...and he's off

Here are some scattered (and scatterbrained) thoughts as I make my way down Rt. 91 toward my first overnight stop: Closter, NJ, the home of the wonderful Razin family...

...How has it been possible to maintain a strong friendship with someone for almost 50 years without having had any serious disagreements? That describes the relationship I have had with Andy Razin, and, for as long as I've known her, Andy's wife Hil. I believe the answer lies in the phrase "mutual respect." For Andy and me the foundation for that respect was first created in the kitchen of his Woodruff Way apartment in Dorchester, MA sometime around 1962. It was there and then that we decided to find out which of us could craft the best BLT. This innocent undertaking might well have been the inspiration for "Iron Chef" and all of the other competitive cooking shows that fill the air on Food Network or The Travel Channel. We could have possibly called it: "Don't Tell our Mothers We're Eating Bacon." At any rate, over several years and in several different venues we challenged each other with the task of making the finest BLT possible. I know what you're thinking: What the hell is the difference between one BLT and another? You're absolutely correct. There is very little difference between the best BLT ever made (Modesty aside, I must confess it was made by me in my Esmond Street apartment in the spring of 1963), and the worst ever created (one of Razin's abominations; I have fortunately repressed the details). Still, to educated palates and serious BLT gourmands like Andy and me, it was a challenge, not to mention an opportunity to devour huge quantities of bacon. We paid particular attention to categories like thinness of tomato slice, amount of blood loss resulting from trying to slice a tomato too thinly, ratio of mayonnaise to lettuce, BCQ (bacon crispness quotient for the uninitiated), and perfect toasting shade. The one important area we decided to ignore was cleanup, which, if memory serves, resulted in the premature end to this hard fought series of contests, when one or both of our mothers blew a gasket. When a friendship is based on the desire to share bacon, there is no telling how far and how deep it can go.

...How I wish Ada were in her usual place in the passenger seat because that segment above is pretty damn funny and I would have loved telling her all that. OK, I'm done with the sadness, I just had to get that out there.

...There are about ten boxes of stuff sitting in Jeanne and Joe Gaffney's attic that I will pick up when I return to New Hampshire in June. Pictures and photographs of one kind or another comprise ninety percent of the contents of those boxes. Some of those photos go back to the 1940's. There are several of my father in uniform and a few of my brother and me as infants. Then there are literally thousands of photographs that I took over the years. If one were to categorize all of my photographs, one would utilize all the "normal" subtitles like family shots, baby pictures, vacation shots, special occasions, and the like; however, by far the largest category represented in the collection would have to be SUNSETS! I bet I have taken one sunset picture for every mile between here and the sun. I have put all the Kodak workers' children through graduate school with the profits derived from processing my sunset pictures. You could take all of my sunset pictures and display them at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, and you'd still need to rent a VFW hall to complete the display. AND HERE'S THE KICKER: They all suck! All of them. It's pathetic. You would think that just by luck I would have chosen the correct lens, setting, speed of film, etc. to have caught the special beauty and tranquility of a sunset. You'd be wrong. Probably half of them are out of focus which is curious because sunsets are not exactly speedy events. In many others it is hard to determine whether you are looking at the sun or a very dim, very distant light bulb. Wayward legs and arms adorn many of the other shots as do waves breaking too early or too late, uncooperative seagulls, clouds that missed the memo about dramatic shades of purple, too dark, too light, the list goes on. Having seen this overwhelming body of evidence attesting to my inability to take a good sunset picture, it would be reasonable to expect that I would just give up. Possibly I could purchase one in a print shop and try to cross out the photographer's name. No, that is not my way. I am as determined as ever to get that one spectacular sunset picture I have sought all these years. It is my Holy Grail. I will never give up. And now with digital photography, I can screw up much more cheaply than I used to. As a matter of fact, I hear the sunsets on the panhandle are terrific. If you're really good, maybe I'll send you all of my upcoming sunset pictures from the panhandle and we can sit back and enjoy them.

...Sooner or later we were going to have to get to the Red Sox. You knew that and yet you kept on reading. You're a blogger's dream, that's what you are! I love the Red Sox. I have loved them since 1954 when I first heard Curt Gowdy say, "Hi neighbor, have a 'Gansett." I have loved them since my father used to take me to Boston Park League games in Fields Corner and fool me into thinking that the poor schmuck playing left field was Himself (Ted Williams). I have loved them since I read My Turn at Bat co-written by Ted Williams and John Underwood. I have loved them since my days at Boston Latin School when I would sneak out of Mr. MacNamara's last period English class and walk over to Fenway to catch a day game. I'd look for Walter, a custodian at Latin who moonlighted as an usher at Fenway. If Walter recognized you, you got to sit in the serious boxes. In those days (1964) there were rarely more than 10,000 or so diehards at a weekday afternoon game. I have loved them since the magical summer of 1967 when Tony C got beaned. I have loved them since 1986...'nuf said. And of course I have fallen even more deeply in love with them since 2004 when they came back from 0-3 against the team that must not be named and proved to the world that I, Joel Getman, was not a loser. That's right. The Red Sox comeback in 2004 was undertaken specifically so that I could feel better about myself. And it worked! Since then I have become funnier, kinder, more patient, and have made great strides in sunset photography. (Raise your hand if you knew that was coming.) I have made arrangements through MLB.com to have all of the Red Sox games "telecast" on my computer so I will be able to follow them pitch by pitch this summer. I may even trek the 500 or so miles from the panhandle to Tampa to watch them defeat the Tampa Bay Rays in May.

But why? Why does a 63-year-old man who is known for being a pragmatic, sensible, stable type of individual allow himself to be drawn in year after year? Why does this game and especially this team still dominate my daily life, my ups and downs, each year from April to October? I guess it's because there are huge chunks of this 63-year-old man that are still just nine years old, thrilled that he can make a world-class BLT and hoping for just one more at bat by The Splendid Splinter...

... and thank God for that.

Much love,
J