Unionville a center for coffee and good tidings

As the effects of the pandemic tightened their grip on us, I couldn’t help but think how important it is to get back to basics as a means of coming together against a common enemy.

We stayed home for days and weeks on end, venturing out for necessities only – food and medicine.  When we began to circulate again, we focused on all the small businesses in our area.  Many of them never recovered.  These are friends and neighbors who generally supplied us with quality goods and services for years and were now thrust into survival mode.

We did our best to comply.  We shopped for produce, vegetable plants and flowers at places like Jillybean’s on Route 6 and Hein’s Farm.  We dined at locally owned and operated establishments, even when hard times forced cutbacks, the sudden need for outdoor dining and created staffing problems.

We would all like to believe that the COVID nightmare has passed.  The politics of it continues to shake the very foundation of common sense, but Americans have always persevered well in the face of adversity.  Sure enough, as the masks began to disappear, the community surged back toward normalcy.  It’s that surge that should define the experience, and we witnessed a sign of it Wednesday morning.

Two new coffee spots have opened in Unionville recently.  We haven’t gotten to Bruno’s on Mill Street yet, but we went to The Daily Grind in Depot Place to kick off our pre-Thanksgiving festivities.

The coffee was great.  We had bagels, and they were also top-notch.  But it wasn’t the food or drink that captured my thoughts.

Two members of the Farmington Police Department stood near the window.  A young family enjoyed their breakfast treats at a table across the room.  Others came and went.  Everybody chatted.  Everyone was friendly.  Community indeed can be restored if we seek face-to-face communication ahead of that addictive rectangular device in your pocket.

These are the scenes you don’t see while local and national news reports center on the hatred that grips our world.  We need reminders that there still are smiling faces out there, people with their hearts full of holiday cheer, folks who would go out of their way to help a neighbor.  I’m not prone to lose sight of life’s pleasant side, but the national issues are so divisive that it’s easy to lose focus.

Not everyone is consumed by the dark world of social media, and we’ve got to meet and communicate face to face to restore the virtues of American culture that got us though the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, two World Wars, a cold war, the errorism of 9/11, a pandemic, and terrorism abroad. The guy you may be calling names on Facebook because of his political views has aging parents, growing children and the need for compassion just like you.  If you had met at the Daily Grind instead of a forum that breeds antagonism, you’d be smiling instead of cursing.

The Daily Grind is the realization of a long, difficult process shouldered by a true Unionville legacy.  I’ll call it the Evan Parsons Project, with all due respect to musician Alan Parsons.  When we arrived in town we grew to appreciate Parsons Hardware in Unionville and the Parsons automobile dealers in Farmington and Plainville.  Evan has now taken the baton and brings his family name back into the mainstream of Farmington life.

Evan took the time to chat candidly with us as business flourished.  Life has come full circle here and we hope The Evan Parsons Project bears fruit like his ancestors’ endeavors did for them.  It’s all up to us as residents and consumers.  Whether you pay Evan a visit, drop into Bruno’s, dine at local restaurants and use local services, it’s all money that stays in the community.  Nothing against Dunkin’, which I believe is managed by people who care, too.  I’m hopeful that all three coffee shops thrive.

So what are we waiting for?  Let’s think globally, but act locally and go have a cuppa Joe!

Yanks net 31st straight winning year yet fans moan

Heartfelt congratulations to the New York Yankees on another winning season.

That’s right. Despite all the grousing and groaning from discordant Bronx Bombers fans across the Evil Empire, these Yankees finished at 82-80. That’s a winning record, in case those throughout the seven boroughs need remedial mathematics.

I know quite well that finishing out of playoff contention and being mired in fourth place does not meet Yankee expectations, but need I remind New York fans that while winning championships may be expected every season, it isn’t some sort of megalopolitan birthright that you win more championships than any other team.

In fact, the New York Yankees have not had a losing season since 1992. For 31 years, Yankee management has desperately doled out exorbitant contracts and snatched pick-of-the-litter free agents to amass such a string of winning seasons. Meanwhile, the lowly peons in such second-tier cities as Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Washington D.C., Detroit – virtually every other city with a franchise – cannot approach that rate of success.

You would think the Yankees finished 50-112 like the A’s, 71-91 like the Nationals, or even 78-84 like the Red Sox, or 74-87 like the overhyped, mismanaged Mets. No, the Yankees, despite injuries and the paucity of athletic players, were once again on the winning side of the ledger.

Yet the whining emanating from the $500 seats at Yankee Stadium would make one think the facade has caved in. No, although perhaps they were focused on the denizens of MetLife Stadium and the raging disappointment that NFL 2023 has brought New Yorkers. Fire Cashman, they howl.

Fire Boone! Release Stanton! Hal Steinbrenner is terrible. Ah, here comes that eternal holier-than-thou sentiment that I’ve been hearing for 60 years. That holier-than-thou 20/20 hindsight that makes their whining as unlistenable as Roseanne Barr singing the National Anthem.

Well, let me say that generally my heart bleeds for the downtrodden, but you’re just one team of 32. And not one of those teams, not even the cash-laden Dodgers, can boast of such a 31-year run. In fact, the Dodger string of winning campaigns is a “modest” 13 years. They shop the annual MLB fire sales magnificently, don’t they?

The Cardinals had a 15-year legacy of winning baseball snapped this season. The Red Sox put together 14 seasons between 1998 and 2011 before their rollercoaster ride through the early 21^st century.

So where is this heading? Major League Baseball must establish ways to balance the playing field. The MLB Players Association gained an upper hand after the Curt Flood case and obviously is reluctant to give back to the fans who pay the freight. Don’t fans in Pittsburgh and Cincinnati rate the same opportunity to see their teams succeed as those in the cities that MLB yearns to have in the postseason?

A Dodgers-Yankees World Series represents a ratings coup for MLB as it battles to maintain its foothold in the advertising race. A Twins-Brewers World Series would be rather calamitous as MLB scraps for the dollars that have shifted toward the NFL, NBA and the two most popular college sports, football and basketball.

Wouldn’t you think that odds would have favored at least one losing season since Jay Leno debuted on the Tonight Show? At least once since Bill Clinton was elected President? If only former NFL mogul and purveyor of parity Pete Rozelle were still around. 

The NFL benefited and continues to do so in an environment where the population centers don’t always win. Green Bay, a city of 107,395, is Titletown USA. New York City, with the 8,804,190 still hanging around after the COVID migration to New England and the Adirondacks, is as sorry a football city as exists in NFL lore. Yet the NFL prospers as the premier sports league in America, turning what was once just Sunday afternoon into 17 national holidays. 

So quit your bellyaching, New York. You’re not better than anyone else.

 

He Does His Best For Peace and Love

 

Richie Furay is a rock ‘n’ roll pioneer.

The 79-year-old native Ohioan brought his lyrics of love and catchy tunes to Buffalo Springfield, Poco and the Souther-Hillman-Furay Band through the 1960s and 1970s.  More recently, Furay, who will retire from live performances in May as he turns 80, brought them to the Katharine Hepburn Cultural Center and Museum on October 25.

Furay, a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, is one of the godparents of a musical genre that has always been my favorite.  It was dubbed “country rock” back then. 

Buffalo Springfield was a virtual all-star lineup that included Stephen Stills and Neil Young before they gave us “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” and “Ohio.”  Among its biggest hits was Stills’ protest song, “For What It’s Worth,” which became an anthem shortly after its release 57 years ago. 

Like so many of the era’s great rock acts, Buffalo Springfield crumbled when the artists developed conflicting notions about what the future might hold.  Furay united with Jim Messina, Rusty Young, Randy Meisner and George Grantham to form Poco in 1968.  Timothy B. Schmidt replaced future Eagle Meisner and Messina was gone by 1970, but Furay’s lilting voice and the upbeat nature of his music coursed through the genre.

Furay left Poco in 1974 to form the Souther-Hillman-Furay Band, his sound having attracted legions of fans.  When the numbers didn’t add up to success, he became drawn to Christianity and became a pastor in the Denver area. It was his Christian demeanor that was on display after his stellar performance at The Kate.

The tradition at The Kate is for artists, if they’re so inclined, to meet and chat with their fans after the show as they sell their music, shirts, caps and the like.  I’ve had the chance to chat with many of my favorites and as the show ended, I felt compelled to meet him.  After all, his music is part of my life’s soundtrack.

He chatted amiably with some folks and made his way toward me.  What a time for the cellphone to beep.  My son Jason sent me a very ominous text – “Dad, whatever you do, don’t look at the news.”  I quickly texted back.

“What happened?  Did (Celtics great Jayson) Tatum get hurt?  Is there more Hamas treachery in Israel?”

He piqued my curiosity.  I had to find out what happened.

My wife Lisa and I had just returned from a nice trip to Maine and had only been home for a few days.  The report Jason was alluding to was the mass murder in Lewiston.  No, please, not in Maine.  We went up there to escape from I-84 road rage and the other grim occurrences that now happen where too many people live too close together.

Yes, the report said 22 people had been shot and the gunman was still at-large.  A peaceful evening of music was tainted by the painful reality of 21^st century life in our country.

Richie Furay looked at my reaction to what I had just read and his instinct told him something was wrong.  I held the cellphone up so he could read it.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye as he scanned the news.  He looked at me and said, “What is wrong with us?”  Richie, I wish I knew.  I felt a deeper connection with him as a contemporary who spent a lifetime singing songs of love.  I shoveled out many dollars that I shouldn’t have spent to have his soothing music in my library.

“Good Feeling To Know,” which Richie chose not to perform at The Kate, was always a go-to song when I was feeling down.  “Kind Woman.” “Sit Down I Think I Love You.” “Go And Say Goodbye.” “Pickin’ Up The Pieces.” They were sung with love.  That’s what so many artists in the genre did.  Love was the prevailing emotion that occupied our hearts as we entered the real world, married and had kids.  The chance meeting between Richie and I nearly 60 years later showed how the Life Meter has gone from love to hate during our time.  That wasn’t how we planned it.  We had more faith in humanity that peace could truly prevail beyond just the music.

I wish I could present you with a happier ending. Less than two weeks later, Hamas displayed the barbarity that an idealistic songwriter like Furay could never have comprehended with its senseless attack on innocent people, most of whom were enjoying a concert at the time.

Richie couldn’t understand how that could happen.  Neither can I.  Hate, you see, has dumped love onto the back pages of life.  I’m glad a vestige of the love and innocence we once enjoyed could return to us, even if only for a fleeting moment.

A Good Feeling to Know

When I need good lovin' I always come home to you. You free my lifetime of the blues.

Yes I got that old time feelin' burnin' deep inside my soul and I'm yours, baby I'm home.

And it's a good feeling to know. It's such a good feeling to know. Oh it's a good feeling to know. Somebody loves you.

Kind Woman

I got a good reason for loving you.  It's an old-fashioned sign. I kinda get the feeling like, mmm, you know when I fell in love the first time.

Kind woman, won't you love me tonight. The look in your eyes.

Kind woman, don't leave me lonely tonight. Please say it's alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Autumn Weekend -- Football and Music

The transition between two of my greatest pleasures was delightful.

On Saturday, we attended a live sporting event for the first time since well before the first wave of COVID, courtesy of the Connecticut High School Coaches Association and its well-managed relationship with the UConn Athletic Department.

The CHSCA, dealt a crippling blow in September with the sudden passing of director Joe Canzanella, moved forward with its annual induction ceremony slated for pregame and halftime of the football game between the Huskies and Utah State. The rain abated just in time and despite cloudy skies, the event went off like clockwork.

On Sunday, with the sun shining brilliantly, we shifted back to our music scene by attending an outdoor concert at a quaint family farm in East Haddam. While Shakedown Street provided its consistently seamless tribute to the Grateful Dead, children and adults danced, wandered the garden and visited the domestic animals on hand.

PLAYING “THE RENT”

The last time I attended a UConn football game at Rentschler Field in East Hartford was September 12, 2009. I remember it well because on that day, I was inducted into the CHSCA Hall of Fame, which has its home on the Rentschler concourse.

Later that year, I was honored along with my induction class at the CHSCA’s annual banquet at the Aqua Turf in Southington. My dearest friends came from around the country to be with me for what truly was my finest hour. To have my likeness on a plaque at Rentschler and to have a gorgeous ring commemorating the moment mean more to me than anything else I’ve accomplished professionally.

Memories of that day 14 years earlier came back to me as we entered tent for pregame festivities. Since I retired from the Meriden Record-Journal in early 2018, I hadn’t seen many of the people who made my 28 years on the state sports beat so enjoyable.

That grand New Britain gang from those days immediately pierced through the meteorological gloom.

Michelle Abraham remains the volleyball coach at New Britain High after all these years.

When I started at the New Britain Herald in 1992, her teams were suffering. The Golden Hurricanes lost nearly every match they played that year, saved only by winning matches against tiny Class S school Housatonic Regional.

Seven years later at East Haven High School, Michelle guided an incredibly skilled, deep and focused young women to a Class L state championship, despite being down 2 games to 0 against the likes of powerhouse Cheshire.  I wept as I watched one of the more remarkable comebacks I’ve ever witnessed.

Michelle is the epitome of what makes the CHSCA as essential as it is festive. The records of those teams were not of the utmost importance to her. Of course, she wanted to win as much as any coach who ever commanded a sideline huddle, but she was driven by her commitment to her student-athletes, on and off the court.

Her mission has not diminished. Neither has her passion for fulfilling it. She also has so much love for many of those she met along the way, and I’m delighted to be counted in that number, all these years later. She graciously referred me to Executive Director Canzanella to do some writing for CHSCA. I was delighted. My computer keyboard has been rather silent since leaving Meriden, yet I knew I could step right in and hit the ground running for any organization that needs my services.

Four days after we discussed the possibilities, Joe Canzonella, 71, was dead of a fatal heart attack. Canzonella and retired New Britain High athletic director and football coach Len Corto were truly like twin sons of different mothers. The burden was on Len, Michelle and others to pick up the pieces of an organization nurtured for 31 years by the late Southington High baseball coach John Fontana until his death in October 2019.

Lenny addressed 25 or so on hand for the informal pregame brunch. He introduced David Benedict, UConn athletic director, who made a short but poignant impromptu speech that had most heads nodding affirmatively. The relationship between UConn athletics and the CHSCA is surely strong. A visit from venerable UConn legacy and New Britain native Andy Baylock, the Huskies’ former baseball coach who still throws batting practice in his mid-80s, represented a powerful link in the chain between the organizations.

When Lenny’s thoughts turned to Joe, he wore his emotions on his sleeve, as both he and Joe were prone to do. His voice cracked. He fought back the tears. The two had forged a powerful bond, enabling CHSCA to maintain its integrity across the scoop of high school athletics in Connecticut. He reinforced that CHSCA was going to continue its mission the way Joe and John would have wanted.

Lisa and I had an enjoyable day. We didn’t even mind paying $27 for two Chick-fil-A sandwiches and a $6 bottle of water. The weather improved, but unfortunately UConn faltered, losing 34-33 when a potential game-tying extra-point placement was blocked. We all felt for the UConn kids and Coach Joe Mora, but that’s the nature of competitive athletics.