Baseball Bloodlines: Frenchville, Maine's Dewey School Reunion

“Stop touching me,” I said.

“Did you just tell me to stop touching you?” My father said.

“Yes.”

“Geez, someone is grumpy.”

The sun hadn’t come up. I was sleeping on the couch while my girlfriend slept soundly in the room I occupied during my high school years. He went back to carrying on a conversation with Whitey the Cat and I turned over my pillow eager to sneak in another half hour of sleep.

Moments later, a pair of arms wrapped around me. My mother squeezed tightly and then started to tickle me. I couldn’t do anything but take it.

“I’ve got to get this in now,” she said. “I can’t do this in front of your girrrrrrrrlfriend.”

“Sure you can,” I muttered.

Like many of the Oscar nominees this year, I play for #teammommasboy.

“Wake up, I have to show you something.”

One of my eyes opened. It still wasn’t light outside. My mother took care of that problem by turning on a light right next to my sleepy face.

A white book with “Dewey School Reunion” and “Frenchville, Maine” in heavy black typeface landed in my hands. My mother explained that it was a yearbook for the school’s reunion in 1999 and it featured a good number of Blanchettes.

Dewey School Reunion Yearbook Cover

“Cool,” I said.

Family history is never a bad thing to wake up to.

“You need to do your thing and scan them,” she said. “I’ll mark the pages. What time is it? Shit, I need to get ready!”

It was ten minutes to 7 a.m.

After watching my nephew Jack score a goal during his hockey games, I came home to find bookmarks throughout the reunion book. I started scanning them like a good son and, like always, reveled in the old photos of Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Roland, Tante Peewee, Artheline, and others.

Here are some of my favorites from this batch of family photos:

Church in Frenchville, Maine

Artheline Blanchette (on right)

House in Frenchville, Maine

 

 

 

Ivan Blanchette

Left to right: Jimmy Blanchette and Bert Albert

Main Street, Frenchville, Maine

Ligouri Blanchette and Sophie Roy

That sound you hear is my Tante Pee Wee coming to murder me.

Also check out:

• 15 Family Photos I Couldn't Live Without
• 15 More Family Photos I Couldn't Live Without

Baseball Bloodlines: Ashes Under the Radiator

My fascination with my mother’s father—my Pépère—started with moving his toolbox for my Uncle Bobby a couple of years ago. My mother then entrusted me with his pocket watch, providing yet another link to the man I never met.

Not too long ago she unearthed a trove of family photos, many of them featuring the Frenchman I resemble in body and spirit. My mother filled my head with stories of her father. The more time I spent looking at those old photos, the more new tales started forming in my imagination. So what if I didn’t get the chance to meet my Pépère in real life? As a writer, I could bring him back to life on the page!

This is the first new chapter in a much more complex and rich tale about both of my grandfathers. I hope by the end of 2014 I'll have a story ready to sold in bookstores or downloaded on your Kindle or Nook.

In the meantime, enjoy Arthur’s first appearance.

Arthur Blanchette

Arthur

Frenchville, Maine 1960s

Arthur eased into his rocking chair.

He knew his movements would be limited given the early hour, but his French-Canadian blood didn’t allow him to stay stationary while sitting down. He didn’t want to wake his wife or young ones who wouldn’t be up for another hour or so. At least, he hoped those were the only people still asleep in his house. Two of his older sons better be down at the potato farm getting ready for a hard day’s work. If they weren’t, hellfire would pale in comparison to what Arthur was prepared to unleash.

He took his pack of Winstons out of his front shirt pocket. He slowly and quietly lifted the closest window and the screen behind it. The chill of early October whistled into the house.

Arthur scowled.

He didn’t want the first noise of the morning to arouse suspicion. He tapped a cigarette on his wrist and brought it to lips. His first drag of the day was heavenly. He couldn’t help himself from rocking back and forth completely. The old wood floor beneath him creaked.

He sighed.

He was sure to hear it from his wife now. He sat very still and waited for her to thunder down the stairs and point an accusatory finger his way. She always preferred catching him in the act rather than grumble about circumstantial evidence. However, the moment of crisis passed silently.

Arthur gripped his cigarette with his lips as he straightened his black tie. As the head of the farmhands, he had to look professional. It didn’t matter that by the end of the day his white, starched shirt was as dark as his tie. The men respected he brought class to the job and could still get dirty like the rest of them. He pulled the cigarette away for a moment and watched as a clump of ashes fell to the floor. He’d have to remember to sweep them under the radiator before he left.

He felt around his front pants pocket. He angled past his tangle of keys and removed his pocket watch. It wouldn’t be long now before Al pulled into his driveway. Arthur risked one more ride in his chair before finishing his smoke. The floor didn’t creak this time. His house was on his side for once. He took one last deep, satisfying, soul-enhancing puff and tossed the stub out the window. He stealthily closed the screen and the window. He made sure the rocking chair was at a standstill before rising. He then walked the short distance to the kitchen.

He put the coffee pot on the burner and waited patiently. He had his thermos ready. His sandwich and apple were in a sack in the refrigerator. A turkey sandwich and a Granny Smith was all Arthur needed to get through a day during harvest time. In the off-season, he usually just had the apple. The faint smell of baked goods invaded his nostrils. His wife didn’t like when he overdid it on sweets, but she kept making them. He’d find them tonight. Steam rose from the pot and he heard bubbling. He waited another heartbeat before filling up his travel mug.

Al hadn’t shown up yet, so his first taste of coffee happened at his kitchen counter. It mingled pleasantly with the tobacco still lingering in his mouth. His eyes rose toward the ceiling as he heard his wife get out of bed. He didn’t blink until he heard the bathroom door close.

Arthur sprung into action. He marched back to his rocking chair. He removed his hat from the stand nearby and swept his forgotten ashes under the radiator. He pulled his hand away in pain as the flesh on his right hand made contact with the hot metal. He put his hat on his head and again looked toward the second level of the house. He sure wasn’t the one that turned the heat on this early in the fall. His wife could have every blanket she owned on her and she’d still insist on the house being 90 degrees. Arthur wore short sleeves indoors year-round.

The couple normally didn’t see each other this early in the day. He was usually out the door well before this hour. Yesterday had been a grueling day of harvest, so he gave his crew an extra half hour of sleep to recover. There were thousands of potatoes to yank from the ground, and he couldn’t afford to lose any of his men to exhaustion. Arthur didn’t leave anything he could directly control to chance. He was even alternating his son’s shifts to keep them fresh. God help them if they took advantage of him being more generous than his old man ever was.

Al honked his horn. Arthur would have to wait to see his wife later that evening. She was making her way down the stairs as he retrieved his coffee and lunch. He was already in the truck’s passenger seat when his wife appeared at the screen door.

“Moitzee!” She screamed. “Avez-vous balayez les cendres maudites sous mon radiateur de nouveau?”

Arthur shrugged.

Arthur on top of a snowbank with my mother and Uncle Bobby

“She’s going to light your clothes on fire in the yard one of these days if you keep smoking in her house,” Al said. “A big ol’ pile of flaming flannel. Hell, half the neighborhood will show up to keep warm and roast marshmallows. That fire will last so long, the town might cut its heating expenses in half.”

Highway 1 was empty. The countryside was a blur. Al liked to drive fast.

“Got some new boys starting today. I know, I know, I’m a soft touch,” Al said. “They aren’t criminals or anything. Just some good boys helping their families. If they go bad you can throw me out too.”

Arthur nodded.

“Weather is going to get cold fast,” Al said. “It may not seem that way since its been balls hot during the day, but my feet just won’t keep warm at night. You know I tried to sleep with my slippers on the other day? My goddamn slippers. You figure my feet would have sweated through the yarn, right? Nope. My feet were blocks of ice all night. That means we’re going to have a bad winter. But then again, I suppose we haven’t seen a good winter in more than five years. The only warm thing that happened during the recent winters was your baby girl Gail. What a peach that kid is. She cried for everyone when she was born that February, but not me. You remember that? She liked me best for a while there. I think her brothers scared the hell out of her for a little bit. You can’t blame her. If it weren’t for you and your wife raising them right, boy, I don’t know.”

Signals flashed in front of them.

“Dammit,” Al said.

The two couldn’t see the logging train yet, but they could hear and feel it. They were stopped just before the tracks that cut through the middle of town.

“We’re not five minutes away from where we need to be,” Al said. “Good thing I got the boss with me, so I don’t get in trouble for being late.” Arthur instinctively checked his pocket watch.

“Now don’t get ornery on me,” Al said. “We’ve got more than enough time. Besides, those boys have been working hard the past week. A few more minutes of rest won’t lose us anything.”

Arthur chose not to disagree with that statement at the present time.

“See, look it wasn’t even a full train,” Al said. “Not a good sign those loads have gotten smaller and smaller. Plenty of trees out here, but not many people demanding lumber I suppose. Or maybe I’m just remembering the past years wrong. I can’t keep all these harvests straight.”

They arrived at the farm. Arthur rushed out of the truck. He walked into main barn and took his clipboard off his tidy desk. He didn’t linger and went back outside. He watched the men head out in to the field. He made a small check mark beside each man’s name. He noticed many of the men had been here a while, ignoring his orders to get more rest. He liked that. He liked the sight of his son-in-law Onias even more.

Onias, who was married to his daughter Lucille, gave Arthur a quick wave before continuing his work on the old tractor. He wouldn’t have been surprised that Arthur hadn’t given him a return reply. The two hadn’t talked much since Arthur caught wind of the job offer Onias had from a carpentry company in Connecticut. Arthur knew his oldest son Roland had arranged it, which didn’t make him any happier. Half of his family was already in that state, so he wasn’t thrilled with the thought of another daughter joining them. Besides, Onias was a good worker and a good card player. Arthur knew how much the brothers and sisters hated being apart. It wouldn’t be long before everyone moved down there. He was lucky Bobby and Gail were both young enough to be dependent on him and his wife hated the thought of moving away from where she was born. They weren’t going anywhere without him, that was for damn sure.

Arthur wrote in the names of the two men Al had hired the night before when they arrived and checked them off as well. He starred both so he could remember to keep an eye on them. By the time the last man present made it into the field, only two names remained unchecked. And they were both Blanchettes.

He didn’t try to stifle his anger. He wouldn’t need any more coffee to get his heart rate up. He was thinking of which son’s head he was going to dump the rest of it on whenever they decided to show up.  He took his pocket watch out and balanced it on his clipboard. Every time he watched the second hand passed 12, he felt his blood pressure spike. He knew he was going to be at full boil when his sons were standing in front of him. Arthur’s son Clifford practically walked willingly into his open hand. As Clifford recoiled, Arthur grabbed the collar of Jimmy’s shirt and pulled his face close.

“A man needs to live his life on time! There’s nothing more important in his life! Be ass early, be on the dot, but sure as shit don’t be goddamn late! You lose a helluva lot more than time when you’re late!”

Arthur pushed Jimmy away and walked a few paces away from the boys. It did nothing to calm his anger. Seeing that Clifford’s face red with frustration and hurt made the pot boil over again.

“I’d send you back to your Momma, but she’d goddamn die of embarrassment and shame at the boys she raised!” Arthur shouted. “You let me down. You disappointed me. You lost my respect. Get your asses to work and goddamn earn it back.”

His sons ran by him with their heads down.

“Keep those heads up, goddamn it,” Arthur shouted after them. “You break a leg after being late and I’m cutting it off myself and throwing you back to work.”

He put his hand up to discourage Al from saying a word. Al ignored him like usual.

“A little harsh don’t you think?” Al asked.

Arthur didn’t reply.

Arthur attending a wedding.

Also check out: 

• How My 15-Year-Old Self Viewed the World...and How It Looks at 30 
• From the Archives: A Soldier’s Tale

A Look Back: The Life of Daniel F. FordThe Lost Chapters

Last year, I did some investigating into my personal archives and unearthed an autobiography I was assigned to write in the 7th grade. Publishing each chapter and responding to my 14-year-old self allowed me to better understand the man I turned out to be. The last chapter ran in October.

Or so I thought.

Going through some of my grandmother’s belongings, my father discovered a printed copy that I had autographed for her. It featured a cover page, dedication page (my grandfather Stephen), and an acknowledgements page that read, “I truly want to give my sincere thanks to all my family and friend for helping me to get to where I am today.”

The typed manuscript also included three chapters that weren’t apart of the original written pages I had been blogging from. Here at the beginning of a new journey seems like the best time to share them and remember that dreaming big pays off in the end.

Enjoy.

Being My Age

Finally, on to me.

I’m about 4’11’’ and have brownish-blackish hair. I have blue eyes and have a strong academic future. I would describe myself to be an outgoing person who loves a challenge.

Best friends are very important people in my life. They tend to make the obstacles that life throws a little easier to handle. Probably the three friends that I consider best friends would be: Judy Sadowsky (who else?!), Justin Andrews, and Dan Galli. You know why Judy is my best friend, so I won’t bend your ear. Dan Galli and I became friends Jessica Adams on the Green Team dumped both of us (editorial note: I’m sure that won’t bring up any unpleasant memories…). I think these friendships will last because for so long, we’ve been through the good and the bad and somehow always come out on top.

One of my major hobbies is writing stories. You could give me the most boring topic and I could turn it into a world-class novel (editorial note: Try me. I dare you). I also like to read any type of book and I love to play baseball.

What makes me happy is when someone is trying to make a difference in the world. Also, hitting a homerun to clinch a spot in the playoffs. I am also happy when the New York Yankees crush the Boston Red Sox.

 I am like other people my age because I like sports and listen to popular music. I am different from everyone because sometimes my jeans are too tight, I don’t play on a sports team, and I listen to country music. I think this is okay because being different makes life exciting and interesting.

The next person I’m going to talk about is one of the biggest influences in my life. Like I said, it isn’t the first time she’s been mentioned. It is the one and only Judy Sadowsky. She has given me so much advice over the years. Whether it was about girls or anything else, she was there to help me out. If it weren’t for her, I would not want to be a writer. She’s taught me so much in the years I’ve known her. She taught me it doesn’t matter if you’re different, it’s how you’re different. She can turn a game into a better game just by changing one rule. She’s my inspiration to try to make a difference in this world. I truly give her my sincere thanks for helping me through the years, through the good and the bad. Sure, she’s not perfect, but she sure gives perfection a run for its money.

Typical Days From Ages 5–50
 

Age 5 

In the morning, my mom would wake me up. I scurried around getting ready for the up coming school day. I always used to eat Lucky Charms. My mom would have to pick out all the marshmallows before I ate (editorial note: I think it was a specific marshmallow shape, not all of them. I don’t remember which one). Sometimes, my mom and I would play Candy Land. Since I was in the afternoon kindergarten class, I got to play all morning. When the afternoon came, I got into my mom’s car and she drove me to Ivy Drive School. I rushed into the room, which was divided by a moving wall. My teacher, Mrs. Platt, was really nice. I usually played house, drew letters, and did many other things. After we had story time, we had naptime. I hardly ever went to sleep (editorial note: oh, to have those hours back. Damn you 5-year-old Daniel Ford, get some sleep!). I do remember bringing in Superman cupcakes on my 5th birthday. And that’s all I can remember about when I was 5.

3rd and 4th Grade

I had this girlfriend in third grade (editorial note: oh boy). She came to me one day and asked me to marry her. Thinking it was a joke, I said yes. I don’t remember who, but someone made fake invitations and gave them out to everyone. The next day, the art teacher has who her bridesmaid was. I whirled around and asked how she knew. My teacher walked in and said, “We all know.” Needless to say I was humiliated (editorial note: “You're seeing a whole team of psychiatrists, aren't you?”).

In the fourth grade, I transferred to Edgewood Elementary School. The first day of school, I cried my eyes out. I didn’t know anybody there. Once I got used to Edgewood, I was a normal Edgewooder. No matter who thinks Ivy Drive is better than Edgewood, or vice versa, I will always consider both home.

My Age 

At 6:30 a.m., my alarm goes off. I give myself four minutes to stretch and wake up. Then at 6:34 a.m., I get up, shut off my alarm, and get ready for school (editorial note: for this sequence to happen at the same time in present day, my iPhone would have to light my hair on fire). I get dressed and go downstairs to eat. I have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, then head to the bathroom to wash up and brush my teeth. After that I walk my dog Sam. Finally, I leave at 7:30 a.m. to walk to school. After six or seven hours of school, I walk home. I once again have to walk Sam. I then do homework and watch some television. My younger brother gets home after me and eats everything he can get his hands on. When my parents get home, I set the table and we eat. Then I watch television until my 8:30 p.m. bedtime. I brush my teeth and go to sleep. I get up the next morning and do it all again.

The Year 2000 

My alarm will go off at 5:30 a.m., and I will push the button to make it stop. I will get up and go through my old routine. I’ll leave my house at 6:45 a.m. to arrive at Bristol Eastern High School before 7:05. After what seems like centuries of school, I’ll drive to Northeast Middle School and pick up my little brother Pat. He will be 12 by then. If I have money, I will treat him to lunch at McDonald’s (editorial note: I took the bus for four years had no money). We then go home and do our homework. We then watch some television or a movie. I set the table when my parents get home and we eat. I moved my bedtime to 10:30 p.m. and quite enjoy it (editorial note: smash cut to my mother shaking her head). I wake up the next morning and repeat the same pattern again.

Age 50

At 5:30 a.m. I will wake up and do my exercises. I then will eat breakfast, wash up, and head toward my office building in downtown Bristol (editorial note: #dreamhigh). I hope there I will be working on a world-class novel. At noon, I will walk a few feet away and eat at a little delicatessen for a good ham sandwich. I’ll go back to my office and work a few more hours, then go home to my loving wife, and have myself a good home cooked dinner that she made (editorial note: you sexist bastard!). I will do my exercises and then watch some more television until I feel like going to bed. I get up in the morning and repeat.

(Editorial note: For those of you who haven’t lost consciousness, the moral of these, ahem, dry rundowns is that I expected to have a life writing, eating, and watching television. Nailed it).

The Future 
 

This chapter is going to tell you a little about what my future is going to look like. I plan on a bright future with plenty of opportunities.

For starters, I would love to live in Maine. Probably not in a very populated city, but close to one. I love being near mountains and plains. Maine has both, plus more. I love the climate. It is just right in the summer and snowy in the winter. Snow in Maine is plentiful, and since I plan to own a snowmobile, it will be perfect.

As my occupation, I envision myself as either a writer or a pilot. I would love to soar above the clouds like a bird, but would also like to be working at home on my novel. My mind is set on being a writer, but would love to get my pilot’s license so I could do some flying in my spare time (editorial note: that sound you’re hearing is all my of family and friends cackling over the pilot thing. Give it a week, it’ll die down).

One leisure activity I would do, depending on my career choice, would be flying. I am definitely going to travel. I plan for my senior trip to visit every capital city in the United States (editorial note: WHY DIDN’T YOU DO THIS??). After that I will come home for a couple of years and then travel around the world. I don’t know which countries I will travel to, but I am definitely going to travel.

In the future, I think America will be a strong independent country that will concentrate on its own problems and let other countries solve their own. America will have a stronger legal and government system. America will have a policy that will have an effect on illegal immigrants entering the United States (editorial note: I have no words. At least I didn’t say “the gays.”).

I think I will be a very outgoing adult. I probably won’t have time to have a family until after I travel, but I hope to be a strong, loving father and spouse that my father was to me and my brothers. I will spoil my grandchildren rotten. I will be the kind of guy that would let my neighbor borrow my power tools or watch my kids.

I don’t see many problems in my future (editorial note: you poor, unsuspecting bastard). The only problem I see is getting married. If I choose the wrong person and then have kids, then they will be affected. I don’t want that to happen. So the only way I’ll be able to go about stopping this from happening is to choose the right person early on in life (editorial note: it took awhile, but I found her).

The brightest thing in my future looks to be my pursuit to be a writer. I hope that one day people all over the world will read my books and think they are good. I hope that this autobiography is the first step to accomplishing this dream.

A Look Back: The Life of Daniel F. FordChapter 6: Special Times

I combed through my personal archives to get a sense of the person I was in order to understand the person I am. I unearthed an autobiography I was assigned to write in the 8th grade. For the next several weeks, I’ll be publishing each chapter of the book.

 

Though I had both good and bad times growing up, the good and special times always came through in the end. The special times stuck out in my mind like a sore thumb. There are times in my life I will never forget, like the one’s I’m going to describe in this chapter. I never really believed in the cliché “if life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Maybe that’s because I thought life didn’t give me any lemons. As I look back, I realize that life gave me plenty of lemons, but I never took full advantage of them.

I’ll start off with talking about some of my family’s treasured traditions. On Thanksgiving, my family travels to Southington, Conn., to spend the holiday with my Tante Peewee (editorial note: I could explain what that hell that means, but I don’t feel like it) and Uncle Skip. Going there in the cold of November is like going to The Bahamas. This is because they have a coal stove. My uncle usually says grace and we then devour the great food my aunt has prepared. Sometimes my aunt and uncle pull out old home movies. The movies contained footage of my mother when she was my age!

While I’m on the subject of my aunt, I might as well cover it all. Every Independence Day, she hosts a birthday party for my cousin Eric. Let me tell you, you will never leave there feeling hungry. There is so much food—ranging from chicken to marshmallow salad (editorial note: every year it is made, and every year it is ignored). Needless to say, my aunt plays a big role in our family.

Another family tradition is Christmas Eve. Every Christmas Eve, we invite our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends over to our house to have a merry little Christmas. There’s one Christmas I will never forget. Everyone was there. We were finishing up munching on snacks, and were now ready to open presents. There was only one problem. My Dad decided to show up late (editorial note: World’s best son, right here. The man was only getting home late from working hard to put food on the table). Finally, I got fed up (editorial note: sorry Pop) and started asking people to give Christmas messages into my Talkboy. I was in the kitchen at the time. My Mom said if my Dad did not arrive, we would start. Around 8:27, I wandered into the living room. The front door gave me a soft jab in the head. I glanced at who had opened the door. It was none other than my father (editorial note: maybe the worst told story about a spoiled kid not getting to open his presents in the history of mankind).

Picture of me in a Superman cape. Just because.

Now after all this (editorial note: I think I’m referring to my family enduring my storytelling here), don’t you think a family needs a vacation? We don’t go on many, but I love the ones we do go on. Let me explain one of my favorite vacations.

First, there’s a long 12-hour drive to get to our destination, Frenchville, Maine. We first go to Long Lake Motor Inn in St. Agatha, to drop off our luggage and then we head out to my Tante Valeda’s house. She is the most interesting person I know. She makes a good living making dolls in her shed. We have four of them already!

Tante Valeda

My brother Patrick and my father in front of Tante Valeda's dolls for sale

Across the street lives my mother’s favorite cousin Ivan. He works at a paper mill in Canada and is also a volunteer firefighter. Ivan has two—oh, wait, now it’s three—adorable children who my Mom is just crazy about. My Mom’s other cousins live in New Brunswick, Canada. I am good friends with their youngest daughter Tina. Nothing—that I know of—on this trip is not fun. Well, I take that back. My first trip to Maine was to attend my Mémère’s funeral. I was too young at the time to understand it all, but as I look back it was probably my worst trip to Maine.

View from Tante Valeda's front porch. Across Route 1 and that potato farm is Canada.

Patrick and my mother in the house she grew up in.

Now what else makes life worthwhile than gifts (editorial note: spoken like a true 14-year-old). I like to give and receive gifts—sometimes I like to give gifts more than I like to receive them. Probably the best gift I have ever received as a Roger Rabbit stuffed animal. I got him when I was about two-years-old, and still have him to this day. Whenever I would sleep over my cousin Judy’s house, I would bring him. I wouldn’t go to sleep unless she performed fake surgery on him. The best gift I ever gave was a clay owl. I would give anything to see my Mom’s face when I gave it to her. It was perfect—well, minus his broken wing). He is proudly displayed on my mantle.

Roger and me present day.

Another thing that goes with gifts is birthdays. I will never forget my fifth birthday. It was the first and last kid party I ever had. All my friends from the first grade were there. We completely demolished my family’s study. Toys were everywhere. We played hot potato and other games. There are pictures of me and each friend and the gift they got me. After the party was over, my older brother Tom had to pick up the mess. I helped, sort of.

Study being destroyed.

While we’re on the topic of my favorite holidays, I might as well cover them all. My favorite Halloweens—and one of my last (editorial note: no idea what this means)—was two years ago. I happened to be a black ninja that year. My Dad took me and my little brother Patrick to a few houses on our block, and then drove us to my Aunt Cathy’s house. We collected candy from her, and sat down to visit for a while. My cousin Judy was nice enough to take us around her block. The first house we went to was her next-door neighbor Mrs. Peterson who made all the kids who came through pose for pictures. It was my best Halloween ever, and one of my last (editorial note: still no idea what the hell I’m talking about).

Now, what do you think the average age for a normal kid to learn how to ride a bike? Wouldn’t you say between the ages of six and seven? As you can plainly see from the previous chapters, I was not a normal child. I learned how to ride bike between the ages of eight and nine! I learned with no training wheels (editorial note: because that in no way would have been MORE embarrassing). At first I was a little shaky, but by nightfall I was a pro.

There were a lot of people who were special to me while growing up. The person I’m going to describe here is someone who will always be very special to me. This is not the first—or the last—time that she’s been mentioned. The person I am describing is my cousin Judy. There are so many reasons why that I would need a whole book to get them all down. I might as well start from the beginning.

Judy and me back in the day.

After my Grandmother Cassidy died, Judy had to start babysitting us fulltime—usually this meant after school every day and during the summer. She’s more than just a cousin or a babysitter though. Judy is my friend, my best friend. She’s probably my only true friend in the world. I could tell her anything about anything and she would not tell a living soul—unless I give her permission.

During the summer, she had to watch us almost 24/7. We would arrive at her house around 8:30 a.m. and leave around 5:30–6 p.m. During the day we did many things. At 1 p.m., we watched Days of our Lives. There are so many other things that would take up a whole book.

A week before school started one year, she set up a tent in her backyard and invited me and my brother Patrick to camp out. Her next-door neighbor Stacey also joined us. We had a blast. We played games like 3’s Wild and Trivial Pursuit. We invented “Cuban weed.” We were playing Outburst and the topic was Cuba. Stacey was trying to give us hints, and one of them was pretending she was smoking a cigar. Judy didn’t think it was a cigarette, and yelled out “weed!” We all started to laugh and that’s how Cuban weed was born.

That’s just one example of how great my cousin’s personality is. Judy is probably what makes my life worth living. Since it was the last year she babysat us fulltime, leaving the house that was my second home that last day of summer was difficult. Somehow, I lived through it and checked off another obstacle that I had overcome.

Judy and me present day.

Also check out:

• Chapter 1: Before I Was Born
• Chapter 2 & 3: Starting Out
• Chapter 4 My Early School Years
• Chapter 5 My Family

Blanchette Blood: Moving Uncle Bobby

"This hasn’t moved out of here for 27 years,” Uncle Bobby said. “It belonged to your grandfather."

He’s pointing to an old toolbox that looks every bit its age. I had been ready to make a crack about how many dead bodies he had hidden in there. As it turns out, it contained Blanchette ghosts instead. My mother’s father, Arthur, had built the toolbox in upstate Maine on a day that no one can remember. All of my mom’s brothers—Roland, Clifford, and Jimmy—had possessed it at one point before it came to rest in Uncle Bobby’s basement. Inside this nostalgia treasure box were tools that the Blanchette men had touched, used, and, more likely than not, spilled blood on. It was a connection to a generation of family that I admired and respected above all others.

Arthur Blanchette's Toolbox

So, naturally, my first inclination was to make a joke. “I guess I shouldn’t point out that I’m 27 years old, right?” I asked. Uncle Bobby mumbled something in French and gave me a look that said, No, you really shouldn’t.

We picked it up wordlessly and put it in the back of the trailer he had attached to the back of his powerful pickup truck. He shut the doors and we hopped into the cab. We were on our way to his new house, which was also a connection to the past of sorts. He was moving into my Uncle Roland’s house just down the street. He had passed away a few years ago, and Uncle Bobby had just bought the house from his widow.

After moving a table saw that had the density of a felled water buffalo, we moved my grandfather’s toolbox to its new home in the workshop connected to Uncle Bobby’s new garage. It certainly would have plenty of company during its next 27 years.

“It’s going to take me years to figure out where everything is and where all the light switches are,” Uncle Bobby said. He looked around at the vast amount of tools and odds and ends and chuckled. “At least when I go, moving all this shit will be someone else’s problem.”

I should point out here that I didn’t come home to help out my uncle. The story works a lot better if I jumped on a train without thinking after hearing he needed me, but the truth is I came up to run a race in Higganum, Conn. Well, that and have a few beers with my brothers at my nephew’s birthday party. None of this ended up happening. What did happen made the trip that much more worthwhile.

One of the earliest memories of my Uncle Bobby is sword-fighting with him on the steps of my porch using his tape measures. Actually, most of my memories with him involve a porch, a stoop, or a set of stairs. Like all the Blanchette men, he had this unmistakable French accent that colored everything that came out of his mouth—which, more often than not, would include plenty of colorful language.

All of the Blanchette brothers also had their own distinct laughs and eccentricities. I don’t remember my Uncle Clifford—who I’m told I owe my temperament to, which may or may not be a compliment—but I remember Uncle Roland being softer-spoken, and Uncle Jimmy being so loud at times that he scared the crap out of me as a kid. Uncle Bobby is certainly as hardscrabbled and tough as his brothers, but he always seemed to me to be a generous and good-natured man—something he reaffirms every snowstorm when he plows my parents’ driveway.

The Blanchette Men: Roland, Arthur, Jimmy, Clifford, and Bobby

I wasn’t close to him during my teenage years through my early 20s for a variety of reasons, but all that changed this past year. He had remarried a wonderful woman from New Hampshire named Sherri and had reconnected with the remaining members of the Blanchette crew, who couldn’t have been happier to shower him with all the love and attention he’d missed out on over the years. While having a few beers with him at my father’s 60th birthday party, I got the best advice I think I’ve ever been given. “Life’s too short and hard—no use being miserable through the whole thing,” he said. “As long as you’re happy, the rest is bullshit.”

So even though I hadn’t planned on it, helping my uncle an easy decision. As fate would have it, a giant nor’easter was headed toward the East Coast. It was expected to drop 6–12 inches and start right around the time we’d be moving the rest of Uncle Bobby’s stuff to his new house.

“I was telling my mom, I think your brothers might have had something to do with this,” I said after I had arrived early in the morning the following day. “Normally, I’d say Clifford or Jimmy are the culprits, but since you’re moving into his house, Roland might be the one messing with you.”

“You better believe all of them are up there having a good laugh,” Uncle Bobby said, rolling his eyes. “Bastards.”

The threat of the weather fueled our work that morning. We were machines. While Sherri, my mom, and my Tante Peewee—for those wondering, that’s “aunt” in French, and no one knows what the hell a Peewee is—packed up the rest of the house in boxes, the men robotically moved the heavy furniture to the new house. We got everything done just as the snow was starting to really accumulate.

After all the heavy lifting was over, Uncle Bobby ended up sitting on the top step of the small set of stairs to the family room where the rest of us were seated in a variety of rocking chairs. We were happily devouring the lunch my mom had prepared—along with a few well-deserved beers.

“I haven’t had this tomato rice soup in 30 years,” Uncle Bobby said through a mouthful of the steaming soup. “Hits the damn spot, though.” Sherri said something to the effect that she couldn’t get over the fact that my mom had stayed up all night making the bread and thought to bring her Crock-Pot and griddle to feed everyone.

“That’s the type family you married into,” he replied. He’s right. Come hell or high water—or a nor’easter—this family comes together to help one of its own. Usually, that aid comes with a warm meal and homemade Whoopie pies.

When we were leaving, Uncle Bobby shook my hand and thanked me up and down. I joked that I’d call in the favor the next time I moved in New York City. “You say the word, and I’ll be there without fail,” he said. He wasn’t kidding.

Me and Uncle Bobby

My cousin Terry mentioned out at some point that I didn’t have her father’s Mainer accent. “That’s true,” I told her. “But I inherited just about everything else—the height, the stubbornness, the nose, and the temper.”

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hardball Heart Guest:Hall of Fame Trapper &GM of the NECBL Sanford MainersNeil Olson

If you haven’t realized by now, I’ve been extremely spoiled in my life when it comes to baseball. However, at no point in my life was I spoiled more than in the summer of 2004. St. John’s pitching coach Scott Brown offered me a summer internship with the Sanford Mainers, a team he coached in the New England Collegiate Baseball League(NECBL) and I said yes without thinking twice. Days after St. John’s Baseball had been eliminated from the NCAA Tournament in Stanford; I was on my way to Sanford, Maine to become the Mainers’ Media Relations Intern. I was lucky enough to meet one of the best baseball men I’ve ever known. Neil Olson, the team’s general manager, took me under his wing and taught me even more about the game that I love. The summer wouldn’t have been the same without him and winning the championship was all the more sweeter seeing how much it meant to Neil. He was kind enough to spend some time answering my questions while in pursuit of championship number three.



Dan: I would be remiss not to start off by asking you about the baseball camp you attended run by Ted Williams. Tell me about your experiences and what affect they had on your baseball life.

Neil: At an early age, I attended Ted William’s camp for 13, 14 and 15 year olds. We had a core group of about 15 kids who just simply loved to play the game of baseball. The camp played quite a few Jimmy Fund games in various parts of the country. We had an absolute blast.

The camp also had a team in the Twilight League. New Bedford, Massachusetts and Tiverton, Rhode Island also had teams. We were playing against men much older. We held our own as two of out pitchers on our team would later pitch in the big leagues; Joe Coleman Sr. and Stan Thomas.

Ted Williams had been retired about five years when I first came to the camp. He actively attended the camp and enjoyed watching Jimmy Fund games as he could sense out love for the game. One particular Jimmy Fund game Joan Joyce, the famous softball pitcher pitched to both Dom DiMaggio and Williams. She let DiMaggio get a hit, but not Williams. She blew him away. He spent time in our dugout that night and you could feel his competitive spirit. He was pissed. (The opposing pitcher in that game night was Dave Wallace. He later was my teammate at New Haven College and after a brief major league career as a pitcher he became a general manager for the Dodgers and pitching coach for the Red Sox).

Williams only wanted to be a regular guy and became annoyed when drulled on for his autograph. I observed him having a gold ole boy conversation with my father one game and that’s a great memory. Williams was the last true American hero. He fought two wars and didn’t complain. John Wayne spent his whole life trying to play Ted Williams.

Dan: What got you into baseball originally? What did the game mean to you growing up?

Neil: I got into baseball after hearing some kids talk about the game. I became obsessed with batting rocks all day. I would practice ground balls in the basement all winter. It gave me a reason for being.

Dan: What kind of player were you? After watching you take some batting practice during my time in Maine, it looked like you had a really good swing and could hit the ball well.

Neil: I was a very good contact hitter! I had a good glove and came to play every night. My down fall was speed. Basically, I had none. I made the All-Star Team in a Valley Summer Wooden Bat League and led my college team in hitting two different years. I took batting practice once at R.F.K. Stadium with the Washington Senators. You guessed it; Ted Williams was their coach.

Dan: You’re now a hall of fame trapper. How did you get started trapping and were there any qualities that you possessed on the baseball field that helped you in the woods?

Neil: I got into trapping when I was just a kid. The competition is similar to baseball. It’s you against the animal you’re after. In baseball, it’s the batter against the pitcher. It’s all about the competition.

Dan: I know you keep stats on everything that you trap. What do you think is your most impressive or favorite statistic?

Neil: Lifetime I’ve harvested over 9,000 beavers!

Dan: You published a few books on trapping as well. What’s one of your favorite trapping stories?

Neil: Trapping canines in a beautiful back pasture in Colebrook, New Hampshire one fall day turned out to be a real ego buster. Colebrook has what I call ideal coyote habitat. Plenty of small game and some back pastures, big by England standards. These pastures have coyotes written all over them. This area was one of the first to have large populations of coyotes. Driving into one of these back pastures, I could see I had captured a coyote. I drove over the rise on the further end to have a look.

I stopped my truck on the top of the steep rise and walked down to dispatch my catch. Having a camera hooked to my belt, I said to myself, “What a great picture!” I snapped a picture making sure to get my truck setting on top of the knoll. Having done this I removed my revolver and dispatched the coyote. The second I pulled the trigger, I heard a noise behind me.

I turned around and in sheer horror, watched my truck roll down the knoll. When it came to the edge of the woods, it snapped off a six-inch fur tree like it wasn’t even there. Luckily, a large grey birch bent out at about a 45 degree angle was next. My truck slammed into it, driving the hood and radiator back. If the birch hadn’t been there, it would have plunged into a deep ravine and probably would still be there.

I went from the great white hunter into an idiot in a split second. I had failed to put the truck in park correctly. A tow truck was needed and my day was ruined, or smashed I should say.

Dan: How did you get involved in the Mainers?

Neil: I was looking for a way to give back to the game and this was my way of doing it. I was lucky that the commissioner of the NECBL got involved with Sanford.

Dan: You and I did a couple games for the local television station when I was up there in 2004. I also rode with you in the Sanford Mainers mobile during a Fourth of July parade. I can recall numerous baseball chats we had during long road games. I was wondering what were some of your favorite memories from that summer and what made that championship year so special.

Neil: Memories are always enhanced by winning! Both Scott and Joe (Mainers head coach in 2008) Brown had the desire to win. I learned a lot from both of them. It became us against the rest of the league and we prevailed.

Doing the commentary during those televised games with you was very special because not everyone has the chance to do something like that. I think we did a very job together.


Dan: How do you find time to run your own business, work with the Mainers and spend time with your family?

Neil: Scheduling is tough, but you make it happen if you want it enough.

Dan: You actually won your second championship last year. What was that experience like and how was it different from 2004?

Neil: Two championships in five years is pretty darn good in our league. Last year had a lot in common with 2004 since both Browns knew how to show players how to win (I call it Brownie points). The most talented teams don’t always win; it’s the teams that want it most that do.

The best series I’ve ever been involved with was a semi-final series against the Vermont Mountaineers in 2007. We lost in three games, but every game was decided on the last play of the game. The intensity was amazing.



Dan: I hear that you’re coaching third base now. What has that experience been like? You’re grandsons are playing now and I was wondering what its like to watch the next generation.

Neil: Being on the same field with my grandsons and watching them achieve is very, very rewarding! Because their father built his own field and Frozen Ropes indoor facility, they have played more baseball than any other kid their age in Maine. Stay tuned and remember their names: Garrett, Connor and Griffin Aube!

Dan: Last question: Honestly, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rank me as a worker putting up tents?

Neil: Keep your night job.