Monthly Archives: May 2019

The Tutor

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After the interminable summer of 2017—a summer oppressively sad following a major loss—I ended up taking a position: I would be tutoring youth at a nearby private school. Since it was 10 minutes from my house in Brunswick, the location seemed right. It was at night, so I had my days to be down and depressed (or in theory, be able to write).

I told the academic dean who hired me “the story.” I let him know that I couldn’t commit to anything long-term. Amazingly, he was okay with that. That was the extent of what I could handle at that moment in my life.

On my third night, I ended up paired with a young man who needed help with statistics. I hadn’t done statistics since I’d been taking night school classes during my CMP days in the mid-1990s. Somehow, I remembered enough to provide some help to my protégé.

He was back the following night. The two of us became a team, an academic Odd Couple of sorts. Over the remainder of the 2017-18 school term, we worked on English, History, and fortunately for me—he dropped statistics. The person supervising the night Guided Study program asked me if I’d want to work with Billy as a one-on-one assignment. Since I had nothing better to do with my evenings, I agreed. Continue reading →

Something Other Than Writing/Anyone Can Play Guitar

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Spring speaks to certain sense of rebirth—at least in places like Maine where inhabitants are forced to endure the bleakness that inevitably comes during winter. When life gets reduced to finding a way forward post-tragedy, then any extension of hope can serve as a stand-in for a talisman.

Writing as a central element dates back to 2002 for me. That’s when, in a job that I hated, I latched onto cultivating my craft as a writer. I wanted to become a writer and I was willing to put the work in.

After Mark was killed, writing was all I had to sort through the randomness and pain that a tragic death like his delivers to the father left behind. I initiated the process of using narrative as a tool to find a few shards of meaning from the randomness of what I’d been dealt.

For two years I’ve written and rearranged words in an effort to craft a story centered in grief and loss. I recognize that none of it provided much solace for the emotional agony I’ve been feeling. In fact, like has happened countless times over the past 17 years of writing, editorial arbiters either ignored my writing, or sent back notes that served as the publishing world’s version of the “thanks but no thanks” notice of rejection. Continue reading →

Racing in the Streets

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A rainy spring it’s been. Everyone knows the adage that “April showers bring May flowers.” But weeks of rain and little or no sun drags down one’s spirit, no matter how hopeful your view of the future remains.

Early last week, Mary and I began counting down the days. We were anticipating yet another trip south related to our son’s death. We watched local weather and even Boston-area weather (via NECN) to determine—would it rain on Sunday?

It rained and the day was cold and raw. Nearly 50 people—all members of Team Every Mile Yeah—turned out for the Providence Rhode Races. They ran and some walked. Our group was arrayed in green t-shirts that Mary arranged to have produced for the event.

Mary and cape prior to the start of the Providence Rhode Race 5K.

Green shirt drying out from the rain

Family drove down from Maine. Friends from the earliest days of Mary’s life rode buses and trains to Providence. Ironmen from Minnesota who had let Mark into their world of localized competition came from Boston, New York City, Washington, DC, and San Antonio to run in Mark’s memory and support our efforts to hold an event that also connected with the foundation we began: The Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund.

As I was walking a sort of rear guard action during the 5K walk that our small family contingent made together, I was flooded with memories of Mark and me in the place he’d adopted as his home. Not only did he find his niche in the city, Providence welcomed him and adopted him, too. One thing the two of us never got to do was walk down the middle of Memorial Boulevard, sans traffic.

These streets were made for walking.

Mary and I spent Saturday with a special group of people who joined us first at Mark’s garden in front of the John D. Rockefeller Jr. Library at Brown. That’s where the Eastern Redbud was planted in Mark’s memory during the fall of 2017. There’s also a plaque commemorating his life. The group then walked, drove, or Ubered to Federal Hill and dinner at Trattoria Zooma. Somehow, they managed to accommodate our crowd just like they told Mary that they would.

Most of Team Every Mile Yeah (Mark’s Garden-Brown University)

Marching for Mark (heading to Trattoria Zooma)

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Great American Novels

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I finally read The Great Gatsby. It was shorter than I expected it to be and I read it in less than a day.

A former friend (I have lots of these) who reads very little, was fond of referencing F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Great American Novel,” like a talisman of sorts. It made her appear urbane and well-read—neither of these were actual qualities that she possesses.

I have been tutoring at a school where most of the students don’t care at all about academics. I wage futile battles with my charges to get them to put their phones down and do schoolwork, nightly.

I’ll refrain from being overly critical: the school is close and the pay is great for part-time work. It’s at night, too, so I have my days free to write and be creative. Oh, and there is the additional perk of having an old-fashioned library full of books like The Great Gatsby. None of the students ever take them down off the shelves and look them over, either. They’re too busy Snapchatting or playing with their phones.

Last Friday night, Turner Classic Movies ran the 1974 Robert Redford version of the movie adapted from Fitzgerald’s classic. Here’s some “inside Hollywood” for you about the film: the script for this 1974 big screen adaptation was actually re-written by Francis Ford Coppola, after the original script by Truman Capote was rejected by director Jack Clayton.

Coppola remembers that he spent weeks locking in a Paris hotel room, an ocean away from the hype attending his own breakout Hollywood tour-de-force, The Godfather. He told an interviewer that the “key to cracking the script” for him was simply reading Fitzgerald.

The movie turned out to be enjoyable. I vowed I’d finally get the book and read it.

Monday night, I found six copies of The Great Gatsby waiting for me at the end of the night. I planned to take it home and return it. I didn’t expect to read into the wee hours and then finish it the following day.

The novel still seems very relevant in terms of class and privilege. Despite technology taking over our lives, most humans are still basically the same shitty creatures they’ve been from time immemorial.

I’ll save the synopsis. They abound across the interwebs.

Continue reading →