Crossing The Line

The columnist resumes the discussion on bullying.

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret… if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid. ~ Katharine Hepburn
In my June 6 column, I asked, “What’s so new about bullying? Is it different now than it was when you were a kid?” and I chronicled many of the differences between life when I was in school back in the fifties and sixties and life for kids today.

One reader said…

There’s teasing and there’s BULLYING…HUGE difference!!! If there had been computers when I was being bullied, I don’t know if I’d be here today. I was so depressed. Cyber-bullying has made it so much worse for the kids today. My heart goes out to anyone who has to endure that torture.

Another contributor stated…

No one comes through child hood unscathed. …Bullying, mocking, making fun of, embarrassing yeah these are things that are going to happen, it will not change until teachers/school personnel/parents and other adults quit participating in the behavior, quit laughing at the behavior, or ignoring it.

These are interesting observations that seem to raise even further questions. Is teasing really different than bullying? How so? And if it is, where do we draw the line? And who draws it?

And while I believe it’s true that none of us make it through childhood unscathed, is it also true that adults are exacerbating the problem?

Thanks to both these ladies for their input. You may want to go back to the original column and read their comments in full. And if you feel so led, please chime in on the comments section at the end of this piece.

I started last week’s offering with the following…

Georgie Porgie pudding and pie, Kissed the girls and made them cry. When the boys came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran away.

I promised I’d fill you in on what this was all about in my June 20 column. Well, this is my June 20 column, so here’s the deal on Georgie Porgie.

When I was at Mansfield High back in the early to mid-60s, there was a guy in our class who was, let’s say – very different. His name was George, but we called him Georgie Porgie.

George had been in our class since first grade, but it probably wasn’t until about the fourth or fifth grade that his very different personality emerged. There’s really no other way to put it, so I’ll just come right out with it; George was a goofball!

Everyone liked him, but George was teased and laughed at on a regular basis. The strange thing was, he seemed to enjoy it! He’d do things to attract attention to himself – crazy things – knowing that he’d be laughed at and teased mercilessly for his actions.

Now that I look back on it, I know that sadly, George just needed attention – any kind of attention. I guess in poor George’s mind, even negative attention was preferable to no attention at all.

There’s one incident with George that I recall vividly. It was our senior year in high school, just a few short weeks before graduation. As was the school custom, we had an assembly at which awards were to be given out for athletics. We were going to get our letterman’s jackets, which was a very big deal back then.

We filed into the auditorium, and as fate would have it, George sat between my friend, Mike, and me.

George had been the manager, aka gopher [go for this – go for that] for the football team for all four years of high school and, as a result, had earned a jacket, which I’m sure was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life.

The assembly began, and after a string of boring speeches, it finally got to the part we had all been waiting for; the presentation of the letters and jackets.

‘Punchy’ Parsons, the football coach, and school principal Harold Qualters took the stage and proceeded to call us up one by one in alphabetical order. My friend, Mike, whose last name started with a J, went up shortly after I did and would soon be followed by George, whose last name began with a P [No! It wasn’t Porgie].

But Mike and I had different plans for ole’ Georgie!

The coach said, “George, come on up and get your jacket.” As soon as he heard his name, George jumped up from his seat, or at least he tried to. Mike grabbed him by one shoulder and I grabbed him by the other and we pinned him to his chair.

Again, Coach Parsons announced, “George, please come up and get your jacket.” But George wasn’t going anywhere as long as Mike and I had anything to say about it. As much as he twisted and turned and struggled, George couldn’t break away from our grasp.

After a short pause, Coach Parsons said, “Well, I guess George isn’t here today,” and reached down for the next recipient’s jacket.

Figuring we’d had enough fun with him, Mike and I let go of George’s shoulder’s, upon which he jumped from his seat and screamed, “Here I am! I’m here! Here I am!”

As if we hadn’t humiliated him enough, we picked George up in the air, passed him down the row like a sack of potatoes and deposited him on his rear end in the middle of the aisle.

George immediately leaped to his feet and scampered up the stairs, tripping on the top step and falling to his knees onto the stage. The entire assembly burst into laughter, including George himself.

Poor George took a lot of crap from us. The funny thing is, we really liked him, but I’m not sure he ever knew that. We treated him more like an object for our amusement than a friend.

I was reading the Sun Chronicle a few years back and I turned to the obituary section. I’m not sure why I did that, because it wasn’t something I normally did. Let’s just say it was a God-incidence.

George’s obituary was at the top of the page. I later found out that he’d spent many years in a rest home after a lifetime of struggling with mental health issues.

Kids can be cruel. And though it may not be intentional, teasing can become bullying.

I’m sorry, George. I really am.

Make it a great week!

Bob Havey is a freelance writer and a consummate trouble-maker. His column, The Way I See It, runs every other Wednesday at Norton Patch. Check out his author’s page on Facebook.

About this column: Facetious remarks, tongue-in-cheek comments, sarcasm and a touch of wisdom combined with a bizarre sense of humor are what you can expect in this column on Norton Patch. Related Topics: Bob Havey, Bullying, Teasing, and the way i see it

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

The columnist divulges one of his major life challenges.

“Calvin: Do you believe in the devil? You know, a supreme evil being dedicated to the temptation, corruption, and destruction of man? Hobbes: I’m not sure that man needs the help.”

I have a problem. I can never go into the Honey Dew Donut shop in Norton again, or at least not as long as they have the Monte Cristo breakfast sandwich on the menu! Have you seen this thing? It’s ham, egg and Swiss cheese on French toast. I mean, what’s not to like?

I also have to do my best to avoid Hot Dogs and More. It’s not so much the hot dogs I have the problem with as it is the “more”; yummy cheeseburgers, super-crispy French fries, fried clams, onion rings, fried scallops, fish and chips; pretty much all the members of my favorite food group – fried!

You see, I can’t be around that stuff. I’m not supposed to eat that kind of stuff, but I’m weak and if I put myself into a situation where I’m tempted and I blow it, it’s my own fault. It’s my responsibility.

That’s a real challenge for me because I’ll eat just about anything that doesn’t eat me first – especially if it’s deep fried.

Why is it that most every food that’s guaranteed to shave a few years off our lives tastes amazingly scrumptious while every food that’s deemed healthy and nutritious either tastes like horse feed or has no discernible flavor whatsoever.

I’m exaggerating just a bit to make a point; hopefully a cogent point, though I’m certainly making no promises in that regard. Hey, I do what I can, ya know? That’s really all any of us can do regardless of the lofty expectations of others, but that’s another topic for another day.

Choosing healthy foods isn’t an easy task. Let’s be honest. Who in their right mind would prefer a Sprouted Mung Bean salad over a nice fried clam plate with onion rings and a great big bowl of creamy clam chowder with a couple big chunks of butter floating on top? Throw in a few draft beers and you’ve pretty much created the perfect meal.

Lobsters, crabs and shellfish are bottom-feeders, meaning that they eat all the junk sitting on the bottom of the ocean [whale poop and the like], yet nothing tastes sweeter than a nice, big chunk of lobster meat, a King Crab leg or a Cherrystone on the half shell. Go figure!

So, given the fact that the aforementioned crustaceans that eat the most disgustingly unhealthy diet one could envision are among the best tasting and most desirable of all the bounty of the sea; doesn’t it make sense that we should follow suit and eat just as unhealthy? Should we be less desirable than an oyster?

And what’s this whole vegan lifestyle about? Cows, hippos and elephants eat a strict vegan diet. Do they look healthy to you? They’re huge!  Would you like to be told you look like a hippo? Of course not!

A few years back my wife and I spent a long weekend at an inn in New Hampshire. We were in the dining room eating breakfast when two couples whom I’d guess to have been in their mid-30s sat down at the table next to us.

One of them, an extremely gaunt, pasty looking woman, was carrying a large tote bag that appeared to be made of hemp, reminiscent of something you’d have seen back in the 60s. Come to think of it, she kind of looked like something you’d have seen back in the 60s.

Rather than attempt to describe this woman’s overall appearance, let’s just say she was what I’d describe as an extremely ‘crunchy’ type; a female Euell Gibbons – drinks wheatgrass – heavily into recycling – grows her own medicinal herbs on a windowsill in the kitchen – doesn’t shave her armpits or legs – uses pure baking soda for deodorant – reeks of patchouli oil – a dedicated devotee of NPR [National Public Radio}. Got the picture?

So, Pioneer Girl reaches into her magic bag and pulls out a box of cereal. I can’t recall the name, but it was one of those types only available in stores frequented by people with more money than brains. You know – the stores that only sell “whole” foods and by the time you leave they have your “whole paycheck.”

You have to picture this in order to really appreciate it. I’m sitting there eating my sausage and eggs with a side of nice, greasy home fries and a butter-soaked English muffin, watching this stick figure of a woman pour her cereal into a bowl. It looked like twigs and dried tree bark with a few other unidentifiable colorless chunks of God-knows-what thrown in for good measure.

Okay, let’s be real here! Number one – under no circumstances do I ever want to look like this woman, no matter how “healthy” she may be. Secondly, I have no desire to be on any eating regimen that requires me to haul my own food everywhere I go. And lastly, I don’t eat any food that’s designed to scrape the interior walls of my intestinal tract and exit my body within eight minutes of it being ingested.

When my time on this earth has ended and I go to be with God, I have a couple of questions for Him; things that have been bothering me for quite some time – heavy questions – questions of great consequence.

My questions are……….

1) Why is it that, as we grow older, we lose hair where we want it to grow and grow hair where we don’t want it to grow?

2) Why is it that all the really tasty food is bad for us and all the terrible, disgustingly bland food is good for us?

Oh, and one more thing……….

3) God, is this a test? Because if it is, I have to be honest with you. I didn’t study!

Make it a great week!

Bob Havey is an Easton-based freelance writer and a consummate trouble-maker. His column, The Way I See It, runs every other Wednesday at http://norton.patch.com

About this column: Facetious remarks, tongue-in-cheek comments, sarcasm and a touch of wisdom combined with a bizarre sense of humor are what you can expect in this column on Norton Patch.

Walking In The Footprints Of Our Fathers

The columnist looks at the relationship between fathers and sons

It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons. ~Friedrich von Schiller

My son, Chris, and his wife, Karre surprised me with a ticket to the Red Sox 100^th Anniversary Celebration at Fenway Park last Friday. More than 200 former players, coaches and managers returned to the fabled ballpark, among them Bobby Doerr and Johnny Pesky, both nonagenarians [that means they’re in their 90s. I like big words].

It was a great event. The game itself was another story, but I don’t want to put a damper on my column, so I’ll forego the sordid details of that debacle.

My son and I headed to the Braintree ‘T’ stop at 10:30 Friday morning. The game was scheduled for a 3:05 p.m. start, but the 100^th anniversary festivities were to begin at 2 p.m. and we wanted to get into town early to have lunch and a draft or two [it was four, but who’s counting?] at The Boston Beer Works.

After devouring some yummy nachos, a prime rib sandwich with peppers, onions and cheese and way too many beer-battered onion rings; I was more than ready to get into my seat at Fenway, mostly because I really needed to sit down.

Oh, did I mention that those drafts were 22-ouncers? That would be 88 ounces of beer on top of all that food. I can’t understand why I’m not losing weight. Oh well! Boys will be boys!

It was a beautiful day, nearly 80-degrees and the Fenway faithful were in a festive mood. From our vantage point in the State Street Pavilion seats [great seats with a great view] we looked down on the field as the 100^th anniversary ceremony began.

Player after player from Red Sox teams spanning several decades were introduced as they exited a door in center field and paraded across the beautiful emerald-green turf of the Fenway outfield.

I couldn’t help but think of my dad, an ardent Sox fan. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I thought about the times we’d spent together at Fenway. The team was terrible back then, but it didn’t matter; it was time together and that’s the only thing that mattered. Just a boy and his dad.

My father passed away in 1987, but in a not-so-insignificant way; I know he was there with me and his grandson, watching the boys of summer that had been such a huge part of his life. I could virtually feel him there next to me.

I’m blessed to have some wonderful memories of my father. As I shared in a prior column, my dad wasn’t an educated man. He was forced to quit school and go to work at the age of 14 to help his family out financially after his father passed away unexpectedly.

Three years later, at the ripe old age of 17, he enlisted in the United States Navy and subsequently served for three years in the Pacific Theater during World War II. Allow me to share his resume. [Thanks to my brother, John, for the research]

Arthur E Havey, Seaman 1st Class, U.S. Navy, LCI (L) 373, April 7 1943-April 26 1946. Marshall Islands operation: Kwajalein and Majuro Atolls, Eniwetol Atolls. Mariana Islands operation: Capture and occupation of Saipan, Capture and occupation of Tinian. Leyte operation: Leyte landings. Luzon operation: Lingayen Gulf landing. Okinawa Gunto operation: Assault and occupation of Okinawa. WW II victory medal, Philippine liberation medal (2 stars) Asiatatic Pacific theatre medal, naval unit commendation, 4 battle stars.

That doesn’t seem like it would have been a great way to spend your teen years, does it?

No, my father wasn’t highly educated but he was a great dad. He loved my mother; he loved my brothers and me and he loved his Red Sox. I only wish I had another chance to tell him how much I love him.

My dad instilled a love of baseball in me; I passed it along to my son and so the tradition continues. But it’s not really about baseball. It’s about a father’s love. It’s about relationship and the things that bind us.

Thanks for the ticket, Chris. But more than that – thanks for the time we spent together. Those moments are precious to me.

Make it a great week!

Bob Havey is an Easton-based freelance writer and a consummate trouble-maker. His column, The Way I See It, runs every other Wednesday on Norton Patch.

About this column: Facetious remarks, tongue-in-cheek comments, sarcasm and a touch of wisdom combined with a bizarre sense of humor are what you can expect in this column on Norton Patch