So Last Week He Made Me Cry....

....this week he makes me smile.

Last week half of the Milblogging world (and I am sure a great many other people) linked to Sippican Cottage for his story about his dad. It was a great memory he had of a day with his Dad and the post announced his father's passing. I read it, I linked it, I emailed it, I cried about it. SB was somewhere he couldn't get online and I read it to him over the phone. I concentrated on the words, not the meaning and almost made it until I got to the last line. I cleared my throat a few times until SB said "Yes, I know what it says Maggie."

Well this week there were two stories with happier tones. Although the last line of one gives me pause. I wonder if it's said with a wisterful smile or a distant look. I know sometimes when I write or tell such tales it's a coin toss.

My father loves sports and this post about the Garden brings many memories flooding back. They are somewhat different than Greg's. I don't remember going to Bruins games, maybe he took my brother Frankie, but not me. I watched with him and had to be right in front on the floor on my stomach because I wouldn't wear my glasses.

I went to lots of Celtics games, but not with my Dad, I went with my siblings. The Garden was close enough to walk. It's funny to think today that we would leave at noon and not return for hours. No one thought anything of sending two girls in their early to mid teens walking a few miles away to an afternoon game. He gets it absolutely right when he says -

"There was weather inside there. Cumulus clouds of smoke would meet the smog from the drunken exhalations and clash with the cold front coming up from Bobby Orr's ice under the rickety parquet wood floor."

Anyway, back to his post "Another Sip From My Father's Beer".

He makes me think of the Red Sox games on the radio while my Dad did things. SB and I have talked about listening to Ken Coleman on hot summer nights in our respective summer places.

As always the posts at Sippican Cottage speak to me as only one native can speak to another.

And I understand when he ends one with this - "I'd kill ten innocent men to go back there for ten minutes."

I know it's not a basketball game he is talking about.

I have tasted that sentiment. I have learned that lesson. My family will be sick of seeing me before I forget what my grandmothers passing made me realize.