Stratford

Tis the Reason for the Season

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on December 22, 2011, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

Christmas, with its message of “Peace on earth and goodwill toward man,” has always been my favorite holiday. Unfortunately, it can sometimes bring out the worst in people who forget the reason the holiday exists in the first place.

This ugliness often arises out of minor things like the lighting of Christmas trees or the placement of nativity scenes and menorahs on town property. You’ll read about it in the choice of songs for the middle school chorale concert. You’ll see it in the billboard wars about the authenticity of religion itself between atheist groups and religious organizations. You’ll hear it in the whispered conversations at the water cooler: “I hate when people say, ‘Happy holidays,’ just because they’re too afraid to wish me a Merry Christmas.”

This last one represents a popular refrain from many conservative Christian groups who claim that “they” (whoever “they” are) are “trying to take Christ out of Christmas.” This is a flawed argument at best, mainly because it represents the same ideals of Manifest Destiny that history has come to look upon as both ignorant and arrogant.

To begin with, the Church did not decree the official date of Christmas until the middle of the fourth century, adding another holiday to an already-crowded slate. If anyone should feel their holiday was co-opted, it would be the adherents of Brumalia, an ancient Roman solstice festival honoring the god Bacchus generally held for a month and ending December 25. Gheimhridh was celebrated by Druids and Proto-Celtic tribes at Newgrange as early as 3,200 BCE. Babylonians held an annual renewal celebration, the Zagmuk Festival, that lasted 10 days to observe the sun god Marduk’s battle over darkness. Saturnalia, a Roman feast commemorating the dedication of the temple of Saturn, lasted from December 17 – 23. The Buddhist celebration of Sanghamitta, honoring the Buddhist nun who brought a branch of the Bodhi tree to Sri Lanka, has been held around the winter solstice for over 2,000 years. Polytheistic European tribes celebrated Midvinterblot, a mid-winter-sacrifice, while the Zuni and the Hopitu Indians celebrated Soyal, the winter solstice ceremony held on December 21, the shortest day of the year.

Put simply, Christianity was late to the party. In fact, many customs from pagan Scandinavian and Germanic celebrations of “Yule” in northern Europe (which started on December 25) are present in Christmas traditions. Items like the Christmas tree, the Christmas wreath, holly, mistletoe, and the Yule log were taken right from Yule customs. It’s interesting to note that the Puritans, the very people who colonized America, banned the celebration of Christmas in England before coming here. The crime of observing Christmas was punishable by a fine in the thirteen colonies, and was still not widely celebrated by the time of the Declaration of Independence.

What’s so disappointing is that in almost every culture, this was meant as a time for renewal and hope, a way to connect the community to that which was most important to them. That was the hope of Maulana Karenga, a key figure in the Black Power movement of the 1960’s and 1970’s, when he created the Kwanzaa festival in 1966 as a week-long celebration of African-American heritage and culture. Each night is dedicated to one of the seven principles of African heritage: Unity (Umoja), Self-Determination (Kujichagulia), Collective Work and Responsibility (Ujima), Cooperative Economics (Ujamaa), Purpose (Nia), Creativity (Kuumba), and Faith (Imani).

Twenty-two centuries earlier, Yehuda HaMakabi (“Judah the Hammer”) led a successful revolt against the Seleucid king Antiochus IV. During the re-dedication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, Judah ordered the Temple cleansed, the altar rebuilt, and the lighting of a menorah—a gold candelabrum whose seven branches (representing knowledge and creation) were to be kept burning each night. Because the Greeks had defiled all the oils, they were left with only enough to burn for a day. Somehow it burned for eight days, long enough to prepare a fresh supply. The Sages of that generation decreed that the 25th of Kislev would begin eight days rejoicing in commemoration of this event, and that the lights be lit in the entrance to their homes to publicize the miracle.

According to the Bible, Jesus’ birth itself was the ultimate expression of God’s love, a testament to His capacity for forgiveness.  How ironic, then, that the celebration of this birth is often accompanied by such rancor. Trivializing the true meaning behind these holidays is bad enough; we’ve managed to do a great job of obscuring the poignancy of the celebrations through crass commercialization and willful ignorance.  Even worse, however, is that we use this distorted lens to create even more divisions between “the others” and ourselves. When we allow ourselves to be blinded by the twinkling lights atop the candles or the trees, we fail to connect with the purpose of any of these holidays.

A full expression of one’s religious beliefs need not include the condemnation of other schools of thought. Instead, this energy should be poured into fully celebrating that which we hold dear. When we reach out to help others in need during this holiday season, the symbols we wear around our necks don’t matter half as much as the generosity with which we open our hearts. The differences between the methods of expressing our faith mean little compared to importance of the expression itself.

Therefore, it is with the utmost respect and sincerity that I offer you this Irish holiday blessing: “May peace and plenty be the first to lift the latch on your door, and happiness be guided to your home by the candle of Christmas.” I wish you all a happy and healthy holiday season… that is, with the exception of those who are easily offended—they probably won’t have a particularly happy holiday, anyway.

Continue ReadingTis the Reason for the Season

Black Friday

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on November 23, 2011, and in the Fairfield Sun on December 1, 2011, both in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.)

The first Thanksgiving was celebrated in the fall of 1621, when the Native Americans inadvertently got the Pilgrims thinking about their first holiday buying opportunity. Over the next 300 years, they brokered a series of “deals” that netted Pilgrim descendants about 3.1 million square miles of prime real estate. The Native Americans got pox-infested blankets and the colonial equivalent of a continental timeshare. Is it any wonder that Americans have been obsessed with finding bargains around Thanksgiving ever since?

The National Retail Federation released forecasts last week predicting up to 152 million people plan to shop on the weekend after Thanksgiving, higher than the 138 million people who planned to do so last year. For men that enjoy shopping as much as they enjoy bamboo chutes under their fingernails, it’s no surprise that the day after Thanksgiving is called “Black Friday.”

Some believe the origins of the term stem from the rush of crowds pouring through the malls, reminiscent of the craziness that resulted from the Black Friday stock market panic of September 24, 1864. For others, the name derives from the fact that this major shopping day can push many retailers from red ink losses into the black ink of profit for the year. Growing up with four sisters, I have come to believe it’s based on the 1940 movie Black Friday, where Boris Karloff replaces part of the brain of his dying friend with that of a dead gangster, resulting in his friend’s feverish hunt for that gangster’s hidden treasure trove. Seems to capture the day nicely, right?

In our family, Black Friday was primarily an estrogen-fueled exercise in commercial exchange. While my brothers and I would still be sleeping off the effects of that second helping of Grandma’s corn pudding (how could we forget that Grandma didn’t believe in expiration dates on dairy products?), my sisters would be up before the sun to make the switch from stuffing themselves to stuffing their shopping bags. This made sense in the time before the internet, when things like store hours and banking hours still mattered. Opening stores at 5:00 AM had the appeal of novelty, and my sisters used it as a bonding experience.

Now, like most things American, it’s been super-sized into a three-day event. For those lucky enough to make it through the traffic, a trip to the mall now comes with a mandatory mile hike from your parking spot—one you probably had to risk car damage to secure from other desperate drivers who prowl the lots like sharks in search of a closer spot.

Where Black Friday used to mark the start of the Christmas season, now it’s just another rest stop on the retail highway. CVS was selling miniature reindeer the day after Halloween, and Santa’s been popping up on television ads since the leaves turned color. Still, Black Friday is the first time many retailers throw themselves fully into the holiday season without shame. It’s a great time to indoctrinate your children into good ‘ol American consumerism at its finest—store owners bring their “A” game to every window display in the unending competition for limited consumer dollars. All kids should have their “Ralphie” moment, where they spy their own equivalent of the Red Rider BB gun with a compass in the stock and “this thing that tells time.” If you don’t understand the context of that reference, chances are you never had your “Ralphie” moment—or you just don’t own a TV.

As much as Black Friday confuses me, I’m grateful that retailers have this opportunity to recover in this tough economy. While not daring enough to brave the stores myself, I applaud my wife for wading into those waters. I’ll stand on the shoreline and cheer, enjoying the holiday decorations even as I note one glaring absence: Even on the day after Thanksgiving, there are no decorative references to the Native Americans who saved our bacon four centuries ago. Not surprising, really—depictions of that first meal always seem so forced, as if you can actually hear the Pilgrims wrapping up the party with, “So, thanks for the food. Mighty fine land you have here. You, ah… mind if we take it?”

Spending the next two hundred years systematically killing and relocating your hosts to get their land is not the best way to say “thanks.” Besides, if only the Pilgrims had waited, it probably would have been on sale the next day.

From my family to yours, we wish you the happiest of Thanksgivings. If you’re lucky enough be in a position to help, 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 (203-333-4087), or Operation Hope in Fairfield (www.operationhopect.org). Soup kitchens run by organizations like Hunger Outreach prepare and serve over 1,000,000 meals a year through a network of over 34 food kitchens in Greater Bridgeport, pantries and mobile units made up of mostly volunteers working seven days a week, 365 days a year. (For more information, please contact Byron Crosdale at byroncrosdale@ccgb.org.)

Continue ReadingBlack Friday

New Test For Political Nominees

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on July 28, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”)

The Democratic and Republican parties announced their nominations for the November elections in towns throughout Fairfield County last week, eliciting little more than a collective sigh from an electorate weary of partisan politics. To be fair, the announcements were made even as President Obama and House Speaker John Boehner turned the crucial negotiations surrounding the need to raise the national debt ceiling into a high-stakes game of “he said/she said.” Faced with an opportunity for leadership, both sides reverted to childish antics more akin to “Thomas The Train” than Thomas Jefferson.

All sides in Washington agree we need to at least temporarily raise the amount the government can borrow by August 2 or risk defaulting on our obligations. This could mean further destabilizing the financial markets while devaluing the dollar and increasing interest rates. Rather than bowing to the gravity of the moment, both President Obama and Speaker Boehner chose to host separate press conferences vilifying the other.

On Sunday’s “Face The Nation,” US Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner bemoaned that the histrionics resulting from these delicate negotiations have already gone too far. “You want to take this out of politics… you don’t want politics messing around with America’s faith and credit.” This simple posit can be applied to every major issue facing all levels of government today: painting each debate as an ideological struggle has wasted whatever credit our politicians had left. Few have faith in the ability of our elected leaders to play nice with each other, much less solve the problems set before them. A July 20 Washington Post/ABC News poll showed that 80% of respondents are “dissatisfied” or “angry” about the way the government is working.

While discontent is not unique, one associates negative numbers like these with the Arab Spring more than a congressional recess. More and more Americans are growing sick at the prospect of further political gamesmanship among the major parties; former President Richard Nixon referred to this group of citizens residing in the middle of the two extremes as the “silent majority.” These are not flag-wavers or gavel-smackers; you won’t find them standing on the corner with sandwich boards or rallying in the streets. These are the folks whose time is taken up providing for their families, paying their taxes, and improving their community. They just want their government to work, and they’re smart enough to realize that some compromise is in order when working with a diverse population. To think otherwise is not merely childish but dangerous

It’s amid this backdrop that we meet the newest crop of nominations for local government, and one could be forgiven the cynicism that accompanies the platforms they trot out. I have the utmost respect for those local men and women who seek the thankless job of representing our best interests, but it’s hard to maintain that respect when important issues are held hostage to political affiliation. What we need is a layer of insulation between the strident ideology that paralyzes government and the consistent productivity which we desire of it.

In the interest of restoring some of that lost faith and credit in our elected leaders, I propose a simple three-part, common sense test to help weed out those whose “leadership” would contribute to political stagnation rather than remedy it. After all, we have to pass both a written test and a driving test before we get a driver’s license—shouldn’t we require a few things of those who will control our tax dollars?

First, each nominee should demonstrate familiarity with the primary definition of the word “compromise,” which is generally understood as a settlement of differences in which each side makes concessions. It is not, in fact, a dirty word, nor is it interchangeable with its secondary definition, which is to reduce in quality or value. Far too often, politicians seem to have missed the nuances between these two denotations. In short, if you feel that making concessions automatically means you’re compromising your values, you can leave your place in line and retake this test later when you come to your senses. You need to join a book club, not town council.

Second, each nominee should demonstrate the requisite level of creativity, adaptability, and resiliency necessary to accomplish the difficult tasks of representative government. Put bluntly, are you smart enough to figure out how to solve difficult problems and get other people to understand your solution? We don’t want to hear about the labor pains—just give us the damn baby. We’re sick of politicians whining about why things are broken—fix it or step aside and let someone else have at it. If you don’t have the ability to discover alternative solutions and see them though to fruition, don’t take up space on the ticket.

Finally, nominees should understand they are but stewards of a community that’s existed long before they were born and will continue long after. We don’t care about your won/loss record at town council meetings; we care about the pothole that just broke the rear axle. None of you will be in office long enough to change government, you can only nudge it forward or hold it back. If you’re pushing an agenda, step out of the line and paint it on a sandwich board. Leave the governing to those who value results over rhetoric and pointless posturing. If you don’t have the common decency to feel shame when little is accomplished on your watch, you won’t have the guts to take the blame. And yes, we expect that, too.

Sadly, it takes a certain kind of courage to submit to this kind of test, not coincidentally the same kind of courage it takes to become an effective leader. Platitudes are easier and allow for a larger pool of otherwise unqualified candidates to sneak in and gum up the works when elected. Like the mythical “Test To Become A Parent,” this test is too hard for the childish.

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iPhone’t Do That Again!

While getting gouged at the gas pump during last Thursday’s torrential rains, I noticed an SUV stranded underneath the bridge of the railroad tracks. It seems every railroad trestle in the area overlooks a makeshift pond during heavy rains, but the (crappy) picture I took with my iPhone shows this was no ordinary storm.

Normally I’d be the one tempting fate to see if I could plow through the water in a game of engine roulette, but I just happened stop off to get gas just before the bridge. The cars driving underneath the bridge looked more like amphibious landing craft at Normandy as they floated the last ten or fifteen feet until their tires hit pavement again. As I pondered taking out a second mortgage to pay for topping off my gas tank, I noticed one car struggling to move forward. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the waters were rising quickly. Hoping to remain dry, I silently willed the car across, but it was as if someone had put a matchbox car in an aquariu

I tried to take a picture, thinking maybe the Stratford Star could use it as a tweet, but it was raining so hard I feared frying it. I put it in my pocket to keep it dry. When it became clear the car wasn’t moving and the cavalry wasn’t coming, I sloshed into the pond and made my way over to the car. Before I knew it I was up to my hips in water—if you’ve ever considered jumping into a river created by a flash flood, don’t. It’s exactly the same as jumping into a half-full trash can at the beach and filling the rest with bilge water… only much, much colder and faster.

I got the driver’s attention and she rolled down her window—she was eight months pregnant and didn’t know what to do. She said she’d just called the fire department, which I thought was a wise thing to do. Knowing I have karmic debts to pay, I had her turn off the car and put it in neutral so I could push her out. This is not a wise thing to do. Eventually someone else came in to help and we managed to get her clear just as the fire trucks arrived. In other words, if I had done the smart thing (who knows what electrical wires could fall in the water and fry me like bacon… or an iPhone) and waited for them to help, I wouldn’t have waded into toxic water with my wallet and iPhone in my pocket. I wouldn’t have had to bury my phone in a bowl of rice in a desperate attempt to keep it from burning out, and it wouldn’t smell like a chocolate cigarette even a week later.

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An Open Letter to My Neighbors

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on June 2, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”)

I love my neighbors, at least the ones who live close enough to walk over and egg my house if they don’t like this piece. It’s the rest of you I need to speak with, so I’ll address you individually. After all, one of the advantages of having one’s own column is the ability to save on stamps.

To the guy who keeps revving his motorcycle engine at 2:30 in the morning: You’re aware of the function of a muffler, right? More than mere decoration, it’s designed to significantly reduce the sound of your exhaust. I’m not supposed to feel in my chest how well you’ve cleaned your carburetor each time you pass my window. More importantly, you were supposed to get over needless revving when you outgrew your Big Wheel. If you still feel the need to announce your presence to those of us silly enough to sleep at these hours, try putting baseball cards in the spokes of your wheels. Or cure cancer. Either way.

To the idiot who cuts through parking lots rather than waiting for the light to change: I secretly hope someone backs into you as you race through those parked cars to save that extra 60 seconds. I don’t want anyone injured, I just want your car badly dented. I know that’s horrible. I’m sorry.

To the people who still throw trash out their car windows: Is your life so tightly scheduled that you can’t hold on to that bag of Fritos long enough to find a trash can? This isn’t the Space Station—we have regular trash pickup each week, and it’s already paid for in our taxes. Did you never see the crying Native American commercials?

To the woman who jumps in front of me on the platform just before the train comes to a full stop in order to be the first one inside: Look, it’s a guessing game to stand in exactly the right spot on the platform so that the doors are directly in front of you when the train comes to a halt. We all know the rules. You guessed wrong. You can’t cheat and walk in front of the winners, the ones who spend months estimating the diminishing velocity and distance of a moving target. If you want to be first, earn it—like we did. I’m not afraid to step on your open-toed shoe.

To the guy who drives around in the Ford Crown Victoria with the standard-issue search light still bolted to the driver’s side door: Do you notice how traffic slows to a crawl wherever you go? Are you trying to give us a heart attack every time we notice you in our rear view mirrors, or is driving around in an unmarked police car just your way of fulfilling a fantasy? Unless you’re leading a search party for a missing child, you can lose the search light. And the Ford Crown Victoria. Heck, maybe you should just take the bus.

To the idiot who cuts through parking lots rather than waiting for the light to change: I know I said I was sorry earlier, but I lied. Sorry.

To the teenagers who walk across busy traffic lanes as if life was a game of “Frogger”: You should know I was always terrible at “Frogger.” That poor thing never made it past the second lane before painting the road green under the tire of an oncoming car. I wouldn’t place so much blind faith in my evasive driving skills if I were you—maybe the crosswalk isn’t such a bad idea

To the whacko who keeps ruining the barbecue by foaming at the mouth about how one party in town is determined to ruin us all: You, my friend, are part of the problem. Have a seat. Eat some cheese. Read some poetry. As my mom would say, “Have a nice bm.” Let the rest of your neighbors try to talk things out like adults.

To the woman who texts while driving, constantly slamming on the brakes just before rear-ending the car in front of her: I acknowledge how important you are—I can tell by that 1987 Dodge Caravan you’re driving. However, the rest of us have something to live for—please put off that last “OMG LOL” until you pull out in front of the idiot who cuts through parking lots rather than waiting for the light to change. You two deserve each other.

Continue ReadingAn Open Letter to My Neighbors

Sign of The (End) Times

"Because I know what God would say if He only could."

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on May 19, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”)

It was a cold January morning when I drove past the Barnum Avenue billboard in Bridgeport, but its message warmed my very soul: “He is coming again! May 21, 2011.” I pulled my car to the side of the road and wept tears of joy. The message couldn’t have been any clearer: Justin Bieber must be scheduled to perform in the Arena at Harbor Yard!

My wife was the first to break the news. “It’s not Justin. They’re talking about Jesus.”

My sense of disappointment was deeper than missing out on a Bieber Experience: while meeting Jesus was something I’ve always had on my Bucket List, I was hoping it would be the last item left in the bucket. Luckily, the 21st is a Saturday—this won’t be the traffic nightmare it could have been.

Because I am a geek in addition to being somewhat dim, I looked into the organization that so crushed my heart. Turns out the man behind the sign is Harold Camping, the crusty biblical scholar that runs Family Stations, Inc., a Christian broadcast ministry based in Oakland, California. He’s the barnacle on channel 66 WFME, an impossibly frail figure whose seated biblical lectures are broadcast around the clock. This isn’t his first Armageddon rodeo. In 1992, Camping published a book titled 1994? in which he established Sept. 6, 1994, as the return date for Christ.

Oops.

He later admitted that his math might have been incorrect. This time, his logic is clearer: he has devined that the number 5 equals “atonement.” Ten is “completeness.” Seventeen means “heaven.” In an interview with Justin Berton of the San Francisco Chronicle in 2010, Camping explained how he reached his conclusion that the world will end on May 21, 2011. He determined that Christ was put on the cross on April 1, 33 A.D. It’s been 1,978 years since that day. Camping then multiplied 1,978 by 365.2422 days—the number of days in each solar year, not to be confused with a calendar year. Next, Camping noted that April 1 to May 21 encompasses 51 days. Add 51 to the sum of previous multiplication total, and it equals 722,500. Camping realized that (5 x 10 x 17) x (5 x 10 x 17) = 722,500. Or put into words: (Atonement x Completeness x Heaven), squared

“I tell ya, I just about fell off my chair when I realized that,” Camping said.

Me, too! It’s so simple I’m surprised we missed it. In his appropriately named follow-up book We Are Almost There! he presents additional Biblical evidence which points to May 21, 2011, as the date for the Rapture and October 21, 2011, as the date for the end of the world. Followers of Camping claim that around 200 million people (approximately 3% of the world’s population) will be “raptured,” or bodily pulled into the air to meet Christ upon His return. The rest of us will mope around until we realize we can finally get Giants season tickets. Alas, we’ll only get halfway through the season before Earth closes shop forever in October. Also, October 21 is a Friday, though, so expect delays on I-95.

In the meantime, we’ll have plenty of time to read the billboards as rush hour traffic slows us to a crawl. Don’t worry—traffic should clear up next week.

Continue ReadingSign of The (End) Times

A Gift We Give Ourselves

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on May 5, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”)

I was nine when I first “discovered” the public library. I’d been in it many times for book reports or the occasional Indian Guides meeting, but it took a rainy day and Norton Juster to make it magic. I was banned from watching TV due to bad grades and forced to tag along with mom on errands, including her frequent trips to the library. One day an elderly librarian took pity and slipped me a copy of Juster’s Phantom Tollbooth, a book about a boy my age fighting terminal boredom. As a result, this woman opened up the world of reading to me, transporting me to new worlds. When I returned the book the next week, the librarian suggested another, then another. I left with a shiny new library card, a stack of eight books, and a love of reading that would last the rest of my life.

I couldn’t tell you her salary or the percentage of my parents’ tax dollars that paid it. If you’d asked my parents, they’d have called it priceless.

In middle school, the library permitted me to bring home all the music I couldn’t otherwise afford; by high school, they added VHS movies. In college, I was given free access to online journals and eventually media for my mobile computing. However, the evolution of the library included not only the manner in which the library allowed us to access information, but also the manner in which it was consumed. Typing rooms became mobile offices with free internet; children’s areas were expanded to encourage ReadAlongs and extensive programming; study booths added computer stations and stacks were reorganized to accommodate lounge areas. Librarians evolved into media specialists in order to wrangle all the assorted resources into a cohesive system that improved access. Once merely the gatekeepers of the written word, media specialists now guided and educated visitors on ways to better understand the wealth of information available in all its forms.

I couldn’t tell you how much it cost to train them or the time this training required. If you’d asked the students or job seekers who got the help they desperately needed, they’d have thought it worthwhile.

Today, the role of the media specialist is even more important as the amount and variety of information explodes. Instead of being provided neatly on bookshelves, information accessed digitally is often disorganized. In addition to offering a level of quality control with regard to the validity of resources, media specialists can cull the overwhelming number of those resources in order to maximize results and save time. Rather than a decline in attendance, the evolution of the modern library has created a need to service a larger number of patrons representing a wider segment of our population.

In difficult economic times, it’s important to remember that equal access has always been the cornerstone of the American library system. Those who cannot afford books, videos, computers, or internet connections are afforded the opportunity without cost; those without the means to attend institutions of higher learning are provided the materials and training necessary to compete. There’s still no suitable substitute to the library and its mountains of content, and no other resource offers the time and expertise of the modern media specialist free of charge to the end user.

One need look no further than Stratford’s own media specialists to understand their importance to our community. The Stratford Library Association’s website (www.stratford.lib.ct.us) outlines the value we get for our money that goes far beyond what we should expect: for adults, free notary service, career services and training opportunities, and regular groups such as “Books Over Coffee,” “Script Talk,” and “Sunday Afternoon Talks.” Whether it was renowned author Bob Smith discussing Shakespeare’s plays or Caitlin Augusta leading the “Aspiring Authors” program for kids, the library has always celebrated the written word. Current offerings for Stratford youth include the “Rising Stars” program, the Anime Club, and “HomeworkHelp@SLA” (after-hours, one-on-one help for students by Stratford high school teachers). Based on the State of Connecticut’s 2010 Public Library Annual Statistical Report and Application for State Aid, Stratford library’s program attendance is more than twice the state average. Based on circulation per service hour, our library is much more than twice as busy as the state average! Attendance at Children’s programs (ages 6-11) is also more than twice the state average, and Young Adult program attendance is three times the state average. Stratford library’s collection turnover (circulation divided by collection size) is more than five times the state average.

Yet even before the recent budget cuts we’re slightly less than the state average for total full-time equivalent library employees based on town population. Over the years, the library has become a community hub because of the tireless efforts of this staff. We shouldn’t reward their hard work by handcuffing them with the current budget restrictions. It only took one library employee to turn this reluctant reader into an English teacher and published author. I have often shared with my students her promise to me that day: “Reading is a gift you give yourself, a ‘Get Out of Boredom Free’ card for every airport and doctor’s office in the world.”

In the same way, funding for our library is a gift we give our children and ourselves. Many residents were eloquent in defending the library from these cuts in recent public hearings—I defer to them for the more practical, fiscal arguments against the implementation. Instead, I fear for the next boy when that media specialist is not there to unlock new worlds for his generation.

I couldn’t tell you who came up with these cuts, nor the best way to say they’re dangerously short-sighted. If you’d asked me about maintaining the hours of our media specialists, I’d have said that some gifts we have to earn.

Continue ReadingA Gift We Give Ourselves

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 of public services, the doors will shut at night and on weekends. Public bathrooms for users of the Greenway will be unavailable most times because either the two remaining officers are off-duty or on call. Stray pets picked up on Friday will be stuck in the kennels until Monday morning before their owners can retrieve them. The low-cost vaccination and education programs that created such excitement when designs for the new facility were first released will not be available for those who work during these limited hours of operation.

Lastly, understaffing this particular department actually costs the town money in the end. The Animal Control department enjoys a unique and committed relationship with volunteers in the community that should be fostered rather than choked off due to staffing concerns. Organizations such as STARS consistently raise money to cover yearly budgetary shortfalls and other items not included in the town budget. Last year alone they raised $40,000 to make sure each animal is spayed, neutered, vaccinated, and micro-chipped before it leaves for a new home. The role of Animal Control has moved far beyond mere “dog warden” in its attempt to rehabilitate and re-introduce animals to a grateful and more informed public. A significant portion of the 53% rise in Animal Control activity is due to dramatic increases in the rates of pet redemption and adoption. Sadly, the rate of euthanizing these animals, which had trended downward until 2010, will most likely rise with the loss of the resources to re-train and redistribute them to qualified homes.  Instead, based on current impound, we’ll spend an estimated $60,000 to kill them (or about $16,000 more than the third ACO would cost).

The irony is that by “saving” money on one position, we cost ourselves much more in loss of volunteer hours. Due to liability concerns, volunteers are not allowed in the building unless an Animal Control officer staffs it. Animal Control Officers and Kennel Attendants are all vaccinated for rabies, drug tested, and required to pass a background check. Volunteers may only handle animals that have been advertised in the paper and held for 7 days, thus becoming the legal property of the Town of Stratford. In addition, all animals must pass a temperament test administered by Animal Control staff prior to being handled by a volunteer because they have extensive experience and training in dealing with potentially aggressive animals and disease control procedures. Road calls can only be handled by Animal Control Officers with knowledge of laws pertaining to animals and expert animal handling skills. Even the 12-hour training program required for volunteers to help is at risk due to the limited hours and manpower. STARS and other volunteer groups provide the money and time to augment town services that we simply cannot afford to lose in this economy.

In short, eliminating this position will cost us dearly. Animal Control issues—like other police, fire, or medial emergencies—do not adhere to “banker’s hours.” It is a critical public service with which we cannot play political cat and mouse.

Continue ReadingThe Hidden Cost of “Saving”

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, however, convinced that I couldn’t name an instrument without owning it. Who goes to a pet store and starts naming the fish in the tanks if they’re not taking them home? Finally, my mom cracked on my birthday and bought me a used trumpet with a dull shine and the distant memory of chrome about the buttons. The case was beautiful, however—I would carry around the carcass of an outhouse rat if it came in a purple, velvet-lined molded carrying case!

I raced up to my room and closed the horrid box that contained John Doe, the name of my RENTED trumpet, and shoved it under the bed. I opened my new case and pulled out… Maria, sweet Maria, and gave her a quick polish. I pulled out my sheet music and began “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Twinkle I did, managing to pucker my lips in my best Dizzy Gillespie.

Alas, there was an ugly side to Maria. A dark place she hid to anyone who saw her, and known only to those who knew her… intimately. Maria had a spittle. A spittle is a small place where all the spit collects while you blow into the trumpet, a mucous house. Maria housed a perpetual loogie that rolled around inside her, just waiting for fumbling elementary school hands to accidentally open it in mid-tune. In fact, she needed to be emptied like a choral colostomy bag after every song! I never saw Louis Armstrong swearing because he’s just poured an ounce of his own saliva onto his pants right after “My Country ‘Tis of Thee.”

In the band, I was first-chair off key. Like bad guests, my notes tended to linger a bit too long. What really did me in was my lips, however. Due to a double-cleft palate, I could not properly pucker my lips. I couldn’t kiss, whistle, or suck anything through a straw. Turns out the trumpet is for lip-guys, and that just wasn’t me. The result was that my trumpet playing was painful to the ears; it was like watching Cupid try to blow the lead off his arrows.

Much like President’s Day Sale commercials, there was a palpable sense of relief when I finally stopped playing. I traded the trumpet for a new first baseman’s glove and made my music teacher a much happier man.

Continue ReadingMusic for a Phantom Holiday

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 hurricanes or blizzards,” he’d say. “There’s no money to be made in a brief shower or snow flurry, so don’t get your hopes up.”

But I did. I always did. So when I scrambled to the window in the morning and saw the cruel black of the roads laughing back at me, it was as if someone had kicked my puppy. I’d turn on the radio only to hear that John LaBarca was playing music rather than rifling through the laundry list of closings. Faced with the mountains of homework I’d decided against the night before, I’d keep hope alive in front of my radio until my mom screamed that if I didn’t get ready soon I’d miss the bus.

Still, it was all worth it on those glorious days that we got our surprise days off. The first thing I’d do was turn off the alarm and crawl back under the covers, listening gleefully as suckers from other districts only got delayed openings. That’s when, as my brother would put it, my dad would come in and remind me about the sword above my head.

“I have to get to work,” he’d yell to my closed bedroom door. “Get up and shovel the driveway.”

And that’s what I’ve seen all around Stratford in the last few weeks. With invisible swords hanging above their heads, school-age children bundle up and attack the mountains of snow armed only with snow shovels and a lingering resentment that they didn’t get a chance to sleep in. When the driveways and sidewalks are clear, tiny paths must be carved out of the snow for the dogs or mailman to cross. For the older kids, even the roof has to be cleared off, layer by layer, before the sheer weight of the thaw threatens collapse. For the truly unfortunate like me, imaginative moms use this time to assign household chores or take us on impromptu trips to the barber or dentist.

In short, the kids of Stratford are quickly finding out what it took me so long to learn from my brother: be careful what you wish for! We still have more than a month of winter left and we’ve already lost our first day of April vacation. You don’t have to look up to realize the tiny thread of horse’s hair holding the sword is fraying.

Continue ReadingThe Winter Sword of Damocles