Walsh Wonderings Column

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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“Clinging to Summer”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on November 11, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") The water is surprisingly warm as it laps against a desolate shore stripped naked of the lifeguard chairs and beachgoers of July and August. Groups of seagulls have reclaimed the sands, their heads facing into the stiff November wind that colors the Sound with whitecaps. The sailboats of summer sit shrink-wrapped on the shore, replaced by kite-surfers entombed in wet suits, feasting on the autumn gusts that whip up waves rarely seen outside March. All of us have different ways that we try to hold on to summer, but for me, there is something magical about Stratford beaches in the fall. There is a quiet that doesn’t really exist in any other part of town, an idyllic pocket free of the white noise of the Merritt or I-95. One can hear the sputtering of plane engines as they land at Sikorsky, the click of the skateboard wheels on the ramps in the parking lot, and the ping of a well-connected drive off the tee of Short Beach Golf Course. Others cling to other remnants of summer, such as the bird watching resurgence among the grasslands of the Lordship area.  In August, bird watchers hoping for a peek at a rare white-tailed kite at Point Stratford were treated to a sighting of a rare brown pelican at the same time. Foliage fans walk through the trails of Roosevelt Forest, the only town-owned forest in Connecticut, and take in the breathtaking palette of colors that hang from the trees and crunch underfoot. August also provided further foundation for the cyclists and hikers of autumn. Continued progress on the ambitious plan for the Housatonic Valley Association’s Greenway along the Housatonic River has allowed those traveling by bike or by foot to enjoy the beauty of the river safe from traffic. Eventually expected to stretch from its headwaters in Massachusetts to its mouth in Stratford, a group called the East Coast Greenway wants the Sikorsky Bridge bike trail to become part of a link that will connect to a railroad line in Milford before it goes through Silver Sands State Park, up to New Haven, onto the Farmington Canal Heritage Trail, then through Simsbury, Hartford, East Hartford, Bolton, and Willimantic before continuing eastward to Providence and beyond. They hope to establish a bike trail extending 3,000 miles from Quebec to the tip of the Florida Keys, with two hundred miles of the East Coast Greenway to run through Connecticut. Even with all these ways to enjoy a piece of summer long after the temperature drops, I’m still a sucker for the quiet of the beach when the weather turns. My beach blanket wrapped around me instead of under me, there’s no other place in Stratford that lends itself to such tranquility. Few of my neighbors take advantage of this getaway in their own backyard: an occasional family might brave the cold for a quick Christmas card picture, one or two intrepid…

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“Using Our Heads”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on October 28, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") It’s not hard to see the impact of the NFL on Stratford during a crisp autumn night under the lights. As Stratford High took on Pomperaug last Friday, the jerseys of the New York Giants, Jets, and Patriots were sprinkled liberally throughout the stands amid Devil red. Football has replaced baseball as America’s pastime, and I’m sure every young man on that field (like most of us in the stands) has dreamed of what it would be like to play in the NFL. However, a spate of vicious hits on defenseless players has rocked the football world in the last week. Several players were barely able to walk off the field in NFL games, victims of helmet-to-helmet collisions and the concussions that followed. The NFL responded quickly with a crackdown on illegal hits through the stricter enforcement of existing rules designed to protect players most vulnerable to these life-altering hits. Normally, this would be heartening news, as rule changes and extra provisions for player safety inevitably trickle all the way down to the level of peewee football. Unfortunately, the very players this renewed enforcement is designed to protect are its most vocal critics. Former Denver Broncos tight end Mark Schlereth screams on ESPN, “Why not just lose the pads and play touch football?” Respected coaches like Mike Ditka bemoan the missed tackles that will result, then ruminate on the possibility of increased knee injuries as players aim lower. Even former players like Daniel Morgan, a linebacker forced from the game due to repeated concussions in 2007, rail against the stiffer penalties for the same hits that hastened his early retirement. They are unanimous in their refrain: That’s just the way football is played. We shouldn’t penalize players for doing what they were taught to do. These same plays are celebrated on highlights and in team meetings with the coaches. In a split second, you have to rely on instinct. James Harrison, the 2008 NFL Defensive Player of the Year, is the current poster boy of those who feel the NFL has gone too far, turning the game we love into flag football. Of course, in less than eight minutes last Sunday, Harrison knocked two players out of the game with concussions after aiming at their necks and heads, then made post-game comments that he tries to hurt, not injure, opponents because it increases the Steelers' chances of winning. The next day, he threatened to retire because of the new penalties that he played a major role in instituting. Do it, Mr. Harrison—I dare you. You signed a six-year, $51.175 million contract after the 2008 season, and I’d love to see you take your high school diploma and try to make up the rest of that money while the rest of the NFL moves out its dark ages. The game cannot be hijacked by knuckle-draggers who view head injuries as a rite of passage. These are elite athletes.…

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“Hair of the Dog That Licked Ya”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on October 14, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") The Town for All Seasons showed its furry side during the wildly successful Dog Walk & Festival held on Paradise Green this past Saturday. The fifth annual benefit for homeless animals packed the green with dogs of all breeds as they led their befuddled owners around Stratford's largest canine meet 'n' greet. The free admission and fantastic weather combined to provide hundreds of happy families the opportunity to imagine life with a dog park, if only for one magical day. We Stratford dog owners rarely get the opportunity to socialize in large numbers, instead reduced to small packs scrambling to throw on clothing for morning "constitutionals" around the yard, fumbling through pockets for baggies to pick up what remains of last night's dinner bowls. It's at times like these that many of us secretly yearn for the simplicity of cats, but those moments are fleeting. Festivals like this allow us to find comfort in the fraternity of dog lovers. My wife and I packed up our pups and arrived an hour into the festivities, hoping to miss the initial wave of dogs who were shuttling out for the one-mile walk. Unlike their owners, our spaniels are incredibly social, and the sight of even one dog or child sends them into spasms of joy. Our "middle child," ZuZu, also happens to be our "special child." Hobbled by a myriad of mysterious ailments that reduce her to the ZuMobile (like the Pope Mobile, only without the bulletproof netting), she shudders and yelps out greetings to any form of life at eye level. Because she so desperately wants to play with anything in sight, sometimes less is more. As soon as we entered Paradise Green, however, our dogs were on sensory overload. It was as if a dying man, lost in the desert and wearing Spock ears, crested that final mountain of solitary sand and stumbled upon a Star Trek convention. Our spaniels set their own agenda: a sniffed butt here, a quick stop to accept pats on the head there, and then onward around the ring of vendor tents. Our girls seemed disappointed in us as they saw the many outfits other dogs were wearing as they paraded through the park. By the time we saw the beagle in its tuxedo, our spaniels ignored us completely. Two of our dogs tried out the agility training with Nikki Stollman of Four Paws Pet Services in Stratford, where we got the opportunity to see how well behaved they can be with someone who actually knows what she's doing. We saw Rescue Ink's Nicholas "Batso" Maccharoli as he set up shop for pictures, but our dogs had already begun a new game of "How many knots can we tie in these leashes?" as they rushed after a yellow lab in a nurse's outfit.   The North Shore Animal League brought their adoption bus, where a few confused cats looked out over the…

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“Progress is Not Painless”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on September 30, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") The National Weather Service recently confirmed that the summer of 2010 was the hottest in state history due to the number of days a southwesterly airflow brought up warm air from the south. This should sound familiar to anyone traveling near the construction zones in the South End these past few weeks. While the temperature might be dropping now that summer is officially over, things are getting heated in the Construction Triangle between West Broad Street, Main Street, and Linden Avenue. The improvements to the sewer lines in this area are critically important; after a storm, drivers in this area had to take an impromptu Boston Duck Tour without the amphibious car. Town officials are to be commended for getting this project underway. Unfortunately, progress is not painless. In this case, the Construction Triangle is the place where traffic goes to die. Trying to get to the West Broad I-95 entry ramp is like trying to steer a cruise ship through the Panama Canal. Traffic lights that serve as the locks orchestrate the painfully slow shuffle of cars as they line up for hundreds of yards around California Street and Broadbridge Avenue. While negotiating the roundabout off Exit 32 has always been an adventure, it has now been reduced to a traffic meat grinder, forcing rush hour drivers to slow from 55 (well, in theory, anyway) to a full stop a mere forty yards from the line of cars trying to enter the traffic circle. Going north on West Broad from Main Street is an exercise in negotiation. Some try desperately to establish eye contact with the driver merging next to them. Others take advantage of open windows, shouting out a plea to be let in. Others play a more dangerous game, nudging their cars into traffic until there's no choice but to let them in. This game is followed by a round of, "How quickly can I shut my car window so as not to hear them yelling behind me at the light?" The worst part of this is the hit to the merchants whose businesses must ride out the construction. Some owners saw business decline as much as 75% at the Main Street restaurants inside the Triangle, mostly because people have assumed these places were closed during construction. Others think them inaccessible, and yet only the northbound lane is closed. There's never been a better time to try these places out. The Cumberland Farms gas station at the corner of West Broad and Linden is its busiest in the state, yet the lot does not appear as full as drivers are routinely orphaned in its exit lane as they struggle to get back into traffic. I've seen the best and worst of my neighbors as I navigate the Triangle. While some bang their steering wheels and scream at every perceived injustice inflicted upon them, many others demonstrate the small acts of compassion (letting someone into…

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“Wampum Doesn’t Grow On Trees”

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on September 16, 2010, in "Walsh's Wonderings") It was while riding atop a withered horse at a painfully slow trot through the cheering throngs packing either side of Main Street that I saw it. Leading my horse by the reins in the front of the Memorial Day Parade, dressed in full feathered headband and faux-leather Native American garb, was my dad: Big Bald Eagle. And he was crying. Not the flowing, girlish tears I’d cried earlier that day when I couldn’t find my 3rd Year White Feather for my headband. No, he cried the subtle tears of that lone 70's commercial Indian on the side of the road after seeing a driver toss garbage out the window. Even in that pre-pubescent moment of drunken adulation, astride my trusty steed and waving to the frenzied crowd in my Native American splendor, this was a total shock. This was not a man who shed tears. Was it the culmination of centuries of pain inflicted on the once-proud Native American nation? Was it a swelling pride in the fact that his son had finally gotten a chance to ride one of the rented horses for our Indian Guide tribe in the parade? Could it have been the crushing irony of a third-generation Irishman and his son in face paint and feathers leading a parade that celebrated the military deaths of every American except the people we’d stolen the land from in the first place? Turns out it was hay fever. My dad was severely allergic to horses yet never said a word about it as I pleaded each year to be one of the riders in the parade. The slogan of the Indian Guides, a program for fathers and sons sponsored by the YMCA, is “Pals Forever.” My father more than lived up to that. An operations manager for General Electric with a wife and seven kids to feed, time was a precious commodity. Still, we never missed our bi-monthly Tuesday night gatherings of the tribe, a group consisting of nine hyperactive sixth graders and their bone-weary dads. The meetings would begin with the Chief asking one of us to beat the Tribal Drum, once for each of the four directions of the earth and for each boy present. After the prayer to the Great Spirit, the Wampum Bearer collected the tribal dues from each brave. My dad, brilliant with money, was the logical choice for Wampum Bearer. Wampum was the money we were supposed to earn through our chores for the week, a kind of kiddy tithing we offered up to the tribe. Like the real world outside the tribe, it was an imperfect system. Dave Crowe's mom gave him five bucks allowance each week for doing nothing, while my dad parceled out my weekly twenty-five cents as if he were donating a kidney. As we placed our wampum in the Wampum Drum, we had to say how we earned it. Dave would mutter, “I took…

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