Christopher Donahue

Somehow, and yet again, I let the morning slip by and almost missed my train to work. I certainly was up early enough, but I frittered the time away on silly and useless things like surfing the web, checking emails etc…

However, I was not alone. My neighbor Helen was also running late. We were both cutting it close for making the commuter rail train. As we hurried up the street, we chatted about time management, the lack thereof, and how it always seemed we were running for the train each morning.

Then she dropped this gem on me: “How can I get mad at people for wasting my time when I’m the biggest waster of my own time?”

The terrible shock of recognition. She was absolutely right. It was an epiphany.

When it comes to wasting my time, I am my own worst offender.

copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

April was off to a cruel start. Spring was just a rumor and winter was outside my window. The trees were bare, with no buds, the fields brown and muddy. I was unable to put away my hats, gloves and scarves because of the cold and wet.  We even got some April snow, which shouldn’t be surprising but always seems unfair.

Then, one brisk, sunny morning toward the end of the month, I noticed a little tuft of grass as I waited for the train. The grassy tuft seemed to have appeared overnight.  Lush, vibrant green, and covered in dew it looked perfect. In an instant the little tuft evoked all the beautiful days and weather to come.

No longer a rumor, spring had finally arrived.

copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

Last spring, looking shaggy and driving by my favorite barber shop, I decided to stop in and get a haircut.  Saturday morning is the busiest time for my barber. I thought I’d get a cut if I could park and not wait wait long for a cut.

Pulling up to the shop, I was astonished to find plenty of parking spots. Even more amazing, the barber shop was empty except for four or five barbers sitting around joking and shooting the breeze.   I couldn’t believe my good luck.   I asked Jack my barber what he thought about the lack of customers.

“Everyone came in last Saturday to get a haircut for Easter. They wanted to look good for their mom. The place was busy all day!”

My mom had passed away years earlier. I hadn’t  thought about haircuts like that in some time.

“That’s interesting, “I said.

Then we talked baseball.

copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

Like stars fallen to earth, the dazzling lights on the desert floor were visible for miles. Most impressively, they were burning brilliantly in broad daylight. It’s always memorable to see something so unique you have no frame of reference: What the heck is that? Flying from Boston to Los Angeles, I was looking out the window at the southwestern desert 38,000 feet below. In the distance, Las Vegas sprawled out on the desert plain and was ringed by jagged, bare rock mountains. In the foreground, were the mysterious star-like lights on the desert floor. There were three of the brilliant lights and it was not a stretch to think they were UFOs. But, my best guess was the lights were actually a solar furnace: Thousands of mirrors arrayed to focus sunlight on a central point to generate power. And those central focal points of sunlight, which of course is starlight, looked like stars. I was again glad I had a window seat.

Hours later, I walked down Hollywood Boulevard for the first time. The Walk of Fame was more kitschy then I ever imagined. I’m sure I’m not the first person to recognize the irony of stars being on the ground and not where you’d look up at them. There were names I recognized and names I didn’t. And then I noticed a star for Carole Lombard. The named seemed familiar.

At the hotel that evening, I web searched Carole Lombard. She was married to William Powell before getting divorced and marrying Clark Gable. And in January 1942, she died when her plane crashed into a mountain outside of Las Vegas while returning from a war bond rally. One of the very same mountains I was looking down on earlier in the day, when I saw the brilliant lights burning in the desert.

Like stars fallen to earth.

Copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

On starry winter evenings, I’m always pleasantly surprised to step out on my back porch and see the constellation Orion glittering in the southeastern sky. It’s like seeing an old friend.  Orion was one of the first constellations I recognized as a child and that’s because he is hard to miss with his belt of three glittering bright stars. A little to the lower right of that belt is the much photographed Orion Nebula. Invisible to the naked eye, I make a note to get my telescope out and take a look at the nebula, one of these busy nights. The Orion Nebula is not-so great in binoculars or amateur telescopes; it appears a fuzzy blob. But it’s very cool to see and know it’s there.

I could go on and on. Betelgeuse glows red at the top of Orion’s club which is raised to threaten Taurus the Bull. Taurus glares back with the equally red and glowering star Antares. Below both antagonists shines Sirius, the brightest star of all. Sirius is the fourth brightest object in th e sky after the sun, moon and Venus.

Orion is the quintessential constellation of Winter. Each year he rises in the Fall as a harbinger of Winter. He then presides over the cold starry nights until he sets in the spring. The setting of Orion coincides with the rising of Scorpio. In the mythos of the constellations, Scorpio bites and kills Orion who dies and sets below the horizon. That is of course until next autumn when it all happens all over again.

Impromptu star gazing is on of the few benefits of it getting dark early in the cold, chilly winter. In the warmer months, the sun would be up as I dash off to run errands after work or pick up my wife.

But that’s  certainly nice too.

copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

On a winter night, in a year without snow, under a starry sky, the protagonist of my life story sat in his car, lights off, listening to the radio before going in for the evening. He was blasting some classic rock song that came on as he was driving home, but was far from finished by the time he pulled in the driveway. Warm lights glowed from his home and he knew his wife was in there with the trusty cats. Listening to the music of his youth put him in a reflective mood. He decided to enjoy the last few verse/choruses of the rock anthem before going into his warm, quiet home.

As the music played, he suddenly became aware that across the street, the Big Dipper was standing on end above and beyond his neighbors garage. At first, he hadn’t noticed the famous asterism because it was in such an odd position. But there it was. He loved to look at the stars since he was a child.

Eventually the song ended. He shut off the engine and stepped out of the toasty car into the quiet cold of the Winter night.

Before going into his warm home and bed, he looked up at the dazzling heavens one last time.

And reflected on the Love that moves the sun and other stars.

copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

empty fields of snow

or bare with cornstalk stubble

deep asleep waiting

copyright 2018 Christopher Donahue

I write my blog for fun and I have a goal of posting something twice a month. Still, the vagaries of writer’s block can make that a challenge. This month is a prime example. Life and work provided me with plenty of blog-grist but I just couldn’t think of anything to write about.  And that is how writer’s block works: Unexplainable, unforeseeable, intermittent and a mystery. Until the block breaks. Like now.

I was riding the bus this morning,  late for work after a snowstorm. The bus let me off at the subway where I overheard an intriguing snippet from some stranger’s  conversation:

“Did you think Bubbles wouldn’t tell me?”

It sounded ominous. Heavy stuff. The question was spoken by a twenty-something year old woman, bundled in snow- gear and talking on her cell-phone.

Whoever she was speaking to had obviously made the mistake of telling Bubbles. And Bubbles was having none of it. The Bubs passed it on and the woman on the other end of the phone was busted. Her goose was cooked. All because Bubbles spilled the beans. Who knows what chain of events was now set in motion?!?!

I was glad I didn’t hear any more of the conversation. Whatever confidence was divulged I guessed was more about some insipid social scene rather than some high level state secret. Maybe I’m wrong?

But it did remind me of a kid from my neighborhood nicknamed “Bubbles.”

I’ll save that for another bout of writer’s block.

copyright 2019 Christopher Donahue

One Christmas season past, I found myself working as a substitute teacher in a local high school. I graduated from law school earlier that year, and was working as a substitute to supplement my income while awaiting the bar results.

Three years of being trained to cleverly argue about anything made me well prepared to deal with teenagers. Also, I had spent nearly a decade as a teenager myself so I also had that experience to rely upon.

The main purpose of a substitute teacher is crowd control. To that end, I had developed a technique in which I would identify the most likely rabblerouser and crush him (hopefully) at the first sign of trouble. The goal was to to head off any potential uprising. Smite the Shepard and the flock will scatter as they say.

One December morning, the week before Christmas break, I was substituting for a class the subject of which escapes me and does not matter. The students filed in, I took attendance and handed out the assignment. I then addressed the class:

“Okay, just a reminder, Christmas is coming in a few days so be good because Santa’s elves are watching.”

It seemed innocuous enough. But I was speaking to teenagers.

In the front row sat a surly male student. Slouched in his chair he declared:

“There is no such thing as Santa Claus.”

A hush fell over the room. The gauntlet thrown at my feet. That group of teenagers were undecided whether  to like me, or tear me to pieces. It was a tipping point. I replied:

“Just because Santa doesn’t go to your house doesn’t mean he’s not visiting ours.”

The class erupted in laughter. The surly teen was socially crushed.

After all these years, I hope Santa did indeed make it to that young man’s house.

Merry Christmas!

copyright 2018 Christopher Donahue

Every year I look forward to singing Christmas Carols but I have one problem: I have a terrible singing voice. When I sing, dogs bark, children cry, milk curdles and windows crack. It’s that bad. People have told me I should expect to hear from the Chinese Government the next time they need to disperse a crowd from Tienanmen Square. But I digress.

It wasn’t always this way. When I was a little boy I sang like an angel. Or at least no one complained. Back in elementary school, I took music class very seriously. The music teacher would pass out the song books and we’d be singing our hearts out in no time. It’s amazing I remember any of the songs, but all these years later I remember this one quite clearly:

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat

Please put a penny in the old woman’s hat,

If you haven’t got a penny, a half-penny will do

If you haven’t got a half-penny than God bless you!

It warms my heart to remember that song at after all these years, at Christmas Time. May everyone have happy memories this Holiday season.

And as for my singing, in the interest of Peace on Earth I will be giving everyone the Gift of Silence!

Merry Christmas to ALL!

Copyright 2018 Christopher Donahue