Nealmeister

When it's this cold outside

The windchill in Boston this morning is something like negative 16 farenheit.  Brrrr.  This is totally what one would want to expect in Boston, though.  After all, what good would New England winters be (and all the lore around it, from something about Walden Pond to something about ski towns that want to secede from the States) without a couple of shots and blasts of Arctic cold?  And besides, it has been much too warm this winter, even though it's snowed a bit.  Winters back in the day were always colder and snowier... oh wait, I think that's my "bare foot walks in the snow uphill bothways" gene starting to kick in.

Seriously, though, crisp cold weather makes me daydream on the way to the bus stop.  I love breathing out of my mouth to try to form a little smokestack--a throw back to being 5 or 6 or so--and all the while, conjure up the warm, green thoughts of how distant and askew summer time and canobie lake rollercoasters and cranes beach seashores fade in my head.  The cold and the walk make me appreciate the MBTA bus when it shows up, even if it is late.  The walk in the cold makes me second think the whole iPod and sappy music thing because (a) the earphone chord seems to freeze on up, and (b) missy elliot and nelly furtado and other booty-shaking music works a lot better.

Snow's coming, too.  Snow.  And with that, the crisp cold bright sunny morning seems just perfect in my mind, because I know that tomorrow (or really the day after), I'll be hauling ass trying to shovel the longest driveway in Charlestown.  Yay!

A Month Back (and Charlestown Shots)

While on the bus this morning, I thought of two things:
(1) it's been a month since I've been back blogging, and gosh, it does feel good, because the frustrated writer inside of me -- the frustrated, creative person inside of me -- really loves to do this;
(2) I forgot how great it feels to find a photographer that you like, because the frustrated photographer inside of me -- the frustrated, creative person inside of me -- really loves to be surprised by surprising interesting photographs.

 

What it means, I think, is that I need to write some more and I need to shoot photographs again.  And I need to write a note to a certain woman and her husband and child at the University of Utah, via Longmont, Colorado.  I need to _______.

[Photos via Alex Ward shot in Charlestown, Massachusetts]

Change is Inevitable II [In re: United States Gypsum Company]

I went to the 6pm Mass Young Adult Mass at Saint Mary's with my parents, and sat up near the front with my mom and my dad.  I really didn't say much to my parents.  I happened to bump into them on the way to church as I rushed down Main Street, and with our coat collars up and wool hats pulled down near our ears, I abashedly asked my dad up what he was going to do.  So we talked, and there was a lot of "I think, I feel, I'll figure" it out type of conversation going on.  Finally, we happened upon the great granite and brick structure that is Saint Mary's, and felt obliged to walk in.  When we got to the pew, my dad commented on my shirt: "Varitek" he said.  Then my mom asked, with Filipino accent and all: "oh, why, honey, you're not cantoring tonight?"  I kind of shrugged it off.  It was the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, and the first reading, from Isaiah chapter 8, verse 23 or so. 

Anguish has taken wing, dispelled is darkness:
for there is no gloom where but now there was distress.
The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom
a light has shone.

I let the reading sink in my head and the thoughts process the matrix of my mind.

Now there comes a time when you really do begin to worry about your parents.  I don't know if it's part of the natural life cycle or what, but it seems like, in the midst of weddings and engagements and pregnancies, talk of the parents is the next in line hot topic among my friends and my junior associate co-workers; we're either tackling the fact that some day, our parents will get old and die, or we're avoiding the topic because we're too scared to confront the change and the love-anguish associated with the idea.  I always thought I'd be long off from thinking about my parents in that way, and luckily, I think that's a far ways away still.  But somewhere admidst the homily and the Nicene Creed during Mass, I started thinking about the United States Gypsum Plant at the end of Terminal Street in Charlestown.  I really couldn't comprehend that USG was going to idle a good portion of the Boston plant come the end of March; that all these employees, who watched me and my siblings grow up, were being W.A.R.N.'d under the Workers Adjustment and Retraining Notification Act; that, even though all of these people survived USG's Chapter 11 reorganization and crazy USG company picnics at Canobie Lake and even crazier times working just beneath the Tobin Bridge, in an instant, they were all suddenly being let down and let off.  I'm sure, for some, this was like the miracle in the works waiting to happen.  And I can assure you -- there will be many a commuter who will be happy when they don't have to drive over the Tobin Bridge through the steam from the USG Plant's steam stacks. But I, I felt like a piece of me -- even though I didn't work at USG (my sister, though, worked in the lab all through undergraduate and graduate school summers) -- was dying off.  And I felt like, suddenly, I was worried about what my dad was going to do.

I'll always remember when I got into Notre Dame.  It was my birthday in 1999, and since I had been feeling a bit nauseous at school, I dodged my friends after seventh period, called in sick to work, and just went home (I didn't know, at the time, that I ended up missing my own surprise 18th birthday party).   I came home to find a thin letter from the ND Admissions office.  And so, you know how the urban legend goes "if the letter's thin, there's no way you're in."  Well, I eventually mustered up the courage to open the letter.  The rest is pretty much history, but I did call my dad and hiked down to Terminal Street to the USG plant to show him the letter.  And in lockstep Rudy style, I put on a green hard hat and walked through the USG plant with my dad.  "Little Neal's going to Notre Dame" he'd announce proudly.  And of course, all of the familiar, tired faces at USG lit up a bit -- whether congratulatory or a bit bitter -- and extended manly hands to shake my soft  adolescent paw.  I remember the way the fine dust from crushed gypsum rock felt with every shake; it dried the hands and crusted in the same way thin layers of overly diluted plaster crusts on the surface of a spackling spade.  I recall the tears that were in my dad's eyes when he read the letter at the front entrance of the plant.  And I'll always remember the thought I had standing there under the bright, orangish lights inside the factory: "thank you, USG, for helping our family pull through.  And thank you, USG, for making sure I didn't end up throwing cement bags for the rest of my life."

As with any good post, I guess I don't know where this is heading.  But what I do know is this: with the USG Plant idling along the shores of the Mystic River, another piece of middle America, industrial America as we know it in Greater Boston, will move into askew memories of an (industrial) time that once was.  Another opportunity for some middle-class, blue-collar, working-class family to live on the hope of getting ahead -- much like the family I was born and raised from -- and subsist on at least a half decent living, will ride away on the waves of what is, to many, a vibrant and transforming economy.  And with that, I'm left to wonder what else is left for the working-class folks of Greater Boston to do.  I wonder, with pause, what my dad will do.

Change is Inevitable [In re: St. Catherine of Siena Parish, Charlestown]

I've been swallowing a pill that I knew was coming and have spent the past five years or so avoiding: St. Catherine's closing.  There are tons of pros, tons of cons, tons of opinions and tons of facts.  And I don't mean this post to really get into any real, in depth analysis of any of those things. 

What I wanted to get off my back, though, was that I'm hurting a bit over it.  Nothing to be worried about; no need for suicide watch.  But over the past week, I've been in a really pensive, deliberating, nostalgic mood.  To sum it up, it's been downright sucky. And it's all-in-all, a personal coming-to-accept-it experience.  It prompted dinner with Natalie, Carrie, Geoff and Amelia, but dissuaded me from attending any of those "info" meetings.  I can handle numbers and logistics, so when I need them, I'll turn to them, I thought.  The personal truth in this all is that St. Catherine's is home for me in a number of ways: coming of age experiences, believing in faith experiences, friends, family, love.  At the same time, I know that, but consolidating a worshipping spot into one church building, the whole community will benefit in the long run (the whole John-esque gathering/communion experience). 

What I'm experiencing, though, is what happens when you've stocked so much in the material place: you leave yourself open to being let down.  This isn't new, but as it relates to Charlestown, I think me, personally, I let this whole gentrification thing get wrapped up in the personal and the emotional and the nostalgia -- the wants, the needs, the feelings, the longings.  I think I knew it when the Boys' and Girls' Club did the whole Piece of Peace book back in the 90s. [Related link: 9 Lexington Street]  And now, Karl Rhaner and the wisdom and lessons from undergraduate catholic philo classes becomes useful again.  I'll use Nicole's Song [by Virginia Coalition] to get through the thinking, I guess.

So now I've been forced to give advice/
On a matter in which now I've become involved/
Should I stop my thoughts and close my eyes/
Play the lover's role in the beggar's disguise/
And beg God to give me/
Solomon's wisdom

In the midst of this, my brother Sean contributed a decent piece to the January 17, 2008 edition of the Charlestown Patriot-Bridge, which I'll just copy and paste here:

The Spirit of St. Catherine's
By Sean Boyle

To the people of the one-square mile that we know and love: In February, my church, Saint Catherine of Siena, will close.

When our ancestors emigrated from Ireland and other countries, they found it hard to be accepted. In storefronts, there were signs that read “No Irish need apply,” and riots broke out, one of which led to the burning of the Ursuline Convent in Charlestown. But our ancestors made Charlestown their home, street by street, house by house. This became our town, where we celebrated our culture, spoke our native tongue and created everlasting traditions. Charlestown was home to the second Catholic church in all of Massachusetts, Saint Mary’s. When our ancestors came here, the only thing they had that kept them going was their faith. It was the only thing in America that they could claim was theirs. As years went on, we built three vibrant Catholic parishes, we had a tight-knit community, traditions that would hopefully never end and our own unique culture in America and Boston.

But as 2008 arrived, I realized that traditions are disappearing, culture is being lost and that once tight-knit community is breaking and now forming a committed community made up of old and new residents. I am not old enough to remember the “old” Charlestown, but I hear stories about it all the time — stories of when the Bunker Hill Day Parade was the biggest day for Charlestown, with parties in every house and everyone filled with pride and happiness. Now, on the beloved parade days, I see fewer parties, fewer American flags waving in the crowd and streets that barely have any spectators. I hear stories of mothers, 400 deep, praying the rosary on Bunker Hill Street and marching against forced busing, marching for the love of their children and a cause that was worth fighting for in their eyes. I hear stories of the whole town watching Charlestown High’s football games, how Charlestown had the most pubs and sent the most people to World War II than any other one square-mile town in America. Other stories tell of looping, the Charlestown Rose, Ancient Orders of Hibernia, the Knights of Columbus, funeral marches with Irish women wailing, Saint Catherine’s “little Townies color guard,” mothers sitting on the stoop, CYO meets, stores and pubs that are gone, stories of the Bunker Hill Hillbillies and the Majestic Knights, tournaments and memorial services and, most of all, packed Masses.

When I was in eighth grade, I started an organization called FACES – Fill A Church Every Sunday. This was when Saint Catherine of Siena Parish was supposed to close (before it merged with Saint Mary’s). I was desperate and I wanted to save my parish, my church and my faith. I went from door to door in Charlestown; I got doors slammed in my face by people whom I knew, people who did not bother to answer and others that really did not care about church. I asked people to come to church and told them that my goal was to invite people to church and have them invite other people in order to fill a pew and, eventually, a church. I told them the Mass schedules at Saint Francis de Sales, Saint Mary’s and Saint Catherine of Siena. People used excuses such as: “I have a hockey game to go to,” “It is too far,” “I don’t have time,” “It is boring” and “I have to watch my television show.” My argument was all the hours of the Masses were spread over different hours of both Saturday and Sunday, so maybe you can make time. “Why can’t people spend an hour with God?” I thought to myself. I eventually gave up and lost hope. I was sad because this was a tradition that had been going on in the world for 2,000 years, a symbol of hope for our ancestors when they came here. This was our ancestors’ blood and sweat being thrown out the window.

I yearn for that old sense of community. I yearn for that tight-knit community, I yearn for those disappearing traditions, and I yearn for the culture we bestow upon ourselves. How can a shamrock be the town’s symbol when no one goes to church anymore? Do people forget what the shamrock symbolizes? Do people know why they’re wearing a Townie sweater with a big shamrock on it? Well, if you’ve forgotten what it symbolizes, here it is: Saint Patrick used the shamrock to show the Irish the sacred Trinity, three in one, one in three. The shamrock will be a tradition that will live on forever and a sacred symbol that represents Ireland and our faith.

To the People of Charlestown: WAKE UP! We are losing traditions and culture that we created and fought for. New traditions are being created, which I hope never die. But we must keep our old traditions going and teach them to future generations and future neighbors, because without the memory of the past, we are nothing. Traditions, such as passing a church or hearing an ambulance and then making the sign of the cross, hearing the church bells ring and not complaining or even simply going to church, are essential. These traditions are what make us who we are, a people who lived here for generations, a people who have just moved here, a people often misunderstood and put down, a people who fight for what they believe in, a people who have strong traditions and a historic past, a people who call themselves Townies and a people who live in a diverse, vibrant, urban and tight-knit community. We (old and new residents) know what it means to be from Charlestown. There is always a sense of pride and comfort in your heart. But we need to keep traditions going — keep the faith, keep the community and keep our culture, as well as share it.

As much as I do not want Saint Catherine’s to close, as much as I want to fight to keep it open, I know it is for the better. I am grateful for memories like Fr. Coyne’s Charlie Brown robes, midnight and six o’clock masses, CYO meets, shows and all the memories from Charlestown Catholic. I hope that I am able to raise my children in a town with never-ending traditions, with the people whom I knew when I was growing up and the new residents, and that sense of a tight-knit, diverse and unique community. I invite you all to attend mass at either St. Mary-Saint Catherine of Siena churches or Saint Francis de Sales Church. I invite you, Charlestown – both old and new residents, to keep the tradition of going to Mass alive. I invite you to keep other traditions alive and even though our neighborhood is changing before our eyes – to give new neighbors a warm welcome to “God’s country” and pass/share our traditions on to them.

I extend a warm welcome to the people of Charlestown to celebrate the last Mass of Saint Catherine of Siena Church on Feb. 10 at 11 a.m. (There will only be one mass for Saint Mary-Saint Catherine of Siena Parish on that Sunday). Join the people of Saint Catherine’s in tears, laughter and hopefulness, even if you are from a different church. I hope that through out the years the “spirit of Saint Catherine’s” will live on forever in this town. I also hope that more people keep the tradition of celebrating the Eucharist alive. Let us be united in Christ and united in Charlestown, and let us show our ancestors that we did not give up on the faith they once had.

Sean Boyle is a 16-years-old Charlestown native, and a  junior at Boston College High School.

So where does this leave us?  I'll quip from Meredith Grey's clichéd narration at the end of the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy:  Change.  We don't like it.  We fear it.  But we can't stop it from coming.  We either adapt to change or we get left behind. ... It hurts to grow.  Anyone who tells you it doesn't is lying.  But here is the truth: sometimes, the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Sometimes, change is good.  Sometimes, change is everything.

Ode to Them

When my sister was back home in Massachusetts over the Christmas holiday, I told her that, for some odd reason, I felt like I didn't have any good pictures of mom and dad just together.  Sure, I had graduation pictures and party pictures.  But you know how, you know how your dad (or my dad) seems to always wear a blue shirt -- almost indicative of being a USG, blue collar, steadfast kind of guy -- and has the same half smile half discerning look that you grew used to seeing as you tumbled down the stairs in the morning (half awake, of course)?  And you know how, you know how your mom (or my mom) seems to always have the permanent smile -- whether something's wrong or something's right -- and can imagine, even hear, every time you look at her that sort of filipino accent?  Well, maybe you would, or maybe you can't, but my sister did.  I didn't have any of "those pictures," and I desperately wanted one to put in a frame in my office.

So, my sister emailed me this awesome picture that her fiance took of my parents out in Seattle.  I think it's perfect.  I think they look so good in the Pacific Northwest.  And I think, even after all of these years of marriage, that they still totally love each other.  And I do love them.  And I thank them for loving me.

America Runs on Dunkin (Round 3 starts now)

My mouth can't form these words...

So I totally got screwed out of Patriots' tickets.  I totally got screwed out of a Christmas grab present.  And I totally got screwed out of a free coffee at Dunkin Donuts.  But I can't hate on the last one, and it won't make it to the Bitch List compilation that will come out at the end of 2008. 

Between my undying loyalty to Dunkins and my unfettered love for Dunkin's commercials [like  Bleachers ("I'm freezing at peewee hockey"), or Fritalian ("My mouth can't form these words"), and yes, all tracked to They Must Be Giants courtesy of Hill Holiday] and the entire "America Runs on Dunkin advertising campaign," I come upon upon an epi[/MESSAGE CLIPPED/]

Are They Might Be Giants 'freezing at Pee Wee hockey?' We're pretty sure. [via: AdvertisingAge]

Grey's, Skipping on the Gym, Skipping on Football

Well, my roomie isn't even home from winter break yet, and yet... I've reverted into the typical semester routine: skip out of work at about 8:25pm; take the Orange Line home and quickly exit at Community College; pick up a half-gallon of Breyer's ice cream at Foodmaster; contemplate going to BSC (and thinking: "nah... legs days are meant to be skipped!"); and then slog home and quickly strip off all of the lawyer clothes, plunk on the DePaul sweatshirt, and turn on Grey's Anatomy. 

I know what's coming my way.  The ritual perpetuates a whole number of long running jokes, among them: (i) since when did you become a woman? (ii) since when did you grow a flappy v ____jay (iii) since when did you become a lesbian? (iv) since when did you come out?  It resounds wholeheartedly of Captain Marino.  Personally, I prefer to proclaim that I'm pregnant.  But that whole discussion is for another day.

Reality for today: it was wicked wicked freezing out in Boston today.  I was supposed to meet up with some folks at the Pub99 after work to watch the Orange Bowl and grab some beers, but I was wicked wicked freezing when I got out of the O-line at Community College and my body literally shuddered at the thought of alcohol.  Yes, shuddered.  Once I got home, I thought the gym would be an option... that is, until my blackberry started buzzing (you know I had to answer; I can't disconnect from work). Next, I quickly realized, once I got to my parking spot, that the door to my Corolla was literally frozen shut.  Shuddered, Buzzed, Frozen Shut.  That left me with one option: watch Greys.

Now, I haven't been as die-hard of a Grey's fan as last year this time.  Between the writers' strike, a newfound love for Brothers and Sisters, and certain longing for Dr. Burke and Addison Montgomery-Shepherd, I just have been missing Grey's more.  But tonight, I shed a couple of tears for Dr. O'Malley (dude--I would give my heart to save my dad too) and found a nice new song for the "Shitty Day" playlist [Get Well Soon/by the Perishers].

Anyway, my apartment is a mess.  I need to devise a way to clean it up before Jess comes home on Sunday and Kevin lands in Boston later that day.  My Christmas Tree is still up (pictures coming soon--"December Vacation Album" style on Facebook), the floor really needs to be vacuumed, and I have a whole pile of bills that need to be filed.

Plus, I need to email back the realtor dude from Otis & Ahearn who was reading all of my house-hunting obsessed emails and has since tracked me down.

Gosh, that was quite the devigation.  What I really wanted to say was... I came home to watch Grey's Anatomy tonight.

Mass at Midnight

What's a Neal Boyle Christmas without "A Charlie Brown Christmas"? (My sister, Ro, would disagree and place Jean Shepard's "A Christmas Story" right up front)  I'm not really sure.  But what I am sure of is this: among the Christmas shopping (stories on spoiling my nephew to come) to getting the Christmas plague (it always happens: compromised immune system + no push to bill hours for a few days = perfect storm for the plague to set in) and making my way through the multitude of yuletide parties (this year, without the alcohol), it's the Christmas story that still really gives me the chills.  "Now there were shepherds in that region living..." 

I can't help but thinking what the times must have been like back in the day.  The census; the shepherds in the fields; the slightly snowed upon rolling hills in the eastern Mediterranean.  In my head, I kind of imply familiar, worn rolling mountains of Maine and the quaint, colorful hills of Cinque Terre to the setting; or, clearly, if the trek to Bethlehem wasn't like that, it must have been a little bit akin to the Oregon Trail [MECC-inspired Apple II/e graphics and hideous Catholic elementary school uniforms included].  Clearly... clearly... riggght.   

In any case, whatever the place, the Christmas story hits a ripe spot for nostalgia and logic and hope and love and controversy and questioning to mix and mingle and come out with something good.  This year, during the sermon at the Mass for the [Roman Catholic] Fourth Sunday of Advent, I sat there at the cantor booth thinking to myself "Hmmm... Joseph was a really solid guy.  A guys' guy.  I would have been been like 'awww hells no' too... but I think I would have roughed it out.  I would have said 'don't go. I'll raise that child growing.'"  At least I would like to think I would have.  Upon second thought, perhaps I'd need the Angel Gabriel to come on down and whoop my ass into shape!!!

What a digression.  What I really wanted to say, amidst the "O Holy Night"s and "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen"s is Merry Christmas to you guys, whereever you are.  From the small villages clinging to the coasts of the Canadian Maritimes, to the far reaches of China at an American School some X many miles away from Shanghai, Merry Christmas to you...

Charlie Brown Christmas. Watch it:

Read along via IMDB):

Charlie Brown: [shouting in desperation] Isn't there anyone out there who can tell me what Christmas is all about?
Linus Van Pelt: Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you. Lights, please.
[a spotlight shines on Linus]
Linus Van Pelt: "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the lord shone round about them, and they were so afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men'". That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie brown.

Moving, Lonergan, and Seventy-Five Days

An agent through which vital powers are exercised.

Fall is finally becoming fall in Boston, in November.  Crisp and cool, just the way November should be.  I always thought that this type of fall weather lends itself to the nostalgia that replays inside my mind and supports the frustrated writer that lingers inside of me.  That's what I thought about when I was walking up Walker Street after I got off the bus this evening.  I was thinking about how much I really love my street, and how cool but strikingly red the fireball glowed from the utility pole at the top of my street, and how much I really loved what I do--even though I bitch and complain about it at times.  It's that new slug of a slog that I have to fight out and figure out.  I could quit.  But I love the playing field.

Beneath that fireball, though, I bumped upon Todd and Meg's U-Haul.  Todd and Dan were in it, amid all of the Todd and Meg's life that was getting squeezed into a 17-foot U-Haul.  Now, I always get really funny with change, especially moving.  I play things off like I'll see someone tomorrow.  I try to keep things "normal."  I laugh a bit and [/MESSAGE CLIPPED/]

The iPhone Commercial [ORD/SBN/MRY]

This is going to sound really weird.  But every time I hear/see the iPhone commercial, that little nostalgia button inside of me gets triggered.  It's like the music and the iPhone voiceover voice are really soothing.  At the same time, the shots -- I don't think I can call it cinematography -- have this flow that puts me into the Rudy/Skipping class for the BrewCo with Hill/Doors of Notre Dame/"walking across South Quad at dawn after pulling an all-nighter" kind of feel.  Everything's in soft, clean, incandescent-boosted hues.

And it all begs another question that I'll just answer.  I really miss Notre Dame.

I guess that's why I'm wicked excited to be making the trek on the third week of vacation.  Instead of celebrating a year on the job, I'll be celebrating the ND Perpetual Keggers, ND Football, ND Wedding.  And I really can't wait to go to the Grotto.  It's my favorite spot on campus, especially late in the summer when the Indiana humidity, 1000 chirping crickets, and faint sounds of the lake culminate in just one really surreal experience.  Just thinking about it makes me sigh.  And when I close my eyes and just think about it, the feeling of being relaxed pours over me.

Perhaps this is a little bit of hyperbole.  Perhaps it is.  But I think it answer's Erin's question from a few weeks ago.  I still think about that place.  And it still matters.  It matters to me.

Thank you, iPhone.