

The procession ends at the church, where a local girl dressed as an angel is hoisted up above the faithful, and tosses flowers.



Afterwards, most people filed into the church. I, of course, didn't.

I vowed to return next year, however, to get better pictures, and to witness the Sunday afternoon procession, during which parishioners attach dollar bills to the statue of Mary.

Vacation

We spent a week on Cape Cod earlier this month, as we've done for the last nine years. We rent the same house with Beth's parents, her sister and brother-in-law and their son, Max. We had a good time going to a nearby beach, riding on the Cape Cod Central Railroad, visiting the Heritage Museum and Gardens, eating fried food, watching the MLB All-Star Game, going for walks by the salt marsh and riding go-cars and bumper boats. Oh yeah, and drinking beer, margaritas and Old Grand-Dad.

One thing all three kids -- my two, Owen and Amelia, and their cousin, Max -- loved to do together was launch stomp rockets. As you can see, Max knows how to throw himself into it.



Inevitably during our time on the Cape, talk turns to buying a place in Pocasset, the section of Bourne where we rent. The discussion is usually more fantasy than reality, because let's face it, the idea of owning a vacation home is Part II of the American Dream, after owning a primary home.

I'm always the voice of gentle dissent in these discussions. I'm not handy and have no desire to ignore projects around a vacation home in addition to my primary home. I like going to the beach for short periods of time, and am not a boating person. The main reason I cite when trying to dissuade Beth about the prospect of buying a second home, is that I don't want to feel tied to one place for summer vacations.

Growing up, I never thought about my family owning a vacation home. It seemed like something that only rich people did. Although my family didn't travel to faraway locations every summer, we went to some terrific places and had some cool adventures.

Here's a brief list of my favorite spots:

• Montreal
-- we toured facilities from the '76 Summer Olympics, watched an Expos-Padres game and I heard French spoken for the first time


• Washington, D.C.
-- we hit the Smithsonian and a bunch of other museums, as well as the National Mall, the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial


• Grand Tetons/Grand Canyon/Bryce Canyon/Great Salt Lake
-- This was the most wide-ranging trip we took. We flew from Hartford to Flagstaff, AZ, rented a car and spent 10 days (or two weeks?) hitting as much as we could. Some day I'll find the pictures I took on this trip (the first pix I ever took; I was 12). This was the best vacation I ever took.


• Torrington, CT
-- despite the fact that everybody (or most of us) got sick while staying in cabins at what I believe was a YMCA camp, this trip is memorable because I saw "Jaws." That places this trip in 1975, when I was 10.

I envision taking such trips with Beth and the kids, which is why I'm reluctant to get tied down to the Cape. Owen turned 9 in May, and Amelia 4 in June. They'd be able to handle trips like the ones I recall fondly from my childhood. We plan on taking them to Disney World in October, which, while I'm not big on mega-resort experiences, should be a lot of fun.

Other spots I'd love to take the kids in the coming years include:

• New Mexico
-- I lived in Albuquerque for three months after taking a road trip with friends after college. I didn't take the opportunity to enjoy the culture and incredible mountains and other natural wonders out there. I want to visit, and take in Santa Fe as well.


• New Orleans
-- I went there on the same road trip mentioned above and had a great time, albeit a much different time than I'll have with the kids. Watching "Treme" the past two season has given me the itch to soak up the music, food and great atmosphere.


• San Francisco
-- Beth and I spent a few days there long before we had kids. It's a fabulous city.


• Egypt
-- The pyramids, etc.


• Petra
-- A city in Jordan carved out of cliffs 2,000 years ago. 'Nuff said.

There are countless other places around the U.S. and the world I'd love to explore. Beth and I have never been big on travel, but with the kids getting older I think it's time for some adventures. Of course, I still value our time on the Cape each summer, so we'll have to find a balance.

Where I'm From

This is the house where I grew up, in Weatogue, Connecticut:



This place was the center of my universe for the first half of my life, until I was 23. I grew up there with my older siblings, Steve and Beth, my parents, Dick and Joan, and our dog, Lucky. Here, I learned the value of education (my parents were both teachers); the passion of being a Red Sox fan; the wonder of playing a musical instrument (my mom played piano; I played clarinet first, then took up the guitar); the importance of treating everyone equally; the thrill of playing baseball; the joy of spending holidays with my extended family; and the excitement of punk rock, thanks to college radio stations WWUH (91.3, University of Hartford) and WESU (88.1, Wesleyan University), on my boombox radio.

When my parents decided to move out of 29 Mountain View Road a few years ago, I felt a part of me was being ripped away. The thought had never occurred to me that they would leave. I thought they would always live there, and I'd be able to soak up childhood memories during visits for holidays, birthdays and other family events.

But they didn't need all the space, and wanted to move some place where they could live on one floor, so they wouldn't have to go up and down so much. So they readied the place for sale, and in December 2006 they moved to a new place in an "active adult" community in Windsor, about 20 minutes away.

I thought I'd really miss the house where I grew up, and that I'd want to drive by the place whenever I was in the area, talk to the new owners, see what they'd done with the place, reminisce about my childhood, etc.

To be honest, though, I haven't thought about the house that much in the years since my parents moved out. Sure, I think about good times I had there, and I harken back to a childhood in the neighborhood filled with baseball, football in the snow, the summer camp at the elementary school behind the house, riding bikes around with my friends, exploring in the woods and along the brook near my house, climbing on the roof of the school during the Blizzard of '78. But I don't have any desire to visit the house, or talk to the owners. I don't feel like I've lost anything by letting the house go.

This holds true with every place I've lived, no matter how long or how short a time. After college, I moved numerous times before landing in the house where I am now with my wife and kids. We've been here 7 1/2 years, and I hope we'll be here for decades to come. When we sold our previous house, in West Roxbury, I certainly drove by the place once in a while, but I didn't really miss it. Same with previous rental houses or apartments.

Turns out it's true that home is where you hang your hat. Of course, no matter where my houses or apartments have been, and regardless of where they may be in the future, that hat will always be a Sox hat.

Heredity

("Big Alex," Felton Street in Waltham, MA)


I was reminded during a recent visit with my sister how much I loved big rigs when I was young. She's five years older than I am, and told me that to this day she remembers the difference between a cabover and a conventional truck tractor because of how obsessed I was with spotting 18-wheelers.

Previously, I hadn't thought about how similar my one-time appreciation for big trucks is to my 9-year-old son Owen's current love of subway trains. I used to ride my bike down to the heavily traveled Route 10 in my hometown, Simsbury, CT, so I could spot trucks. I would hang out for quite a while, trying to get them to blast their air horns. And when they did, I got a real thrill.

I was totally into CB radio lingo, even buying a book so I could learn some in case I picked some up on my walkie talkie while I was watching trucks. Did I watch "BJ and the Bear" on TV? Yes, I did. Did I love C.W. McCall's "Convoy" when it played on the radio? Yes, I did.

I've never seen "Convoy" the movie, however, which I need to rectify.

In the last two years or so, Owen and I have gone on close to two dozen trips on the Boston subway system. He loves the trains, the stations, the noises, the connections between places. I love to take pictures and see parts of Boston I don't usually see from the highway or local streets.

Just as I now take my son on subway trips, my dad helped feed my truck obsession, although not to anywhere near the degree that I help Owen. My dad took me to a truck dealership in Hartford once, and explained to a driver outside how much I loved trucks. Faster than you could say, "10-4, good buddy," I was climbing up to take a look in the cab.

Another time, on a family vacation out west, we stopped for the night at a motel in Salt Lake City. I was in the outdoor pool and saw a truck pull into the parking lot. Once again, my dad asked, and once again, I got to check out the cab.

Also, I loved the "Smokey and the Bandit" movies when I was a kid.

And I had a favorite 18-wheeler when I was a kid. In the center of Simsbury was a factory called Ensign Bickford. They had a red-white-and-blue cabover Peterbilt parked there with a double sleeper. I used to dream of breaking through the security fence and driving that thing away.

Why did I love trucks so much? Because they were big, and loud and the best ones had huge chrome smoke stacks, running lights that lit up the night and the guys driving them looked like cowboys. I imagined that driving a semi truck was all fun: traveling the open road, being your own boss, sleeping in the truck like it was a camper, meeting people from all walks of life.

Now, like me, Owen dreams of one day driving a big rig, although a subway car is a much different beast than an 18-wheeler. He loves the Green Line more than any other, and keeps track of which trains we've ridden (they have four-digit numbers prominently displayed), which ones have derailed in the past, which ones have been repainted. His favorite stations are Government Center and Park Street, because the trains squeak the most as they come around the bend at those stations.

And, like my sister, I've learned a lot from exposure to a young boy's deep interest. Thanks to Owen, I know the difference between a Kinki train and a Breda train, for instance.

I wonder what Owen's kids will be obsessed with. Maybe spaceships.