Nealmeister

In re: Edna, Mrs. Bee, Grandma, or just Ma

When Jess and I decided (or, maybe it was more like I decided, but Jess agreed) to host Thanksgiving at our apartment in 2007, I couldn't contain the satisfaction of being able to show off to three ladies that I could pull this thing off without messing up royally: My little sister Ro, my Mom, and my Grandma.

Now, the first two weren't too much to worry about. My mom being my mom and my sister being my sister, I was absolutely certain that they would jump in as needed. Mashed potatoes? "Nope, you're not doing those right..." and so my mom would jump in. Making a veggie tray? "You're kind of slow at this, let ME do it..." and so my sister would jump in. Always coddling me, the two of them.

My bigger concern was my grandma. I spent my whole life trying to impress her, so I had to prep Jess a little bit: "If you think I'm picky, if you think I'm intense, well wait until you meet my grandma. I'm basically fruit cut right off that tree!" Obsessive compulsive disorder eased in on my end and with that, Thanksgiving preparations began. I found myself at Johnnies Foodmaster making sure we had the perfect amount of light cream (not half & half, not heavy cream, light cream), getting the right kind of tea bags, and inspecting dozens of custard pies to find one that looked amazing, (hopefully) tasted amazing, yet looked homemade enough so that I can pass it off as something coming from the fruits of my labor. The pie was important; if there was one thing that I had learned over the course of my then-25 years in being, it was that custard pie at Thanksgiving meant a great deal to my grandma. If there wasn't one, I'd be sure to hear about it sometime, probably later in the summer or at my Aunt Lynn's Yankee Swap at Christmastime. I wouldn't be able to live that potential mess up down, regardless of how many cups of tea I'd make for her.

When my sister told my that my grandma died this morning, that Thanksgiving, oddly enough, was the first thing I thought about. I immediately thought about how lucky I was to have been able to host her at our place. And moreover, to have her let me know that I was doing a good job, that she was enjoying herself, that she was happy to watch me grow into a young man, and that I finally found myself a nice girl.

As to that last point, I let out a nice chuckle then and did this morning too. I had to explain to my grandma that Jess wasn't my girlfriend. So then she asked "oh, your soon new wife?" To which I responded -- shaking my head, muted laugh, all the while carefully placing sweet potato muffins, custard pie, and dark turkey cuttings into her take-away bag -- "Nahhh, Jess has Alex" but that she was one of my best friends from Notre Dame and, for the time being, my roommate while she was at Suffolk for law school.

She didn't believe me. Amidst all of her hard-headness, she still had this playful side that border-lined tricky mind games: "Oh, that's what you say now. You don't have to lie to me. Here." She'd palm a $20 bill to me "for the date and for the dinner" when we dropped her off at her apartment in the Charlestown Projects. I ended up buying a couple of bottles of Red Truck Wine with that. I never really told her (and I guess I can't now) that I wasn't dating Jess. I still laugh because here my grandma was, trying to set me up with my roommate! Unbelievable.

 

• Page from Mrs. Bee's Gardens public service booklet, 1984

The last time I saw my grandma at the Winthrop House -- when I finally mustered up the courage to get out the car in the parking lot without hoping to God that she was asleep -- my grandma couldn't place me immediately. Was I William or the other William or was I Sean?  But she sure remembered that Thanksgiving, apologized profusely, and then continued on about how much of a great time she had at our place.

The custard pie came up. She didn't care too much for the sweet potato muffins, but man, with that custard pie, she relayed to me about how she kept on cutting smaller pieces of the pie until it was gone. She indicated much she really wished she could have a piece of it now. We got decaf tea (although I don't think she knew it was decaf) and I pushed her around in her wheelchair. She asked "what was cooking," so I told her about my many trials and far more prevalent errors related to my spring gardening venture; about how the Illinois bar exam was in 72 days and that I was secretly praying for a cold and rainy summer; about how I was finally doing it -- moving to Chicago -- but that I secretly had butterflies about leaving Boston and my friends and family and everything I knew here; about how I wish I could do more for my parents because I secretly cared about them and loved them immensely, even though I never told them that nearly enough. I told her about how I had a couple of her pamphlets from Mrs. Bee's Gardens at my house and that I was planning on getting a set of them framed because, for one reason or another, the whole thought of those gardens in the Charlestown Projects influenced me in more ways that I imagined. Those gardens planted the seed of humanity inside of me and helped me remember -- in a metaphorical sense -- the roots and sacrifices from which I was able to spring forth and stand where I was standing today.

I was getting too nostalgic. She immediately changed gears: "so, now you're still an attorney, right?"

"Yup," I said.

"Good, because I need a good lawyer. I always thought your father would be a good lawyer. I think Stevie Pothier became a lawyer. Do you remember Stevie Pothier?" I kind of nodded, and she pressed me on to carefully pushing her and her wheelchair. "Now, here, wait a minute."

Now if you didn't know my grandma, she had this way of carrying herself as the Queen Bee; the penultimate politician; a generous caregiver to others who was often a relentlessly tough nut to her own kids and grandkids; the quintessential dreamer; a woman who still thought about some day owning a horse farm in the rolling hills of Connecticut so that all of her 27 or so grandkids could some day learn to ride; the baker of the most amazing Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies I've ever experienced to date; the curious storyteller of Charlestown urban legends, which, even though I now know are not true, still haunt the 10-year old inside of me. Sometimes, I honestly thought that she was crazy. Other times, I knew that she knew what she was doing. And most of the time, even though I knew that I wasn't her favorite grandchild, I was thankful that I got to know at least one of my grandparents.

"I want you to meet my grandson. He's a big shot lawyer in town."

I grinned and sheepishly waived, shook my grandma's friend's hand, and Mrs. Bee kept on going. "He made me this custard pie last Thanksgiving that beats what crap-ola they feed us here. Next time maybe he visits, his wife will make him bring one with him." She turned to me and offered me her trademark grin--the grin that made me pretty certain that she still had the kicks in her. I just shook my head and laughed a little bit. Unbelievable, grandma. Unbelievable.

Edna Boyle, Charlestown, Mass.

1929-2009

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.

A Prayer of Thanksgiving and a Prayer of Good Luck

First off, I want to wish everyone Good Luck on whatever state's (or states') bar exams that you begin tomorrow.  I think we've all prepped as much as we humanly can, getting beat up by BarBri and PMBR and so on... so now we need to kick in the creativity and hope and the inspiration that brought many of us to become lawyers in the first place. 

I like that vision from a hope standpoint, so that I can just keep on moving on.  But I think for all of us, there will be a few things that we maybe don't know--or really see--when those essays and state multiple choice and MPTs come in front of us.  Hopefully, that spark inside of us will keep us going.  Good luck, you!  Kick it, punch it, spit in its face... the bar exam is the enemy so go in and fight like it's your job! Booyah!

Second is a little more personal.  After all, the blog stems directly out of the Journaling that I've been doing since I was in the 5th grade.  The only difference now is that I kind of subject myself to the public light (that's what the comments, or the emails keep telling me... haha).

I have some groups to thank.  The obvious is God, being Catholic and all.  But those prayers I really said on my own, so I won't detail here....

When I emptied out my locker at Suffolk last night, and saw Brett Lovins when I was in the middle of a haze (and I think my conversation with him maybe got him worried, yes?), I realized: this bar exam is the culmination of really 20 years of formal education for me. 

It all started in Boston Public Schools -- at the Harvard-Kent School with Mrs. Kissling -- and since then I've been fortunate enough -- through St. Catherine's and Boston Latin and Notre Dame and Suffolk -- to meet so many educators who decided to work with my issues and get the best out of me.  In every ghetto, in every city, there's the geeky little kid who colors inside the lines and really likes to read and who really was shy and who couldn't win a fight for the life of him.  That was me circa 1986.  The balancing factor thanks goes out to all the guys, girls, adults, priests & nuns, coaches, camp directors, friends near and far, cousins and aunts and uncles and neighbors, and so many others in Charlestown and beyond who have really been great mentors and friends and have "had my back," literally and figuratively, advising and laughing and joking and criticizing and laughing some more.  For pointing out my faults and celebrating our victories.  This entire journey represents a joint venture of sorts.  I KNOW that I would NOT have got through this with out you all.  You get my thanks every time I see you, hang out with you, drink with you, vent with you, laugh with you, etc. etc.  But I just needed to recognize, you know!

And lastly, my family.  The Boyles. 

My siblings--Will, Ro, and Sean--are really my best friends, even though we fight and scream and basically live our lives in a drama-ful fashion, like we are straight out of MTV's the Real World.  Remember when we used to play "Mattress Coaster" when we lived in the Bricks?  Or all of our fart jokes?  Or the von-Boyle singers?  Remember when we moved to Lexington Street?  Our days up at the Bunker Hill Pool and how Greg the lifeguard made us do belly-flops into the deep end?  Oh, the days.  As much as I've hated being the oldest, I love you three.  I don't think anything could replace that and I kind of feel like I'm doing this for you as much as for me.  We shall do a toast up in Maine, for sure.

But more importantly, my mum and dad.  I can't really type this without some tears, but I love you and I thank you both so much for the sacrifices that you've made to make sure that your four kids can move on up.  I don't think that there's  any greater love than that.  And that's why, when things are looking grim in the middle of those essay days, I can count on your love and inspiration to carry me through.

* * * *

I'll be away for a while kids.  After the Bar, I'm going white water rafting up in Maine with the Charlestown kids.  Then the move-in to Russell Street begins.  Finally leaving home.  Free at last!

Good luck all of you guys!  And now, a little Irish Blessing because it's always worked...

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

And, one last  (because this one is (and has been the whole summer) pretty cool)...

Sunday, July 23

My Best To All This Week    

I don't mean to be overly dramatic over some silly little test, I merely continue a tradition in hopes of inspiring those who may harbor doubts over the coming days. And no matter the results, having experienced this firsthand, I respect all who give it their best shot.

Good luck to all taking the bar exam this week.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day
...
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

                                      

 

              

 

 

Bizarro-land yet wicked cool Coldplay

So, Virgin has Coldplay's music video for The Hardest Part, which doesn't get released until April 10th, apparently.  You can watch it for free on virgin.net here.

The music video, though, is just unbelievably bizzare, it's great.  I guess the band got digitally inserted into this crazy eighties lifestyles show... with a 25-year-old Spencer and an 84-year-old Barbara dressed in bondage doing some gymnastics.  Oddly, though, it really seems to fit.  If only I had the foresight (and if X&Y even existed then), the mofos of Notre Dame could have had Andy tape us one of these bizarre videos.  After all, the "Blanket Dance" at Hill, Heather, & Laura's was to a Coldplay song.

One thing I noticed, in the midst of the wrinkles and the weird-ass thong, is that the drummer, Will Champion, from Coldplay is wicked cool.  I've just added him to my top-25 favourite famous people list.  I mean, I guess I never really thought about the drummer from Coldplay until I started watching the Fix You video over and over and over again a few weeks ago in my "life is really sucking without you" phase that I went through.  And maybe this thought is premature for the ripe age of 25, but I really want to learn how to play the drums... it would be wicked awesome... Will Champion learned late... so maybe I can... and maybe I could bill those hours to the firm next year... ta-tum-tump.

"We love you... you are fabulous... is she not an inspiration?!" haha

'Twas the night before (a ND) Christmas

coming here via Heather Enlow (the mofos/NDPerpetualKeggers' esteemed Georgetown Law 3L):

'Twas the night before Christmas, When all through South Bend
Not a creature was stirring, neither rooster nor hen

The banners were hung on the stadium with care,
In hopes that St. Charlie soon would be there

The alumni were nestled all snug in their beds,
With dreams of Leahy and Holtz in their heads;

While the students at the Grotto, down by the lake,
Were just giving thanks for a long winter break,

When out on those quads arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The Dome with a crest of new-fallen snow
Gave luster of mid-day to a campus below

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
A high-powered offense: the champions next year!

With a large and proud leader, so friendly and nice
I knew in a moment it must be Coach Weis

As fast as Four Horsemen, onward they came
He whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now Hoyte, Now Samardzija, Walker, Fasano
On Stovall, On Shelton, Wooden, Anastascio!”

To the top of the rankings, to the top of them all
“Now throw a-way, run a-way, and dive for the ball!

We will move like the wind, our runners will fly
And just for balance, we’ll take to the sky!”

So up to the top of the rankings they flew
With a big book of plays, and Brady Quinn too

And then in a twinkling, to the sound of the cleats
The scoring and wins, I forgot past defeats

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney, Coach Weis came with a bound

He was dressed with his rings, and headset to boot
And his clothes were all drenched with Gatorade and soot

A number of victories he carried on his back
And he smiled as he turned and presented a sack --

of trophies -– how they twinkled! Like heaps of gold treasures
His cheeks were like roses, his wisdom past measure

Weis commanded the team on fourth downs to throw
Through hail and through fog, through sleet and through snow

His genius caused points in the forties and fifties,
To hearten alumni and keep our stats spiffy

Weis had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like BCS bowl-ful of jelly,

He was chubby and plump, and so sure of himself,
That I cheered when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know, that Ohio State would be dead

He boasted not a word, praise makes not his day
But all now know, for the title we’ll play

And laying a finger to the side of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the rankings we rose

At his departure I heard Trooper McCarthy say;
“If your sleigh flight looks fishy, you’ll be the catch of the day!”

Weis sprang to the roof, to his team gave cheer
And away to a victory in the Fiesta next year;

And I heard him call plays for winning the game
“Merry Christmas to all. And love thee Notre Dame!!!”

(Written by John Rosemeyer)

GO IRISH!!!!
BEAT BUCKEYES!!!

crazy Christmas cubicle I've been telling you about

Courtesy of Dan Masse: 

Hey everybody,

 

Well - I've told some of you about this guy at work who decorates his cubicle.  I guess some of you have no idea what I'm talking about, so here's the story:

 

This electrical engineer (haha) at work takes the last 3 weeks of the year off every year and comes into work anyway - not to work of course, but to decorate his cubicle.

 

Last year he had a train running on a trellis above his cubicle walls and animated stuff, snow guns, fake fireplace, etc.

 

This year (as you can see) he built a roof out of PVC on his cubicle and roofed it and inside he has all kinds of animatronic stuff that sings and dances and makes noise.  Some of it runs off motion sensors so it goes off when you go in.

 

As you can tell it's quite an attraction at the company so we've got all kinds of people coming up on field trips from other areas and with the songs and stuff we don't get all that much work done around here this time of year. (I'm two doors down from him)

 

He's also got a train in there this year and free ornaments that he made and candy canes and stuff.

 

Anyways, enjoy the pictures !

 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

 

Masse / Dan

Closer:



Front:



Inside:



Inside #2:



Other side:



View from Dan's Cube:

I miss LaFun

I think it's official-I miss the greatest student center in the world, where so much went down, so much "studying" went on, where the huddle mart made great quarter dogs, BK offered unlimited refills of diet coke, and resnet gave our clunky compaq laptops internet access.

here's to hospital pants and elmo sightings, chicken tenders and SNL, domer dollars and big time procrastination.  from all-nighters in the computer cluster, to the wooden booths and the sound of those saying "neal, go home!"

oh, I do miss LaFun.

The LaFortune Student Center at Notre Dame.

I do not ask for too much....

Michelle, Neal, & Crystal @ LaFun, Freshman Year, Circa 1999/2000.

Ryan & Jess, prostituting @ LaFun

Stonehedge from LaFun, Senior Year, 1/03

LaFun indoors, near BK, post-repainting, 2003

some links

• ND Midnight to 6 (April 2000)
• Keenan Frosh Dictionary

A time honored tradition.

:: Welcome to Reading Period/Finals, Fall Semester, 2005, folks. ::

It's official, at least in my book.  I am reviewing criminal procedure in the middle of the night; I am drinking coffee with tea bags in it; I am listening to Hanson above all other things.  Welcome to finals, people.  I relish in the happiness of these times--it takes me back, to the Fall 2001 semester in particular, when most of the Mofos left the confines of Notre Dame, when LaFortune was the hip place to study still, and when Elmo made his first appearance amidst the Constitutional Law, Physics IV, and other atrocious review-based classes abounded (is that even a word?)

And Elmo made an appearance.  The sure sign of brain fever.

Now, four years later, I'm sitting in my parent's dining room with the sound-cancelling headphones on, Dunkin Donuts coffee in one hand, highlighter in another.  Sleep schedule is off.   Studying is on.

I guess that, above all, this is a dedication to all the good memories associated with reading period and finals.  I've described some of the breathtaking moments before.  Some Neal-events are rather philosophical; others made my parents wonder if I was *really* studying for finals (read: Club Hesburgh, Nate Succop's birthday bash, Mishawake Brew Co.).

So why so early this semester?  I don't know.  But the first sign of desperation went along the lines of this:

MSkinnz (1:37:03 AM): Neal please come back and do the 50 pages of writing I have to do in the next three weeks

Auto response from neal L Y P O oh (1:37:03 AM): criminal procedure in the middle of the night.  i blame daylight savings time.

That, and at the Pub 99, the Charlestown Gang was talking about weird times with No-Dose.  Those things freak me out. 

* * * *

I guess I should get back to reviewing Criminal Procedure.  The people at Suffolk know how much I love that class with my beloved Professor of Law.  Sighhh.

Other noteworthy related posts:

• taxed out; hambone & hooknasty; striped shirts
• Special help that most certainly landed me a ticket on the fast track to hell.

:: Elmo snatches a phone for convene the study group ::

:: Elmo after a bad final ::

beautiful view #293

Hesburgh Library and the "Word of Life Mural", aka "Touchdown Jesus" ...

awwwhhhhh {dreamy... and its summer time there...}

A shout out...

Boston College weekend, at Fiddler's Hearth in South Bend...

Roselyn called me Friday night to let me know that she, Chris, JR, and I'm assuming Sara & co. were at Donald Trump's casino in Chicago. I, meantime, was working on my energy paper. But good times for them...!