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The Hidden Cost of “Saving”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on April 4, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) Especially in today's economic climate, most of us are looking for the town leadership to find ways to spend our money wisely. Unfortunately, sometimes decisions based on short-term savings and political expediency can prove disastrous over the long haul. One such decision was the recent elimination of an assistant Animal Control Officer (ACO) position. There are numerous arguments to be made about our moral duties to animals in this town and how their treatment is a reflection on us all. Others might argue that pet owners without children in our public schools deserve this tangible return on their tax dollars. However, while these might be strong arguments, I'd rather offer a more practical, economic rationale for the importance of re-instating this position. First of all, in the interest of full disclosure, I must share that I not only fully supported the new Animal Control facility slated for completion in early June, but also served on the first committee to pick its location. The numbers proved that the old facility on Frog Pond was simply inadequate for the growing needs of the department regardless of its location or cost. How ludicrous, then, to build a facility with twice the capacity but staffed at two-thirds the previous level! A little perspective is important: According to Stratford's "Proposed Operating Budget Expenditure Analysis for 2012," only 5.2% of our tax dollars will go to funding our police department. Of that small percentage, that department will spend more on the combination of overtime and uniform maintenance than on the entire annual budget for Animal Control. I believe the police department should have an even higher budget, so these levels prove that properly funding the Animal Control Division is not a high-ticket item. Projected savings to the 2012 budget for eliminating the assistant ACO position is only $44,504, yet the fees, licenses, and other surcharges for dogs alone in 2011 are expected to generate $32,500 for the town. A bigger facility will most likely mean more revenue provided it's appropriately staffed, so surely it makes fiscal sense to maximize this additional revenue potential? Even more important than the financial evidence is the issue of public safety. Marjean O'Malley, President of the Stratford Animal Rescue Society (STARS), states that our Animal Control Officers answer 3,600 calls a year out on road and handle almost 4,000 visitors in addition to handling the daily needs of the animals already at the facility. At the same time, they must complete the requisite paperwork that comes from impounding animals at a rate of almost 600 a year. Response times will be adversely affected because there will often be only one ACO on duty (due to scheduled days off, holidays, vacation, etc.). Already understaffed before this position was cut, taxpayers will soon notice additional ramifications, including dramatically reduced facility hours that undercut the entire philosophy of the new building. Rather than using the new community room for a variety…

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A Steady Diet of March Madness

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on March 24, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) As the NCAA Tournament begins its second week today, so does the March Madness diet that accompanies the basketball marathons I watch on TV. With my bracket on one knee and bacon cheese dip on the other, I watch my picks implode as I wolf down an entire bag of nachos. It’s Pavlovian, an annual rite of spring that inevitably leaves me with indigestion and extra five pounds by the time they crown a new champion. Each year, though, I promise that I won’t do it again. After two months listening to my home scale groan under my weight while it answered only with an endless series of error messages, I knew it was time to tuck my tail between my legs and return to the local gym. Like most gym memberships, I kept mine because not paying for it would be an admission that I’d given up. However, other than flicking the card out of the way each morning to find my house keys, it wasn’t getting much of a workout. Unfortunately, it seems this year’s “New Year’s resolution exercisers” are still hanging in there and clogging the gyms with the same regularity the bacon cheese dip is clogging my arteries. I needed something new. On my lap this afternoon is something called the Beach Body P90-X, and the box states that Tony Horton (whoever he is) is going to provide me with two “extreme workouts” using “the science of Muscle Confusion." It will get me absolutely ripped in 90 days.  While it sounds painful, the people on the box look really happy. Evidently, if I’m good, I’ll also get a chance to buy Tony’s Ab Ripper. Granted, when you’re as overweight as I am, “extreme workouts” seem like a one-way ticket to the emergency room. Ripping your abs loses its appeal when you’ve already ripped a hernia through your stomach wall. This box comes courtesy of my older brother, a well-meaning attempt to “confuse my muscles” into losing some weight. It’s the latest in a long line of boxed hope that has blighted my doorstep over the years. When it comes to yo-yo dieting, I am the Duncan Glow-in-The-Dark Deluxe Yo-Yo. The Zone Diet promised to retool my metabolism with a balanced diet that would hold off heart disease, high blood pressure, and diabetes. It left me pining for carbohydrates and so hungry between meals that people began looking like big hot dogs. The Atkins Diet promised to change my body from a carbohydrate-burning engine into a fat-burning engine, albeit an engine evidently fueled by incessant constipation. Dr. Phil’s Diet Solution promised to change my negative thoughts to positive impulses, but he lost me when he said to substitute old habits (like eating pizza) with new ones (a nice shower or a good book). Doc, if I showered every time I wanted to eat ice cream, I’d have scraped off all my skin by now.…

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Retarded Progress of Language

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This piece was picked up by the Special Olympics and used on their website "Spread The Word to End The Word" on March 9, 2011. This meant a great deal to me after years of volunteering for the Special Olympics while in school. Posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on March 10, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) “That is so retarded!” It’s a phrase I hear all too often in my position as a middle school teacher, but much more worrisome is the frequency with which I hear it said by adults. The Black Eyed Peas scored a hit a few years ago with their song, "Let’s Get Retarded." I hear colleagues and friends refer to the "retarded" actions of others or themselves. "I was such a retard last night," I overheard one woman say while waiting in line at Stop and Shop. Most of us realize that cursing and racial epithets comprise the language of the ignorant and fearful. We are all familiar with the words we are supposed to avoid: few hear the “n-word” without a twinge, and the use of “beaner,” “dago,” “jap,” or “mick” have mostly been purged from decent vocabulary. Somehow, though, the misuse of the word “retarded” often manages to slip past the filter of acceptable society. The irony is lost on those who use it. Gradually, the word "retarded" has developed a new connotation, often used a synonym for “stupid.” More intelligent people realize that the actual definition of the word "retarded" is that which occurred or developed later than expected. Since the turn of the twentieth century, it’s referred to the state of being mentally underdeveloped, medically defined as having an IQ below 70. However, the term has been turned into an offensive slur by those too dim to realize that its use accomplishes the opposite of what they intend. In the process of someone trying to say that forgetting to take his briefcase off the hood of his car was a dumb thing to do, calling the action "retarded" implies that he was mentally underdeveloped for the task; in fact, he is unwittingly implying it wasn't his fault because it was beyond his capacity to begin with! Rather than declaring his neighbors made a poor decision when failing to warn him before he drove off, he instead lets them off the hook by calling them "retards." Why not just call both actions “stupid”? More importantly, why do so many continue to turn a medical condition into a pejorative term? Do we still call those in wheelchairs “cripples”?  Would we so easily dismiss it when someone referred to “wetbacks” or “guineas”? The shame that one would expect at the mention of such words is conspicuously absent when using the word “retarded.” Sadly, sometimes it takes a while for the American lexicon to catch up with American ideals. In some cases, organizations see the need to escape these terms completely; in 2004, the Special Olympics International Board of Directors officially stopped using the…

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Music for a Phantom Holiday

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on February 24, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) The onslaught of President’s Sale commercials has finally subsided. Before the craziness of car clearances and appliance sell-offs, however, President’s Day marked Timothy Dwight Elementary School’s annual spring concert. What better way to punish our parents for a hard-won day off from work than to subject them to one-and-a-half hours of pre-pubescent interpretations of our country’s most patriotic songs? In middle school, my music class was the only place where my fellow students and I were faced with the harsh reality of our limitations. Mostly, the teachers would fall over themselves to prop us up and keep our faces out of the mud. My shoddy compositions were “an improvement.” My low math scores showed “creativity and promising thought.” Even in history, my butchering of events could be termed “revisionist optimism.” (Then again, my teachers kept referring to a President’s Day that even now does not exist as a federal holiday. It’s simply Washington’s birthday with Lincoln tagging along.) But in music, as in life, talent wins out in the end. I might have gotten pats on the back for remembering not to pick my nose in class, but by the time I got to music I knew the jig was up. To be in a room where children are playing instruments is to see God’s bias toward music. Those without talent stick out like a sore thumb—thumbs that would sound better if sucked rather than used to play the cello. I still remember how excited I was on my first day of sixth grade music class. Finally, I would get to play an instrument other than the tambourine or maracas. It doesn’t take long for the glory of a well-practiced recorder concerto to lose its luster. On that glorious day, our music teacher picked up each of the shiny, polished instruments before him and demonstrated how each sounded. I was hooked after hearing the trumpet. Even in music, I fell into line on the phallic spectrum: not quite the trombone, but certainly not the clarinet. No, the trumpet seemed “just right.” I don’t recall the exact reasoning behind this decision: the closest I’d come to a trumpet was listening to “All You Need Is Love.” Mostly, I chose it because it only had three buttons. Unlike the others, with their forest of valves and holes and strings and bows and slides to fuss about, the trumpet seemed like a scooter in a sea of Harley Davidsons. It might not get me any dates, but it wouldn’t take much to get on the road. My music teacher told us that we should name our instruments in order to better “connect” with them. My parents refused to buy me a trumpet, instead opting to rent one from the school. My dad would sooner buy me shotgun than a trumpet because it would make less racket, and even if everything went wrong he wouldn’t suffer long. I kept at him,…

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The Winter Sword of Damocles

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on February 2, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) The news that the first day of April vacation has already been lost due to the recent snow cancellations reminded me of a story my brother once told me after several consecutive snow days when we were kids. As I celebrated the latest cancellation, he told me we have to be careful what we wish for because sometimes it comes back to haunt us. “You think you want it now,” he said, “until you realize you have the Sword of Damocles over your head.” I’m pretty sure that’s when I threw the pillow at him that scratched his cornea, but I could be wrong. Regardless, I listened without enthusiasm while he exacted his revenge by ruining snow days for me forever. Damocles was a courtier in the court of King Dionysius II of ancient Italy and one of history’s original suck-ups. He flattered the king constantly, raving about his good fortune, his power, and his greatness. Eventually, the king grew tired of this and asked Damocles if he’d like to switch places to sample that good fortune for himself. Damocles quickly agreed and was soon seated on the throne, surrounded by every luxury that the king enjoyed. However, King Dionysius had arranged for a large sword to be hung directly over the throne, held aloft by nothing but a single hair of a horse’s tail. Daunted by the prospect of the blade looming so precariously over his head, Damocles begged the king to release him from this “good fortune.”  As a kid, I never made the connection that my brother had hoped. I looked forward to a snow day like some look forward to Christmas morning or a parole date. There was no greater joy than hearing my mom trek down the hallway to sigh, “There’s no school today because of the snow.” I’d switch on the radio to WICC and listen to the parade of school districts cancelling classes, imagining what wondrous things I could do for the rest of the day. If it were only a delayed opening, I would listen to the roll call coming from my radio speakers and pray that nearby districts had changed from a delay to a closing. I learned more about Connecticut geography by calculating the distance between the surrounding towns and my house than I ever learned in school. “If Bridgeport is closing, and Trumbull is closing, and Westport is closing, then surely it’s only a matter of time…” It was even worse if a storm was predicted the night before. I would scour the local stations for weather reports, hoping each snowfall would not start too late (after five in the morning) nor end too soon (after one or two in the afternoon) to merit a snow day. My dad always scoffed at how I crouched before the small TV set, waiting for the weatherman to appear. “They make more money in advertising money when they threaten…

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Clearing the Confusion

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on January 27, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) I woke up last Friday morning and slapped at my snooze alarm to no effect. A harder slap followed without stopping the droning of the news, so I crawled out of the covers and turned off my radio. The radio announcer still didn’t stop, and it took my sleep-addled brain a few moments to realize the voice was coming from outside my house. I raised the blinds to the newest sheet of blinding snow that had fallen on Stratford, and it was there I saw the slow moving police car using the bullhorn to wake up residents before their cars were towed to clear the snow. Even after all the news coverage of the recent snowstorms, many of my neighbors still didn’t know about alternate side of the street parking regulations during snow emergencies. Come to think of it, I didn’t know much about, them, either. A trip to the Town of Stratford website cleared a few things up (pardon the pun). Because there are approximately 200 miles of town roads in town, residents are asked to cooperate with several regulations to help with the snow clearing process. The most important is where to park: parking is permitted on the odd-numbered side of the street from 8:00 a.m. of the odd-numbered day to 8:00 a.m. the following morning. Parking is permitted on the even-numbered side of the street from 8:00 a.m. of the even-numbered day to 8:00 a.m. the following morning. Beyond the obvious benefit of being able to clear the road completely on one side, it prevents the “showdown” moments when two cars are heading toward each other and trying to determine who has the right of way. This becomes even more important on side streets because main roads are addressed first (especially those with steep hills and difficult intersections) and leaves side streets and dead-ends open to spontaneous games of chicken as drivers struggle to navigate through cars on both sides of the streets. After the main roads have been cleared, side streets are done next, then dead ends. The Town acknowledges that, “This may not seem fair to residents of side streets or dead ends, but main roads must remain open.” The residents of Stony Brook Gardens Co-op can certainly attest to the frustration of having to wait for the main roads to be cleared. For those of us armed only with a shovel during an hours-long struggle to remove snow, two interesting tidbits from the website address our worst fears. First, the Department of Public Works doesn’t care how beautifully you’ve shoveled the snow off your driveway; they will plow snow onto it in the course of their routes. They suggest waiting until all crews have finished before starting on your driveway. I’ve learned some interesting new vocabulary words from my neighbors when the plows sloshed a sheet of slush at their feet just when they thought they’d finished. Even if you manage…

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The Cost of Closing Our Eyes

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on January 13, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”) We have failed. If we don't acknowledge our failure, if we choose to ignore reality and maintain the low standards we currently encourage, then we are complicit in the violence and bigotry in which we sometimes find ourselves surrounded. As I write this, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords remains in critical condition after a gunman shot her in the head at a political event in Tucson, Arizona. The gunman, 22-year-old Jared Lee Loughner, went on to kill six people and wound 14 others. Christina Taylor Greene, a nine-year-old killed in the shooting, had just been elected to the student council at her elementary school. This hit me particularly hard as I am a middle school English teacher, a part of a group of educators charged with molding the minds of tomorrow's leaders. We are part of a pact that includes not only the students and their parents, but also every adult in their community. It is our failure, one of many, that has deprived Christina and many more like her the opportunity to grow up and help us in spite of ourselves. Democrats are to blame. As are Republicans, Libertarians, Tea Party activists, and every other political party that has muddied the waters for short term gains at the cost of long term viability. Even as Representative Giffords fights for her life, factions are lining up on both sides of the political fence to use the tragedy to further their political agendas. In an age where even our elected leaders act like children, why can't we see the effect this has on our youth? Would you tell a child like Christina to draw gun targets over the heads of classmates to indicate those on the student council with whom she disagrees, or would you have her talk it out with them to avoid needless fights in the future? Would you teach her to shout down her opponents during council debate, or would you teach her to use the allotted time to discuss her points in healthy discussion in the hope that a mutually agreeable compromise might be met?  Would you teach her to divide her world into people who agree with her and those who do not, or would you teach her to appreciate the diversity of opinion that has made this country great? Sadly, it's too easy to answer these questions by pointing out how our society has lowered the bar. We've answered these questions with television ratings for Keith Olbermann or Glen Beck at the cost of shows that actually present unbiased views. We've answered them with Lady Gaga and Eminem over musicians whose purpose is to help us better understand the human condition. We've answered them with books deals for Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi and Justin Bieber and reality televisions shows for Paris Hilton and Flavor Flav. No, there is something far more dangerous afoot. While the shooting was as senseless as the rhetoric that preceded…

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“The Lights of Christmas”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on December 23, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") My wife loves me. Mostly. It’s the middle of December that makes her wonder. “You see what the neighbors put up this year in the front yard?” she’ll ask. I know where she’s going, so I feign temporary deafness. “Big ‘ol inflatable Santa,” she’ll continue (she’s on to me). “Little elves pop out of the back of the sleigh with a stack of presents. They put out three more light-up reindeer this year, too.” “Hope Santa’s got something to help cover their electric bill,” I mutter, but she’s way ahead of me. “You know, at 20.7 cents per kilowatt hour, it’s not all that bad. My mom’s c7 lights (handed down to us on a faux garland), plus your dad’s c9 lights (handed down from my father, quite possibly borrowed from Thomas Edison himself), the 2 strands of 150 mini-lights that we wrap around the trees, 2 strands of LED lights and 2 LED light bulbs only eat up .15730000000000002 kilowatts. That comes out to $0.0325611 an hour. That’s 18 cents a day, $5.40 for the month.” My wife is far more intelligent than I; with a little math, she’s exposed me for the Grinch I’ve slowly become. In my defense, I wasn’t always this way. I still remember driving with my parents to church every Sunday leading up to Christmas, my brothers and I judging each house’s seasonal decorations and declaring a winner before we hit the parking lot of St. Pius. Reindeer on the lawn were nice, but reindeer on the roof? Bonus points. Each year saw more lights, brighter lights, until for those few weeks a year we were like Alaskans bathed in 24-hour light. The history of light-up decorations is a recent one. Before the twentieth century, most people didn’t put their Christmas trees up until December 24th because of the fire hazard they represented. (Be sure to read Stratford Fire Marshall Brian Lampart’s article on holiday safety in the December 9th Stratford Star.) In the middle of the 17th century, people attached small candles to the ends of tree branches with wax or pins. With the advent of electric lights, people started putting them up earlier and keeping them up later. By 1882, Edward Johnson, an associate of Thomas Edison, hand-wired 80 red, white and blue bulbs and wound them around an evergreen tree. The tradition really took off after President Grover Cleveland set up a lighted Christmas tree at the White House in 1895. Early bulbs needed to be wired together by professionals until 1903, when American Eveready Co. came out with the first Christmas light set that included screw-in bulbs and a plug for the wall socket. Still, the person responsible for popularizing Christmas tree lighting in America was a 15-year-old boy named Albert Sadacca. After candles on a tree resulted in a tragic New York City fire in 1917, Albert convinced his family to paint and string their novelty…

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“Calling Us Names”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on December 16, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") One of the things I love about writing this column is reading the letters that readers are kind enough to send me about my pieces. Chris R. recently wrote to ask about an article of mine, “The Hair of the Dog That Licked Ya.” She noted that I referenced “The Town for All Seasons,” and wondered when and why Stratford changed this as our town slogan. Indeed, many were surprised back in 2007 when Mayor Miron announced our new slogan would be, “Offering More from Forest to Shore.” Was there really a need to change the slogan and the accompanying signage around town while mired in an economic downturn? To answer, it’s important to understand the potential impact of effective town slogans. In 1993, the state of Wisconsin commissioned a study on town slogans and determined that slogans not only help in establishing a civic identity but also attract outsiders to the community and provide economic value.  Historically, slogans were developed because of a significant event ("Birthplace of the Ice Cream Sundae") or because of natural resources in the area ("Chocolate City USA”). Gradually, they became an important element of town identity. Locally, some became self-fulfilling (Hartford is the “Insurance Capital of the World”) while others have become a bit more ironic (Bridgeport remains “The Park City”). Over time, slogans began to change. In some cases, it was because other communities had the same slogan: Sun Prairie, Wisconsin and Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania have long claimed to be the "Groundhog Capital," while Burlington, Wisconsin and Hershey, Pennsylvania have a running feud as to who is truly the "Chocolate Capital." These seemingly silly disagreements matter: if a slogan gets used enough and is properly marketed, it gets known outside the community. When someone mentions The Big Apple, The Windy City, or Gateway to the West, people generally know what community they are talking about. Stratford itself had a lot of competition with it’s somewhat pedestrian slogan, with West Brookfield Massachusetts, Smith Center, Kansas, and Galeton, Pennsylvania just a few of those who referred to themselves as “A Town For All Seasons.” The Wisconsin study shows that slogan-related festivals, especially those in small communities, unify residents to work together and support the effort. With this in mind, in 2007 Mayor Miron decided to leverage the potential power of our town slogan to highlight the strategic advantages of living, visiting and doing business in Stratford. The many festivals Stratford has hosted in the last few months, many of which I mentioned in previous articles, seem to embody the town’s attempt to offer “more from forest to shore.” Reached for comment, Mr. Miron explained that he spearheaded the effort after studying other communities and realizing that “A Town for All Seasons,” while catchy, did not necessarily mean anything. He wanted to juxtapose the town’s physical assets with its human assets, celebrating the great diversity not only of our geography but our work force.…

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“The Strangest Celebration”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on November 24, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, mostly because so little of the way we celebrate it makes much sense. In school, I learned most of the history behind Thanksgiving through a series of confusing school plays. These involved brightly colored Indians (now referred to as Native Americans), some well-dressed Pilgrims (now referred to as people who thought they were Native Americans), and large quantities of corn (still referred to as corn—evidently, this one stuck). As far as I could tell, this guy Chris gets lost at sea (actually, he got three ships worth of people lost) and stumbles on to North America. He figures he better think of something quick, because a lot of angry sailors at that moment are trying to figure out why they aren’t looking at India. After conferring with some of the local Native Americans, he decides that he has “discovered” a “new world,” conveniently forgetting the people who had lived there for centuries who’d just told him he’d discovered it in the first place. This news takes some of the edge off of getting lost, which can be a tough thing to explain to a Queen who gave you three ships in the expectation that you would return them loaded with Indian spices. Regardless, some years later a number of English citizens set sail for this place on purpose and they didn’t get lost—although they were forced to come ashore in Plymouth, Massachusetts, which ain’t no picnic. All I remember about these Pilgrims were the very large hats with buckles on them, which I can only assume were spares for the even larger belt buckles they wore (they must have assumed that the new world required much heavier pants). They, too, tried in the best Columbus tradition to ignore the fact that the Native Americans had already set up shop. As they began dying of starvation, however, they extended the good neighbor policy and invited the “Indians” over for supper. Since that day, every school hallway in the country is stinking with pictures of poorly drawn turkeys, tables full of food, and, yes… corn Originally a religious holiday to give thanks to God for the harvest, it’s gradually transformed into a secular kickoff to the holiday season; just as Labor Day signals that white pants should be closeted until spring, Black Friday announces the nonstop Christmas barrage that paints discretionary spending as a national responsibility. Binge eating is not only expected but encouraged, as is the sight of your tipsy uncle napping in front of the Cowboys game on TV. Luckily, the idea of giving thanks in a palpable way is still alive thanks to the dedication of special people for whom sharing with their neighbors is a way of life. Donations of old clothes, linens, blankets or money are needed year-round at homeless shelters like the Prospect House in Bridgeport (203-576-9041), Spooner House in Shelton (www.actspooner.org), the Bridgeport Rescue Mission…

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