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”

A Steady Diet of March Madness

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on March 24, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”)

As the NCAA Tournament begins its second week today, so does the March Madness diet that accompanies the basketball marathons I watch on TV. With my bracket on one knee and bacon cheese dip on the other, I watch my picks implode as I wolf down an entire bag of nachos. It’s Pavlovian, an annual rite of spring that inevitably leaves me with indigestion and extra five pounds by the time they crown a new champion. Each year, though, I promise that I won’t do it again.

After two months listening to my home scale groan under my weight while it answered only with an endless series of error messages, I knew it was time to tuck my tail between my legs and return to the local gym. Like most gym memberships, I kept mine because not paying for it would be an admission that I’d given up. However, other than flicking the card out of the way each morning to find my house keys, it wasn’t getting much of a workout. Unfortunately, it seems this year’s “New Year’s resolution exercisers” are still hanging in there and clogging the gyms with the same regularity the bacon cheese dip is clogging my arteries. I needed something new.

On my lap this afternoon is something called the Beach Body P90-X, and the box states that Tony Horton (whoever he is) is going to provide me with two “extreme workouts” using “the science of Muscle Confusion.” It will get me absolutely ripped in 90 days.  While it sounds painful, the people on the box look really happy. Evidently, if I’m good, I’ll also get a chance to buy Tony’s Ab Ripper. Granted, when you’re as overweight as I am, “extreme workouts” seem like a one-way ticket to the emergency room. Ripping your abs loses its appeal when you’ve already ripped a hernia through your stomach wall.

This box comes courtesy of my older brother, a well-meaning attempt to “confuse my muscles” into losing some weight. It’s the latest in a long line of boxed hope that has blighted my doorstep over the years. When it comes to yo-yo dieting, I am the Duncan Glow-in-The-Dark Deluxe Yo-Yo.

The Zone Diet promised to retool my metabolism with a balanced diet that would hold off heart disease, high blood pressure, and diabetes. It left me pining for carbohydrates and so hungry between meals that people began looking like big hot dogs. The Atkins Diet promised to change my body from a carbohydrate-burning engine into a fat-burning engine, albeit an engine evidently fueled by incessant constipation. Dr. Phil’s Diet Solution promised to change my negative thoughts to positive impulses, but he lost me when he said to substitute old habits (like eating pizza) with new ones (a nice shower or a good book). Doc, if I showered every time I wanted to eat ice cream, I’d have scraped off all my skin by now. My mom even tried to send me her old copy of “Sweatin’ To The Oldies” with Richard Simmons. I sent it back; I have my pride.

Dieting is a big-money industry that keeps the B and C-List celebrities working well past their prime. Dan Marino and Tori Spelling hawk Nutri-System, Rachel Hunter sells Slim Fast, Valerie Bertinelli pushes Jenny Craig, and Jenny McCarthy shills for Weight Watchers. Of course, Trim Spa had Anna Nicole Smith, but that partnership was not quite as wildly successful as either party hoped.

In the end, those of us fighting our weight are fighting to take some control of our lives. However, the control offered by fad diets is both elusive and illusory. In the process of following the latest trend, we often give up what little control we have. Rather than taking responsibility, we are allowed to blame our genetics, our food, our surroundings, or our past. There isn’t a magic pill, protein/carbohydrate ratio, or root extract that provides a short cut to good health. Even Oprah learned this the hard way, and she can afford to avoid the hard way at all costs!

I’ve stopped looking at the flashy packaging and the fancy book covers. I’ve learned it’s not just the diet, it’s the person suffering through the diet that needs to be switched up. It’s not the newest pill on the market that will transform me, it’s lacing up the old running shoes that sit in my closet like forgotten change. Most importantly, my waistline doesn’t benefit from hours of watching basketball—it might helped if I actually picked one up myself.

What I need is a non-surgical gastric bypass, something that slaps a hand over my mouth after I finish the first helping. That would really confuse my muscles!

Continue ReadingA Steady Diet of March Madness

Retarded Progress of Language

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: This piece was picked up by the Special Olympics and used on their website “Spread The Word to End The Word” on March 9, 2011. This meant a great deal to me after years of volunteering for the Special Olympics while in school. Posted in the Stratford Star newspaper on March 10, 2011, in “Walsh’s Wonderings”)

“That is so retarded!”

It’s a phrase I hear all too often in my position as a middle school teacher, but much more worrisome is the frequency with which I hear it said by adults. The Black Eyed Peas scored a hit a few years ago with their song, “Let’s Get Retarded.” I hear colleagues and friends refer to the “retarded” actions of others or themselves. “I was such a retard last night,” I overheard one woman say while waiting in line at Stop and Shop.

Most of us realize that cursing and racial epithets comprise the language of the ignorant and fearful. We are all familiar with the words we are supposed to avoid: few hear the “n-word” without a twinge, and the use of “beaner,” “dago,” “jap,” or “mick” have mostly been purged from decent vocabulary. Somehow, though, the misuse of the word “retarded” often manages to slip past the filter of acceptable society.

The irony is lost on those who use it. Gradually, the word “retarded” has developed a new connotation, often used a synonym for “stupid.” More intelligent people realize that the actual definition of the word “retarded” is that which occurred or developed later than expected. Since the turn of the twentieth century, it’s referred to the state of being mentally underdeveloped, medically defined as having an IQ below 70. However, the term has been turned into an offensive slur by those too dim to realize that its use accomplishes the opposite of what they intend.

In the process of someone trying to say that forgetting to take his briefcase off the hood of his car was a dumb thing to do, calling the action “retarded” implies that he was mentally underdeveloped for the task; in fact, he is unwittingly implying it wasn’t his fault because it was beyond his capacity to begin with! Rather than declaring his neighbors made a poor decision when failing to warn him before he drove off, he instead lets them off the hook by calling them “retards.”

Why not just call both actions “stupid”? More importantly, why do so many continue to turn a medical condition into a pejorative term? Do we still call those in wheelchairs “cripples”?  Would we so easily dismiss it when someone referred to “wetbacks” or “guineas”? The shame that one would expect at the mention of such words is conspicuously absent when using the word “retarded.” Sadly, sometimes it takes a while for the American lexicon to catch up with American ideals. In some cases, organizations see the need to escape these terms completely; in 2004, the Special Olympics International Board of Directors officially stopped using the term “mental retardation,” replacing it with “intellectual disabilities.” On October 5, 2010, President Obama signed bill S. 2781, which removes the terms “mental retardation” and “mentally retarded” from federal health, education and labor policy, into federal law.

More importantly, anybody who interacts with the mentally challenged knows that the mental designation of “retarded” should never be associated with negativity. Imagine that you were challenged with the following characteristics of mental retardation: delays in oral language development so that you couldn’t communicate effectively with others; deficits in memory skills that caused you to forget important information to operate in your world; difficulty in learning social rules that cause you to struggle to fit in; delays in the development of adaptive behaviors so you could learn to take care of yourself; lack of social inhibitors that would allow you to sense when your actions are inappropriate; and finally a pronounced difficulty with problem solving skills that prevent you from being able to overcome all these obstacles. Now imagine that these same difficulties will not only challenge you to find your purpose in this world but also be seen as a joke to others. Can anyone find the logic in this?

On the other hand, those of us who have been lucky enough to have these special people in our lives know how truly generous and courageous they are. Free of the petty motivations and masks most of use engage in daily, those with intellectual disabilities are often incredibly inspiring in their work ethic and earnestness. One need only volunteer at the Special Olympics Games or visit the Kennedy Center to see this firsthand.

In short, the only thing “retarded” to which we should refer is the sluggishness with which we eliminate the hurtful and senseless misuse of this word. To be blunt, it makes us sound “stupid.”

Continue ReadingRetarded Progress of Language

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

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 to avoid this, don’t forget that shoveling your driveway is not a civic duty, but your sidewalk is! “Property owners are responsible for removing snow and ice from the sidewalk along their property line within 24 hours after the storm and keeping them clear of snow and ice.”

While ” there are always going to be complaints, the Stratford Star’s own John Kovach outlined some of the hypocrisies involved. He reported Mayor Harkins’ comments that some of the same streets that complained about slow snow removal in the past failed to follow alternate side of the street parking regulations. Alerts are sent through the town’s emergency notification system, its Twitter account, and of course the Stratford Star. More importantly, town policy states that, “these regulations are automatically in effect during any period of ice or snow accumulation. The municipal ordinance prohibits any person who has access to a driveway from parking on the adjoining public street during a snow or ice emergency.”

With this winter shaping up as one of the worst in recent memory, it’s more and more important to pitch in and help the DPW plows help us.

Continue ReadingClearing the Confusion

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 it, we’ve chosen to ignore that, regardless of which side of the political fence it comes, this violent rhetoric affects the unformed and unbalanced more deeply than those in full possession of their faculties. To dismiss the individuals behind these attacks as “whackos” allows those who incite them in the first place to distance themselves from their part in creating the environment that allowed for their existence. Even as liberal talk show host Keith Olbermann apologized for any past comments he used that might have incited violence, he laced into his conservative peers like Beck and Bill O’Reilly and demanded they do the same. Conservative commentator George Will said that while the short term effects of this tragedy might resort in hands reaching across the aisle during the upcoming congressional debates, this temporary mood it will fade quickly as the emotions of the upcoming legislation comes to a vote. In other words, like New Year’s resolutions, the intent to improve is unlikely to survive the month of January.

Our failure is that while we all agree on the importance of basic civility when raising our children, we choose to ignore it in the course of our political discourse. The “whackos” seemed to have learned to “listen” to what we do, not what we say. The unformed minds that we are currently developing are not oblivious to the choices their parents are making. Whether we’re talking about the Board of Education’s decision to deny the expulsion for a student accused of sexual assault, the Town Council’s decision to raise the mill rate, or the controversy over the recent plea bargain in the memo leak case regarding Christian Miron, the way in which we choose to express our views not only defines us but serves as the model for our children to follow.

In light of our failure to live up to our own ideals, the surprising part of this most recent shooting is not that it happened, but that it hasn’t happened more often. As a teacher, I constantly refer to the hidden gifts of failure; properly addressed, it is an impetus to change for the better. For Christina’s sake, I hope we all open our eyes and become better students.

Continue ReadingThe Cost of Closing Our Eyes

“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 lights together for use on Christmas trees. Albert soon became the head of a multi-million dollar company, and neighborhoods across the country began a front yard decorating competition that continues to this day.

If you need proof, walk along California Street toward Barnum Avenue at night. Thousands of blinking, twinkling lights vie for attention with inflatable reindeer and giant candy canes along a Christmas corridor that houses on both sides have spent days preparing. Notice the cars that slow down to take in the view, the families that stroll through the neighborhood with dazzled kids in tow. In a season of excess, these displays offer so much for so little.

And so I got a few more strands of light this year and strung them up with a little more care. I won’t win any contests, but for $5.40 maybe I can add some holiday cheer to my neighborhood. I wish you and yours a happy and healthy holiday season.

Continue Reading“The Lights of Christmas”

“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. It was meant to be a part of a branding effort to enhance the town’s image, which explains the new entrance signs, promotional brochures, and municipal letterhead.

Ultimately, decisions like these come down to a matter of opinion, but it’s clear that town slogans have the potential to have a great impact. However, whether you like the new slogan or not, just remember it could be worse! A few of the more interesting choices from our neighbors around the country: Gettysburg, South Dakota (“Where the battle wasn’t”), Superior, Wisconsin (“I’m a Superior lover”), Manhattan, Kansas (“The Little Apple”), San Andreas, California (“It’s not our fault”), Hereford, Texas (“Town without a toothache”), and Bushnell, South Dakota (“It’s not the end of the Earth, but you can see it from here”).

No slogan could ever truly capture the many advantages we enjoy living in Stratford, as we all know the sheer number of those advantages could never be summed up in only one sentence. Besides, the best slogan is already taken: Madisonville, Kentucky has the slogan, “The best town on Earth.”

Continue Reading“Calling Us Names”

“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 (203-333-4087), or Operation Hope in Fairfield (www.operationhopect.org). Soup kitchens run by organizations like Hunger Outreach prepared and served  over 1,000,000 meals last 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.) For those who like to mix their philanthropy with exercise, the Stratford Masonic Bodies presents The Ninth Annual Turkey Day Trot on Thanksgiving Day morning at 8:15 (www.hitekracing.com/turkeytrot). The 5K road race benefits the needy in our community over the holidays.

The people that run organizations like these deserve recognition for keeping the spirit of this holiday alive. Remember Chris, the quick thinker with no sense of direction who lucked into the history books because he ignored an entire race of people? Well, he eventually got his own holiday, although (like him, ironically) it’s quickly being lost in the Federally Mandated Holiday Shuffle as “optional” in many places. On the other hand, Thanksgiving continues to be recognized as a tribute to the cooperative spirit that this country was founded upon. We celebrate this solemn ideal by floating large cartoon animals through downtown city streets, getting up at 4 AM the next day to be the among the first to shop at Target, and making cold turkey sandwiches for weeks afterwards.  It might not make much sense, but that doesn’t make Thanksgiving any less special.

Continue Reading“The Strangest Celebration”