Paul Steven Stone: Oh captain, my captain

He never aspired to greatness when it came to navigating bodies of water. Salt-laden or spring fed, large or small, Atlantic Ocean or Plymouth pond, it didn’t matter. He knew his place in the world, and it was not in a vessel afloat on water wearing the captain’s mantle. His destiny was that of a passenger or crew member. His comfort lay in never making decisions that affected the well being of a boat or the safety of its passengers.

And now, at the tender age of 69, he suffered a temporary loss of self-awareness that saw him purchase an inflatable boat so small as to be unfit for carrying more than three slim and motionless passengers at the same time. Though if they weren’t so difficult to bring on board, he would have preferred his passengers to be comatose, which guaranteed their weight would never shift. But then again, he correctly figured, the inflatable dinghy had little room to cater to the needs of supine or prostrate passengers.

And so, on a recent morning, he boarded his craft and set out by himself to voyage on a nearby pond where the craft was moored.

How easy to blithely declare “he boarded his craft and set out by himself to voyage on a nearby pond.” Much easier, it turns out, than it actually was to board his craft or voyage on the pond. For one thing (and remember we are speaking about a 69-year-old sailor) our brave adventurer had considerable difficulty jumping into the boat at the depth it was moored.

Clearly, to those with eyes to see, casual boating was not for the faint of heart or those fully ripened in their years.Before he could board his craft, after numerous attempts, he needed to guide it into shallower depths where he could essentially step into the boat one foot at a time. Fortunately, the electric motor allowed for such shallow depths, its shaft and propeller easily pivoting out of the water. Once, of course, he finally remembered to release the catch. This the same valiant motor, which had lately survived an ignominious submersion when the inflatable boat had flipped upside down in unusually blustery, if not hostile, winds.

And did I mention the wind?

Yes, there was a wind blowing this fateful morning. A strong wind that created a current he could see rippling across the surface of the pond. A wind so strong, he quickly surmised, that his modest motor could not easily steer the flat-bottomed, lightweight boat in any direction that resisted the wind’s steady resolve. And so after a brief excursion to the center of the pond our venerable skipper decided to cut his voyage short.

As if to prove the danger inherent on the water, and the wisdom in his decision to cut and run, our captain entangled the motor’s propeller in an errant coil of rope—“IT’S NOT ROPE, IT’S CALLED LINE,” his wife, who grew up on boats, repeatedly told him—and found himself magnetically drawn to the three hazards that surrounded his cottage’s shoreline.

First, he ran over a giant branch whose spindly grasping limbs reached out from the water like witches’ fingers issuing a stern warning. A warning he was unfortunately unable to heed, much as he and his fouled, struggling motor would try.

Next, after safely untangling the propeller and feeling newly invigorated, he and his boat were inexorably drawn into the rough facing of the only rock that stands above the surface in the entire expanse of the pond’s 62 acres.

Lastly, as if to end his voyage on a note of poetic irony, he was swept into, and half across, the buoy whose mooring line he was desperately reaching for.

The day before he had taken his five-year old granddaughter for a boat ride without noticeable wind or incident except, as he explained to her mother, “I have trouble parking,” which he proceeded to prove at journey’s end by ingloriously falling out of the boat. This day was no different as he attempted to dismount the boat and ultimately found himself falling head-first into the shallow depths and struggling once again to regain his footing. Almost immediately, as he surfaced, he realized the boat’s electric motor was still engaged, or had re-engaged by accident, and quickly and energetically—for a man his age—chased the boat down and turned off the motor.

No applause, please!

And so we leave our stalwart senior once again on land and once again shivering in his wetness in the wind. Nothing seriously hurt except perhaps his vanity. In the last few weeks he has spent more time in these pond waters than he had the six previous summers. First there was the mooring that had to be set up; the knots that had to be tied and re-tied. Then the rains came, sending him out twice in two days. First to rescue the battery that was dangerously close to having its plastic case breached by the accumulating rain water, second to bail out the rain water. Next, he had to go in to rescue his overturned boat and motor. Then lastly, once again into the water to restore the boat to its mooring.

Now, it bobs gently on the water, pretending to be easily boarded and safely steered wherever whim or whimsy might take it. And maybe someday he’ll believe that’s true.

But for now, it seems truer that—to quote the poet—“Home is the sailor, home from the sea.” To which I would only add…

“And the clumsy captain free from his pond.”

Paul Steven Stone is a Cambridge-based writer. This piece originated on his Web site, paulstonesthrow.com.

Paul Steven Stone: Sobbing on the subway

What’s with all the sobbing? He sits there alone on the subway seat, his body shaking from huge inconsolable sobs. A moment ago he was just sitting quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Then the crying erupted from his body in an instant, like lava spewed from a testy volcano. We are mostly alone on this Red Line subway car, in Cambridge, he and I, it being 7:45 on a Wednesday morning. I stare at his reflection in the darkened window while he continues to sob so hard I can almost feel his body shaking.

As we glide into Harvard Square, the questions run through my mind like a fevered catechism.

Why, why why? Why did he have to die? He was so young; why him, why now? And what lies ahead for his wife and young son?

Why indeed! I know this was my son-in-law, Kenyatta’s, journey, this early death of his, but still I have to ask “Why?” as if someone could ever explain such a cruel and unfair act of Fate. So cruel it’s almost malicious!

Keny was just 44, maybe 45, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is how young Keny was when he left us, how much greatness he had yet to discover; how much of his warmth and loving presence (“Give me some sugar, baby!”) and hugs we’ll no longer enjoy. You can’t quantify the damage done; our family has been greatly diminished by my son-in-law’s  death and none of us can figure out what hit us or why?

I have seen this man sobbing elsewhere in the last 24 hours. On an elevator, in my local supermarket, sitting in the dark of his office, bathed in the glow of his computer screen. I have seen him break into tears and great, galloping sobs at a moment’s notice. It happened in the shower this morning. His sobs broke through my reverie. Whisking me from one second’s stillness into the next second’s frenzy of cries and wailing.

Was it the suddenness of Keny’s crisis, the tidal wave of ever-rising disaster that resulted from the simplest of surgical operations going wrong; all of it mushrooming within a day into Keny fighting for his life? Was it the unexpectedness of finding someone we love fighting for his life when a moment before, we thought he was safe and getting care? Was there anything we could have done to help prevent Keny’s death?

Sadly, in the end we are all left to sob. Whenever the sorrow, pain and the damn injustice of the thing become too much to bear, I need to release an eruption of uncontainable sobs. I can’t help myself. That’s just how it works. Like this fellow here on the subway train at 7:55 A.M.  on Wednesday morning.

Wonder if he’s getting off at Porter?

Neither of us moves as the car further empties. Looking straight into the window’s reflection, I stare directly at myself, no longer pretending to stare at a stranger. No longer pretending to be a curiosity observed on a train. Looking across at the reflection in the glass, I see myself taking deep breaths while wiping away the tracks of tears that ran beneath my eyes.

So hard to believe. No more Keny. It seems as if he’s been stolen from us. Death is not usually this perverse or insistent; so that only someone in his mid-40’s, someone who was both brilliant of mind and vibrant of life force, would prove acceptable. Either way, Keny fought the good fight; tried to stay alive for his wife and son, but the poison in his body had already done its worst. And so I find myself sobbing on subway trains. On elevators. In the supermarket…

It was so unfair, so heart-rending. So sad…! There is no more Keny. No more blustery personality or charming smile. No more high-energy activity or comfortable presence. No more Kenyatta Braithwaite. So proud to have him as a respectful and loving son. So sad to lose him so young.

“It’s so sad!” I repeat as I wipe away tears from this latest wave of sobbing.

How else can one react? Fate came in and snatched away Kenyatta Braithwaite from the embrace of his friends and family. There was no warning. There was no way to fight this decision. No one to complain to! What choices were we given?

And now, what else can we do?

Except say goodbye…and sob.

Paul Steven Stone is a Cambridge-based writer. Here is his blog.

Paul Steven Stone: The Mass. speaker saga

CAMBRIDGESo here’s the question:  Does the position of speaker of the Massachusetts House invite corruption or does it merely attract corrupt politicians?

Or put another way: would former speakers and convicted felons Charles Flaherty, Thomas Finneran and Salvatore DiMasi have put their careers and reputations on the line, risking prison and disbarment, had they not been inebriated on the hubris of Absolute Power that comes with the speaker’s job?

As  Lord Acton's saying goes: "Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely''!

And now, over the last few weeks, we have witnessed our current speaker, Robert DeLeo, appearing as a shadow figure, or unindicted co-conspirator, in the corruption trial of the cabal formerly in charge of that criminal enterprise known as the Massachusetts Probation Department.

In addition to helping his godson become the youngest acting chief probation officer in the commonwealth’s history, Speaker DeLeo was cited by prosecutors for allegedly using the promise of lucrative patronage jobs to help win the speakership in a tight race with Norwood Rep. John Rogers.

Not surprisingly, many of DeLeo’s colleagues and leadership team immediately stepped up to defend the speaker and denounce federal prosecutors. Also no surprise, not a single legislator who voted for DeLeo as speaker after receiving access to Probation Department jobs, saw those jobs as a quid pro quo for their vote. Without any question, they would have voted for DeLeo as speaker in any case. That they’d been given Probation jobs for their friends, relatives and supporters played no role whatsoever.

I believe them. But then again I also believe in Santa Claus and an unbiased U.S. Supreme Court.

Of course, if there’s a legislator dumb enough to admit that he or she sold his vote, according to Massachusetts custom they’d be impeached on the grounds of criminal stupidity rather than for any ethical lapse.

That legislators are so quick and vocal in defending DeLeo merely provides further evidence of the power and privilege accrued to the House speaker. Whether you have legislative goals or a leadership position (and salary) to protect, none of that will be possible without the blessing, support, or good opinion, of the speaker. Those shouting loudest in DeLeo’s support can expect to receive their just rewards in the old familiar ways of Massachusetts politics. Perhaps no longer with jobs for unemployed relatives, but you can bet there’ll be something under the House Xmas tree with their name on the box.

Of course, those defending DeLeo the loudest are probably the same legislators who stood up in 2011 to give a rousing round of applause to visiting former Speakers Flaherty, Finneran and DiMasi.

Apparently, in Massachusetts politics, nothing deserves a standing ovation like heaping shame upon your office.

Paul Steven Stone, a Cambridge-based writer, runs the paulstonesthrow.com site.

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'Pretty white gloves'

  By PAUL STEVEN STONE

CAMBRIDGE

He sits on a folded-over cardboard box, slightly off-balance and without any visible sign of support other than the granite wall of the bank behind him and the few coins in the paper cup he shakes at each passerby.

Does he realize it is 4 degrees above zero, or minus 25 degrees if you factor in the wind that blows through the city and his bones with little concern for statistics? Does he notice the thick cumulus lifeforms that escape from his mouth in shapes that shift and evanesce like the opportunities that once populated his life?

Can he even distinguish the usual numbing effect of the cheap alcohol from the cruel and indifferent caress of this biting alien chill?

Too many questions, he would tell you, if he cared to say anything. But his tongue sits in silence behind crusted chapped lips and chattering teeth while half-shut eyes follow pedestrians fleeing from the bitter cold and his outstretched cup.

His gaze falls upon the hand holding the cup as if it were some foreign element in his personal inventory. Surprised at first to find it uncovered and exposed, especially in weather this frigid, he now recalls that someone at the shelter had stolen his gloves and left in their place the only option he still has in much abundance.

Acquiescence.

Examining the hand, and the exposed fingers encircling the Seven-Eleven coffee cup, he smiles in amused perplexity, murmuring to himself, “White gloves.”

Lifting his hand for closer inspection, he adds, “Pretty white gloves.”

An image of his daughter . . . Elissa, he thinks her name was . Yes, Elissa!, he recalls. An image of Elissa rises up in his mind, from a photograph taken when she was ten and beautifully adorned in a new Easter outfit: black shoes, frilly lavender dress and hat and, yes, pretty white gloves. The photo once sat on a table in his living room, but he couldn’t tell you what happened to it, nor to the table or the living room, for that matter. They were just gone. Swept away in the same tide that pulled out all the moorings from his life, and everything else that had been tethered to them.

The last time he’d seen Elissa she was crying, though he no longer remembers why. Must have been something he’d done or said; that much he knows.

“Pretty white gloves,” he repeats, staring at his hand.

He recalls the white gloves from his Marine dress uniform. At most he wore them five times: at his graduation from officer’s training school, at an armed services ball in Trenton, New Jersey, and for three military funerals. There was never a need for dress gloves in Vietnam. They would have never stayed white anyway; not with all the blood that stained his hands.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see a policeman walking towards him and instinctively hides his cup, some vestige of half-remembered pride causing him to avert his gaze from the man’s eyes at the same time.

“We need to get you inside, buddy,” the officer says. “You’ll die of cold, you stay out here.”

Moments later, a second police officer, this one a woman, steps up to join them.

“That’s the Major,” she tells her colleague. To the seated figure she offers a smile.

“You coming with us, Major?”

“Go away,” he answers, looking up as he leans further against the cold granite wall. “Don’t need you. Don’t need no one.”

“Can’t leave you out here,” the first officer says. “We’ve got orders to bring you and everyone else in.”

“Leave me alone!” the seated man shouts, gesturing with his hands as if he could push them both away.

“Oh shit,” the female officer says under her billowing breath. To her partner she whispers, “His hands. Look at his hands.”

Quickly recognizing the waxy whiteness for what it is, the officer shrugs, “Guess we’re a little late.”

To the man on the sidewalk, he offers, “That’s frostbite, buddy.”

“No,” the seated man protests. He holds up both hands, numb and strange as they now feel and offers a knowing smile of explanation.

Just like the Marine officer he once was, just like the sweet innocent daughter he once knew, just like  the young man grown suddenly old on a frozen sidewalk, his hands are beautiful and special in a way these strangers will never understand.

“White gloves,”he insists proudly.

“Pretty white gloves.”

Paul Steven Stone is a Cambridge-based writer. His blog, from which this comes, is www.paulstonesthrow.com.