On The Sly

The news has spread through the Gagnon family like a California forest fire. My mom was surprised, my sister was shocked, and my brother just smiled. Even the Gagnons in California have heard about it. If my Dad were alive, he'd think I'd gone crazy. But it's true. On Wednesday I announced to my family that a girl was moving into my comfortable Saratoga Court home.

On Wednesday I went shopping and brought home a two-month-old female kitten. Now this is big news because I have never been a "pet person." I have never allowed animals into my home. Alright, with one exception. During the North Country ice storm I invited my son Erik to bring his cat to my home as a safe haven for a few days. Erik had strict orders about his cat's behavior and I didn't waste any time petting or talking to a cat.

I've seen cats at other people's houses. I've seen them roaming from room to room as if they were the ones paying the rent. I've heard them meow, not once, not twice, but too many times because I wouldn't bend over and pet them. I definitely have never wanted a pet. Hey, I didn't even know there was a TV channel called Animal Planet. What? 24 hours of animal shows?

But Wednesday morning, after about nine months of encouragement from a friend, a friend who happens to own three cats herself, I boldly made the move. After all, retirement life is supposed to be a time for adventure. So, I went into a pet store, looked over a few cages full of kittens, and chose the female tiger kitten that kept looking at me. Admittedly, I've always been a sucker for females who give me longing looks, and Wednesday was no different.

I gave her the name "Lily Foxette Gagnon." I've always thought that Lily was such a feminine name, but I never had a daughter. I knew it wouldn't have worked to name my son Lily, so this little kitten is my next best chance.

I've learned a few things in the three days that Lily and I have been housemates. One is that for the remainder of my life I'll have scratches on my hands, arms, stomach, nose and, ahem, any other part of my body that she can get to. I've learned that when I try to read the newspaper she decides it's the perfect time to play, even if it means clawing through the newspaper to get to me. I've learned that from now on anything that I eat is also hers. I've learned that kittens love to claw at furniture, climb on furniture, bite furniture, and saying "No" has no effect whatsoever.

With the help of my friend I've discovered all the different kinds of foods there are for kittens and cats. And that they need toys to play with. And I've learned that even if you pay $10 for a nice variety of cat toys, they might turn their nose up and have more fun wrestling with a peanut shell or my foot. And I've learned that they need to go to the vets to get their shots and any other medicine that will keep them healthy, playful and scratching at my body. I won't even talk about the kitty litter, which is now strewn from one side of my kitchen to the other.

It sure can be time-consuming and costly to have a female around the house, but I should have learned that by now.

Yes, indeed, the Gagnon family and my friends are wondering what has happened to Foxy since his retirement. They are considering contacting Dr. Phil so he can ask me, "What were you thinking?" And they are afraid of what I might do next. Let's just see how long this female and I enjoy each other's company. I'm sure there is some blog reader out there who loves kittens, just in case!

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 5:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Today is April 26th and it marks the anniversary of the first time I ever ran away. Well, actually, I didn't really get too far ... I was seven and I had just received word from the hospital (by way of my babysitter Brenda) that my mother had given birth to a baby girl, my sister Darlene Joy. I had already decided that I "didn't want no sister." So, to punish my mom, I ran away! I ran as far as two houses down Johnson Avenue, into their back yard, and hid behind their garage. Not the same as running away to New York City, but, for a seven-year-old, it would have to do. Some time later, I emerged, resigned to the fact that I would have to go through the rest of my life with a little sister.

Once my mom and sister came home from the hospital I decided she wasn't really that bad, and, since I already had a little brother, a little sister would kind of even things out. As she grew up she probably discovered early on that life wouldn't be easy with two big brothers, especially guys who would eventually become known as "Foxy and Goose."

Oh, the tricks we used to play on this girl. Seems like my little brother and I were always planning some way to pick on her, tease her, get her stirred up! And to think that even today, she still talks to us! For example, we knew she hated onions. She hated everything about onions and wouldn't even touch an unpeeled onion. So, for some special-occasion meals, my brother and I would get an onion out of the fridge, cut off a nice thick raw slice, and place it under her dinner plate. The entire meal my brother and I would be chuckling, knowing that the slice of raw onion was just inches away from her, and then, at precisely the right moment, one of us would ask her to "please pass the onion, Darlene." What a dinner table scene that would create!

As my sister grew up she became a cheerleader, a dance star, an Honor Roll student, but she always was following in the Gagnon footsteps of the baseball player, the football star, the local television celebrities. She managed to somehow survive quite nicely, however, and in her life she has become a star without ever talking about it on television, without ever writing a newspaper story or blog.

My sister has been a nurse with the Clinton County Health Department for a long time. To say she cares for people is an understatement. There is probably no one I know who would do more to help someone in need. During the "refugee crisis in the North Country" years ago, she invited some refugees to live in her home, becoming their constant companion and friend. Her life was disrupted for months, but that didn't bother her in the least, as long as she was helping someone.

My sister Darlene has always kept a busy schedule, raising two great kids, my niece Jessie and my nephew Forrest, teaching aerobics, working her health department job by day and, most recently, her new family business by night. All the while finding time for the importance of God in her life. She is a special person and I probably never told her so.

So, this blog being my forum to express my opinions, I figured that April 26th would be the perfect time to tell Darlene Joy Pavone how proud I am of her. How I have always known that she was a special person. How I am so happy that she is my sister.

And tonight, I promise, instead of running away, I'm going to run over to see you and give you a big brother hug! Happy Birthday, Dar!

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 6:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Today's Press-Republican sports section has the popular LOOKING BACK column (p. B4). Who puts that together? Bob Goetz, sports editor? I'll have to find out. Nevertheless, under the 40 years ago (1966) part it states, "Mike Flynn pitches a five-hitter with 18 strikeouts as Our Lady of Victory Academy thumps St. Pius X of Saranac Lake, 16-3. Ray Gagnon and Flynn each have three hits with Gagnon connecting for a home run."

I figure the above bears mentioning, not because of that Gagnon name, and not because of that Flynn name, but because of the mention of St. Pius X of Saranac Lake. There are probably many young athletes and ex-athletes who never heard of such a school. But when it came to sports, St. Pius X and OLVA were just two of the many schools in the Catholic League.

At one time in Plattsburgh there were three Catholic high schools: Our Lady of Victory, the small school from up on Fox Hill, Mount Assumption Institute, the tough school run by the brothers and comprised of many borders and some local students, and, of course, St. John's Academy, comprised mostly of the townies.

OLVA closed its doors as a high school at the end of the 1969 school year. In the late 1980s St. John's and MAI merged to form Seton Catholic Central, which still survives. Within a couple of decades the Catholic League lost two Plattsburgh schools, mostly due to declining enrollment and financial issues.

The Catholic League was great for us athletes at OLVA, because it provided competition on pretty much equal footing. It was difficult for us at OLVA to compete against Peru or PHS, although in baseball, for some reason, we always held our own. With 15 boys in our senior class we didn't match up well with the hundreds available for sports at Peru and PHS.

We would rather check the sports schedule for St. Pius X, a Catholic school about our size. We didn't mind the bus ride to Saranac Lake because we knew there would be equal competition and a chance for a win. During my time I especially remember Tom Clark and Tim Fortune, excellent athletes at St. Pius. Tom Clark was a tall thin basketball player with a smooth shot, and he was a friendly guy. I still see him at Saranac Lake sports events and it's always nice to shake his hand and remember the old days.

Then there was St. Joseph's Academy of Malone. There were many great athletes there, but none of us will forget the tremendous talents of Mike Moutz, the one-armed basketball player. If ever there were a guy who didn't need two hands, it was this guy. Man, he could shoot, rebound, handle the ball -- and make the All-Star team, all with one arm.

In the Northern Tier there was another small school that provided OLVA with some close games: St. Mary's Academy of Champlain. Were their colors blue and white? Was their nickname "the Gaels"? In basketball I can recall trying to guard Gary "Lefty" Filion, who usually scored around 20 a game. One night on the Foxes home court Coach Flynn told me to just concentrate on defense, keep Filion from getting the basketball. I took the task seriously and even followed Filion back to his team huddles during timeouts that night. I held Filion to two points at the half. The second half, though, he exploded for 14 points, and I couldn't help but feel he was just toying with me in the first half, knowing he'd get his points before the night was over.

Another great shooter from St. Mary's of Champlain was Andy Morelli, another guy I had to guard. After my Lefty Filion experience, I knew ahead of time there was no holding Morelli to single digits, especially on his home court. He owned that court, and that was the days before the three-point shot. I tried to guard him, with emphasis on the "tried."

There must have been some other schools in the Catholic League, other than OLVA, MAI, St. John's, St. Pius, St. Joseph's and St. Mary's. What schools am I forgetting? Was there a Catholic high school in the Keeseville and Ausable Forks area? The athletes today at Seton Catholic don't know about that great tradition of competing against the other Catholic schools. That's too bad. Amen.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 6:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

Note: In Part One, published April 19, Foxy was rejected by Patricia for the first time. In Part Two, published April 20, Foxy was rejected by Patricia for the second time.

It was 1966 and I'd been spurned twice by Patricia, the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye. I decided that I had to move on. Somewhere I had read, "There are plenty of fish in the sea." Problem was I had never been fishing in my life. During the sad times in my life I like to immerse myself in music, listen to the lyrics of some of my favorite songs. As Paul Simon wrote, "I have my books and my poetry to protect me."

So the following Saturday I was downtown in Woolworth's on Margaret Street, looking over record albums. I planned on immersing myself into Simon & Garfunkel or perhaps some Gordon Lightfoot to help me forget Patricia. As I browsed the hundreds of record albums to choose from, I glanced up and felt a sudden lump in my throat. There, across the album bins, was Patricia. She, too, was looking at the record albums. She was about ten feet away, with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye.

Well, I'm no dummy! This time I would play it cool. I would pretend that I didn't even notice her. But she noticed me ... and she started nonchalantly moving towards me. I've always had good peripheral vision, something taught to me by Coach Flynn during my high school basketball days. So, I keep perusing the albums in front of me while slyly keeping an eye on her movements. Within minutes she was right next to me. But I'm no dummy! This time I was playing it foxy.

Suddenly, as she reached for an album in front of her, she "accidentally" hit my elbow. We both did one of those "Oh, sorry, oh, sorry" bits and then we both looked at each other. Patricia, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, was just a foot away. We smiled at each other fondly and began a friendly conversation about music, about our lives, about the stores downtown, about her new air force base she would be living at next month. Our conversation just seemed so natural, so easy. She reached up and touched my black goatee and said, "Oh, it's soft, not picky. I like it."

Well, I'm no dummy! I can add one and one! I knew it was Saturday, and I knew she had made an effort to "accidentally" bump my elbow. I knew we were both enjoying each other's company, and I knew that my social calendar was empty for Saturday night. I just had to ask, "Patricia, would you like to go to the movies tonight?"

She looked at me intently. With her right index finger she touched the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye, and she said, "No." She quickly added, "I can't. Tonight is my father's going away party at the NCO Club. I have to be there. It's a whole family thing." I'm sure she saw the look of disappointment on my face. She said she should be going. We smiled at each other. I held her hand for a few seconds, wishing her good luck at her new home. She turned and moved towards the front door of the store. As she opened the door to exit, she turned one last time. She smiled. The most beautiful girl I had ever seen, the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye, left the store, and walked forever out of my life.

Three rejections from the same girl would be enough for any man's lifetime. For the rest of my life, one rejection would always be enough. But for some reason I never forgot Patricia. I'm sure she does not remember that guy from Our Lady of Victory Academy and Plattsburgh State who asked her to the movies three times.

But wouldn't it be amazing if Patricia is out there reading this blog right now? Wouldn't it be amazing if I saw her walking through the mall? I'd know her, that is for certain. She'd be the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye. If you see Patricia, tell her I said hello.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 4:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Note: In Part One, published April 19, Foxy was rejected by Patricia for the first time.

Two years rolled by and by October 1966 I was a freshman at Plattsburgh State and working a part-time job at Gus's Red Hots. One Saturday I drove to work, parked in the employees' parking area, and headed for the back door of Gus's. In doing so, I glanced towards a car waiting for carhop service. I got a glimpse of a very pretty girl sitting in the front seat of the car.

The day passed quickly, as did all Saturdays at Gus's, always one of Plattsburgh's busiest restaurants. I returned home about 5pm and as soon as I entered the back door of my house, the phone rang. I answered and a female's voice asked for me. "Yes, it's me! Who is this?" I replied.

"This is Patricia." A moment of silence was followed by a leap of my heart. I imagined the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. "I saw you today. You look different. You look older. Is that your car?" she continued. We talked about our lives for the past two years and she said she liked my longer hair and my black goatee. The cards were all going my way. This was my magic moment. After two years, the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye still remembered me, and we still made great conversation together. Well, at the age of 18 and as a college boy, I was no dummy! It was obvious why she had called after all this time. And, after all, it was Saturday night and my social calendar was empty.

So, I popped the question. "Patricia, since you called and since we are getting along so well on the phone and since you like my car and since I happen to be free tonight, would you like to go to the movies?" Her reply echoes in my head to this day. "No." She went on to explain that she was calling to let me know that her father was getting transferred from Plattsburgh Air Force Base to some air base in the midwest. And to let me know that I wouldn't be seeing her around town anymore. I hadn't seen her for two years! Can anyone explain women to me? I think she sensed the disappointment in my voice, and she said that she had to hang up now. I wished her well in life and thanked her for the call.

For the second time in my life I had been spurned by the most beautiful girl I had ever seen ... the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye. I spent Saturday night counting my baseball cards, wondering about what might have been.

Now, you'd think that the Patricia story would end there. But it doesn't! Join me tomorrow for Part Three of If You See Patricia.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 2:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It was 1964, I was a junior in high school, and I saw the most beautiful girl I had ever seen ... a girl named Patricia. To tell the story right, I have to start at the beginning, and the beginning was when my friend Gary, who lived on Plattsburgh Air Force Base, asked me if I wanted to attend a Teen Dance at the NCO Club on Sunday afternoon. I quickly agreed, so on Sunday, Gary and his cousin, Dave Richard, and I headed over to the NCO Club.

Ben "Never Rest" Everest, the Founding Father of Entertainment Unlimited, was the DJ and there were about a hundred teenagers gathered ready to Rock & Roll, Twist, Stroll, and do the Mashed Potatoes. Most of the teens were girls, air base girls who went to Peru Central and not to my high school. Gary, Dave and I smiled as we looked over the crowd. After a few songs I noticed a girl in particular, maybe slightly over five feet tall, with beautiful light brown hair with a wisp of hair falling slightly over her right eye. I'm sure I felt my heart skip a beat. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

I told my buddies that before the day was over I would ask her to dance. They chuckled, knowing that when it came to girls I had about as much courage as Barney Fife. But I was determined. Everytime Ben Everest played a slow song, I tried to hike up my courage, but before I took a step towards her I would find an excuse. Two hours later, I heard the announcement: "OK, guys, this is your last chance. It's our last slow song." My time had come. Somehow I bravely moved across the empty dance floor to the wall of girls, my eyes focused upon the girl with the wisp of hair slightly over her right eye.

I tapped her on the shoulder, and asked, "Would you like to dance?" She turned and my heart fluttered. I was a foot away from the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. I gazed at the wisp of hair over her right eye. "Sure," she smiled. So, we danced, slowly... and I told her my name and she told me hers, Patricia. I stumbled through the dance steps my mom had taught me when I was twelve, and we talked a bit about our schools. The song ended, and the dance was over. I returned to Gary and Dave, who patted me on the back for my manly maneuver.

The weekly Sunday dances at the NCO Club continued, and the three of us attended faithfully, as did Patricia and her friends. And each Sunday, the final slow dance was ours. I always asked, and she always said yes, and we danced and talked and learned more about each other. And on about the fourth Sunday I bravely asked for her phone number and she wrote it down for me following our dance. When I returned to my buddies that Sunday I told them, "I'm going to call her tomorrow and ask her to the movies!" After all, she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

The following night I wrote out my speech to ask Patricia to the movies. I wanted to be sure to say everything just right and didn't want to leave anything out. At exactly 7:30pm I dialed her number. Yes, dialed, as this was the time before touchtone phones. I dialed, but I didn't talk to her that evening because I was too chicken to let go of my finger on the final number. At 8:15pm I gave up, determined to try the following evening. And try I did! This time I was braver and I let go of the final number and her phone rang. I was ready with my speech, already one day old. However, the unexpected occured. Her father answered the phone, so I hung up! Caller ID hadn't been invented in 1964, so I was off the hook for the hangup.

On Wednesday evening I called again, and this time Patricia answered. I could picture her holding the phone to her ear with that wisp of light brown hair slightly over her right eye. I read her my speech, closing it with, "Would you like to go to the movies?" She said, "NO." I was shocked. Patricia explained that she already had a boyfriend, but he didn't like the Sunday dances. So, she just attended with her friends, and she enjoyed our once a week slow dance. I was disappointed. Okay, I was heart-broken. The most beautiful girl I had ever seen had turned me down. That Sunday I didn't go to the dance at the NCO Club, staying home instead to count my baseball cards. I never went back to the NCO Club dances, but I never forgot Patricia and that wisp of hair slightly over her right eye.

Now, you'd think that the Patricia story would end there. But it doesn't! Join me tomorrow for Part Two of If You See Patricia.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 4:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In the nine months since I've become a retired person, I've often stated how great retirement life is. It's even better than I was led to believe. And, from what I'm told, it will continue to be a great lifestyle. But I've noticed something during the past nine months. It seems no matter where I go, I spot other retired people, especially retired men while shopping in stores.

The scenario has always been the same. While moving towards each other down some grocery store aisle, our eyes meet and we nod at each other knowingly. It's seems to be the secret nod of the Brotherhood of Old Guys. What I see nodding back is this old, old guy, who, judging from how he looks, seems as though he retired twenty years ago. But what never occured to me is that he's looking at me, thinking the same thing! After all, I do have a grey beard and the hairs on the top of my head have retreated long ago.

Then one of us will extend a greeting and the next thing you know we are in a conversation of some sort, whether it be about the weather, the items we're shopping for, or some sports team. The conversation is always friendly and always on a positive note, with both of us happy to be meeting someone else from the Brotherhood. It's like a special club that all those youngsters can't yet belong to. It's like we have the inside track on getting one last laugh at life.

Just this morning, for example, I approached the checkout line at a local grocery store. The line was long and the last man in line had a grocery cart about half full of items. I was carrying my 12-pack of iced tea. And then it happened: our eyes met, and then we nodded knowingly. He then tilted his head, motioning for me to go ahead of him. He smiled, "I'm in no hurry. I've got all day."

From how old I looked he probably knew that I had all day, too. He probably knew right away that I was in the Brotherhood of Old Guys. I took him up on his offer and moved in front of his shopping cart. I said, "I've got all day, too. I just retired this year."

He said, "Oh, I've been retired a long time. In fact, next month I'll be 85."

"You lucky guy," I remarked, "but you probably worked hard your whole life. I have this theory that people who worked hard their whole life get to live longer."

Without hesitation, he told me that he had quit school at the age of 16, went to work in the woods in Newcomb with a logging firm, and worked there almost 50 years. I smiled, feeling like my 35 years in the classroom were no match for this 85-year-old.

"Yah," he continued, "and I just got back from visiting Seattle with my girlfriend."

Now that got my attention! "Wow, you are a lucky guy," I told him. "You're 85 and you've got a girlfriend! That gives me some hope."

He laughed. "You betcha. Never stop working and never stop trying," he advised with a wink.

It was obvious this sage advice would only be given to someone in the Brotherhood of Old Guys.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 12:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

It's Eastertime, but back in the 1950s when people in Cleveland said that they had something entirely different in mind. I never met Luke Easter, but he is one of my first "favorite baseball players." In 1954 I was six years old, and I was old enough to carry my own nickel in the pocket of my own blue jeans and make my way down to Burdo's Market on Johnson Avenue. My first hobby, which became my first passion, was collecting baseball cards, and one of the first baseball cards I ever purchased with my own nickel was a 1954 Topps card of Luke Easter.

To this day I can still remember opening up the five-cent pack of baseball cards, and there, right on top of the stack of five 1954 Topps cards, was Luke Easter. His big brown face was staring at me and he had a big smile on his face. The background of the card was a bright yellow and in the top left corner was the Cleveland Indians' Chief Wahoo logo. I just loved that card for some reason, and I became an immediate Luke Easter fan, even though the only time in Plattsburgh we ever heard about the Cleveland Indians was when they played the New York Yankees. Then we could listen to the radio and hear Mel Allen give the play-by-play.

I never saw Luke Easter play one game on television and, of course, I never met him. But I adopted him as my own. I recall the back of that '54 Topps card said, "Luke was one of the country's best softball players." He never played baseball until 1946 and three years later he was in the major leagues. What's odd is that Easter's baseball card notes that he was born in 1921. So that would make him 28 when he made the big leagues. However, he had been cheating about his age, and later sources list his birth year correctly at 1915, making him 34 years old in his rookie season. Easter had three big seasons with the Indians, 1950-1952, when he homered 28, 27 and 31 times. "Easter time" for Cleveland Indians' fans was when the big first baseman strode towards the batter's box.

As things turned out, 1954 was Easter's final year in the big leagues, but he hung around baseball into his Forties, playing minor league baseball. I remember reading about him in The Sporting News newspaper, and checking his stats each week. He played in Buffalo and then in Rochester, and was always a fan favorite. And he kept hitting those home runs.

He was a big guy, standing nearly 6' 5" and weighing at least 240 pounds, and he was one of my first baseball card heroes. As time moved on and he retired I sort of forgot about Luke Easter. He never joined the Indians' broadcast team and I never heard of him attending any Old Timers' Games. But I also kept that 1954 Topps Luke Easter baseball card, sometimes putting it on display in my home as a conversation piece.

Through the Seventies I never thought much about Luke Easter. That is, not until I heard what happened to him on March 29, 1979. On that day, while working for a company in a Cleveland suburb, Easter cashed $5000 worth of payroll checks for the company. Once outside, he was approached by two men, who shot and killed him and took the money. A tragic ending for a baseball card hero. Luke Easter never knew about that kid on Johnson Avenue in Plattsburgh and how that kid always saved his baseball card.

And tonight when the Easter bunny goes hippity-hopping all around the North Country, I'm not planning on him visiting me. He's got plenty of good girls and boys to visit and leave those chocolate bunnies and marshmallowy Peeps! But I'll leave my front door unlocked -- just in case the Easter bunny wants to leave me a pack of 1954 baseball cards!

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 4:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I'm not saying that I hang out at the post office, but I've logged an awful lot of time there over the past year since my retirement. As an avid eBay seller (a Power Seller, at that!) I have packages to mail most days. The clerks call me by name, and I've become accustomed to their friendly greetings. I know them by first name, too! I'm talking about Linda and Alyce and Pat and Bob, the "A-Team," as I call them. Linda has kids playing sports at Beekmantown, and Pat is an avid sports fan, as well. Alyce is a Plattsburgh High School Athletic Hall of Famer, from back in the old days when her last name was Mackey.

Sometimes Jim works the window and we can always talk a little about the track program at Saranac. On other days Bryan comes from the back carrying a box in one hand. In his football heyday with the Plattsburgh North Stars, he was known for his one-hand catches. He's got good hands, so the US Postal Service trusts him to handle the important packages. Sometimes Shannon or Dennis will wave from behind the scenes.

And let's not forget Gene, whose friendly greetings and witticisms keep me and other customers entertained. Gene calls the post office "the cultural hub of the city," and he's probably correct. One of the things I enjoy about waiting in line is seeing who might join me in the next few minutes, or who might be lucky enough to be ahead of me and my 15 large envelopes for mailing. The other day Bob Parks, the publisher of the Press Republican, strolled in. Another day it was Father Normand Cote, now a retired priest. Several times I've crossed paths with Skip O'Hara, Bob Shimko, and Kathy Davis. If Kathy and I get talking we're good for about a 30-minute conversation. But, hey, we're both retired teachers, so we're in no hurry. A few days ago Barry Norton was taking care of some post office business and occasionally I've run into Dave Merkel. Always somebody to talk with at the post office.

There's a new automated 24-hours-a-day mailing machine in the lobby now. I've used it a few times, but it doesn't smile like the postal clerks I'm accustomed to. I've talked to it a few times, but it just sits there staring at me, asking "Credit card or debit card?"

By now you might be thinking -- Foxy has too much time on his hands -- he actually enjoys going to the post office. Now that the city has eliminated that strange parking situation that it once had, I do enjoy it! If I don't know someone, I might even start a conversation with a stranger, the way I did the other day. Come to find out the guy was the youngest of the Lareau boys, Milo's and Felix's younger brother. My cousin Nyoka married Felix Lareau. All of a sudden we're tossing family names around and having a good old time.

The trip to the post office has become one of many fun activities that fill my day. After all, as Gene says, "It's the cultural hub of the city," so there's bound to be someone interesting hanging out there.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 6:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I've been thinking about the good old days lately, and by writing some of the "Memory Lane" blogs I've been reminded of how simple life used to be. Grocery store right down the street, neighborhood schools (anyone remember Elm Street School, Hamilton Street School, Elizabeth Street School, Wall Street School, and, more recently, Broad Street School?) -- and channels 3, 5 and 22 on the black and white television, with a few French-Canadian channels thrown in if Dad adjusted the rabbit ears the right way. The TV Guide used to make special note of the programs that were available in color.

Yes, life was as simple as going to the store and buying a bottle of blue cheese salad dressing. Well, maybe not! I've just returned from what I thought would be a quick trip to the grocery store (not the neighborhood store) to buy a bottle of blue cheese dressing. I'm planning on hot wings tonight, and that celery and blue cheese combo is a must.

So, into the store I go, for a simple bottle of blue cheese dressing. Do I want blue cheese with gorgonzo? No. Simple blue cheese. How about 2% blue cheese or how about fat free blue cheese? No, I want the "plenty of fat" regular, simple blue cheese. I keep searching. How about blue cheese ranch? Hundreds of bottles of salad dressing before me, but not one bottle of simple blue cheese!

Determined, I return to my car and travel to another grocery store in search of simple blue cheese salad dressing. Again I fight the battle of choices. Several minutes into the fray I find a bottle that says simply "blue cheese." Victory at last!

It was a good thing, however, that I wasn't searching for ranch dressing. I'd have to choose among ranch, ranch light, bacon ranch, buttermilk ranch, peppercorn ranch, ranch fat free, and, the latest, Italian ranch. It occurs to me that life isn't simple any longer. A trip to the grocery store is no longer an errand; it's a journey, a safari into a jungle of choices.

And, I'm not the only one who feels this way. On my way to the next aisle to grab a jar of pickles (ever notice the choices in this category?) I spot a woman carefully examining two packages of rice cakes. I pass by and find the pickles. Do I want dill or sweet? Bread and butter or Kosher? Whole pickles, spears or hamburger dill slices? It occurs to me that I'm in over my head in choices, drowning in a sea of sizes, shapes and flavors. After five minutes I settle for the store-brand hamburger dill slices, the 32-ounce jar, and I head for the cash register.

But I pass by the rice cakes, and the woman is still there carefully holding the Quaker and Orville Redenbacher rice cake packages. I stop and engage her in conversation. It seems she's 85-years-old, grew up in Vermont during the Depression, still drives her car, doesn't own a computer and is stymied by the choices of rice cakes. She's longing for the simple life. Can't she buy a plain old rice cake? I look more carefully at the shelves and notice there are two major brands, plus the store brand, and more than enough flavors to confuse an 85-year-old woman who loves rice cakes. There's white cheddar, chocolate, chocolate crunch, apple cinnamon, caramel, butter and several more. I say to the lady, "I notice you've been here five minutes." She laughed and said, "And sometimes more than that!" It's plain to see, she misses the simple life.

She misses the time when a carton of orange juice was just that, orange juice, and you didn't have to worry about "more pulp," "some pulp," "no pulp," or "pulp only on Tuesdays and Wednesdays." And a bottle of cola was just that and you didn't worry about it being caffeine-free, or wild cherry or lime. Or, if it were Cola One or Clear Cola or 8-ounce, 16-ounce, 32-ounce or the "too-heavy-for-one-person-to-carry" size.

I guess you see my point. It's no wonder we yearn for the simple life. In those days our brains rested more, we had fewer decisions to make, we had more time to spend with family. It didn't take an hour to buy four items at the grocery store. Those hot wings will taste extra good tonight, knowing the battle I fought to get just the right blue cheese to go with that celery.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 1:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

In a local publication I found an interesting page listing all the "holidays and observances" for the month of April. I noticed that this coming Tuesday, April 11th, is "Eight-Track Tape Day." Now there's something that seemed to have a short life span. Many of us have piles of eight-track tapes lined up in our basements or garages. I sold all of mine somewhere around 1990 while having a yard sale. I probably got about five bucks for a pile of about 50 of them.

But they sure had their day! I thought I was the coolest college guy in Plattsburgh when I got my eight-track player installed in my new used car. It was July 1966 and I was fresh out of high school, ready to take on college books and college girls! With the financial help of my grandparents and parents, I was able to purchase a used black Ford Comet from a local car lot. Seems to me that Stan Stanley was the car salesman.

The first thing I wanted to do was jazz it up at bit, and I knew just what to do. By the time the summer was over I had enough money to get an eight-track player and extra speakers installed. And for a finishing touch I bought one of the white stuffed cats that sat at my back window. When I put my brakes on, the cat's two red eyes lit up! When I put my directional signal on, one eye lit up, depending on which way I was turning. Was this cool or what?

And I proceeded to buy eight-track tapes whenever I had extra money. I remember blasting Ray Charles, the Drifters, the Righteous Brothers and Little Anthony and the Imperials eight-tracks while cruising down Margaret Street. I surely must have had a better selection, but, for some reason, those are the ones I remember most. No doubt, that black Ford Comet was my pride-and-joy. No doubt, the eight-track tape was way better than those vinyl records that you could only play on a record player. The eight-track was the first invention that gave us "Music on the Run." It was portable. You could play it at home and then bring a few and play them in your car. It was the first invention to override the car radio that most of us seldom use (see the blog "The Death of Radio").

My car looked and sounded so good that in early October I got a phone call from an ex-high school girlfriend that I hadn't seen in two years. She liked my car, my eight-track sound, and, yes, my white cat on the back window so much that she just had to call me and tell me. Her name was Patricia, but her story will be told on another day.

The point is those eight-tracks became an important part of our lives, enabling us to bring the music of the Sixties along with us wherever we went. That Ford Comet lasted about five years and ended up in the scrap metal graveyard. That white cat short-circuited somewhere along the way, got a mind of its own, and stopped flashing when told. And those eight-tracks were soon replaced by the cassette tape.

So, I suppose it's fitting to have a day of observance for the eight-track tape. Many of us have such great memories attached to those pieces of musical plastic. Does anyone out there even own an eight-track player today?

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 6:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Last night I was in Schenectady for the Harlem Ambassadors Touring Basketball Show. I wouldn't normally drive so far for such an event, but one of my friends was working with the team. Bryan Benway, an Ausable Valley Central School graduate and a 2005 graduate from Plattsburgh State, is the court announcer for the traveling professional hoopsters.

It was a great opportunity to see Bryan at work, to watch a classy professional basketball team entertain the crowd, and to spend the night with my son Erik, who lives in nearby Cohoes. What could possibly go wrong? Well, sadly, a few things did go wrong. First, the crowd was much smaller than anticipated, maybe 300 in attendance instead of an expected 800 or more. And the crowd, despite the valiant efforts of the Ambassadors, wasn't really willing to get into the fun spirit of the night. And the Ambassadors' opponents, calling themselves the Schenectady High Risers, didn't always cooperate with the traveling team, sometimes intentionally knocking away trick passes and occasionally wanting to show that they could outdo the pro players.

The Ambassadors, however, were undeterred and showed the class that makes them the professionals that they are. Led by the Number One show woman of professional basketball, Lade (pronounced Lady) Majic, the six Ambassadors players gave it their all, throwing in three-pointers on the run, slamming and jamming the ball, and holding up the game for some comedy or dance routines. Lade Majic, who played on a high school state championship basketball team in New Jersey, is the coach and floor general. She has played more show basketball games than any other woman in hoop history.

Along with the other players, Bobby "Sugar Bear" Patman, Maurice Jones, Tyler George, Reggie Ellis and Terry Turner, Lade Majic not only demonstrated basketball talent, but some dance moves, as well. Referee YoVanna Rosenthal carried the whistle well, and I noticed that Randy Lozier, one of our own Champlain Valley Athletic Conference basketball officials, was there to pick up some refereeing pointers from YoVanna. The Ambassadors Show was high-energy from the opening whistle, but there's no time to rest. It's pack up after the game, get a few hours sleep, and head for the next town tomorrow night.

But let's not forget the "Kid from Jay," Bryan Benway. Bryan's never been one to back down from a microphone! And he has plenty of opportunities to sound off in his role as court announcer. He serves as deejay and manages the entertainment from his half-court seat. His enthusiasm is a definite asset to the show. Bryan even gets into the act at times, and, at one point, stands up and shows the crowd some dance moves of his own. He's learned a lot from Lade Majic and the guys he travels with. Bryan's moves last night were moves that have never been seen in Jay. In fact, if he tries some of those moves this summer in Jay, New York, he may get ticketed for a moving violation!

Bryan's dad and mom, Chris and Kim, along with his aunt and a few other friends, made the trip to Schenectady to watch him at work. They, too, were impressed with the great job he does. How many other guys in their early 20s have an opportunity such as this? Bryan took a bold move in accepting the job about a year ago. He's just at the beginning of a career in professional sports broadcasting and who knows what big doors will be open to him with the Harlem Ambassadors on his resume, right next to North Country Cable Network!

An important part of the Harlem Ambassadors show is that they usually perform for a benefit cause. Last night it happened to be that the money raised went to Habitat for Humanity, a cause well-known here in the North Country.

All in all, it made for a fun night in Schenectady. The Harlem Ambassadors granted North Country Cable Network permission to make a videotape of the show. So, the North Country will have an opportunity to see the "Kid from Jay" at work. And get to see Lade Majic and the Harlem Ambassadors perform. Erik and I enjoyed the game, and it was easy to see that the organization is a class operation. Everyone involved with the Ambassadors' organization has a college degree or is working towards one. Everyone involved with the Ambassadors is drug-free. It all adds up to a group of great role models at a time when we often have to search to find a professional athlete who would make a good role model. Well, now you know, you have to look no further than Lade Majic and the Harlem Ambassadors. Oh, yeah, and the "Kid from Jay."

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 1:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

For now I'll steer entirely clear of the baseball & steroids & Barry Bonds issue, but I just finished watching ESPN's debut of the series "Bonds on Bonds." Shame on ESPN for giving him a weekly half-hour to spout his pieces of wisdom, and to try to dredge up our sympathy because he had such a tough life growing up, because his father used to yell at him, and to let us know he was never jealous of Mark McGwire.

There have been plenty of classy major leaguers who loved their fans, signed autographs endlessly and who never complained about reporters around their lockers asking them questions. I can think of guys like Steve Garvey, Gary Carter, Don Mattingly and Nolan Ryan, who, I'm sure, never took steroids to increase strength and bat speed, who gladly signed autographs for fans pushing and shoving at their elbows, but who were never given an ESPN television show.

And to end the first 30-minute segment of "Bonds on Bonds," there's Barry, sitting by his father's gravestone. Come on! Are we really supposed to buy into this? ESPN billed this as an inside look at Barry Bonds as a day-to-day guy. I'd like to know how many times a day he rolls down the window to happily wave at fans and photographers. Is it only when the camera is rolling? I'd like to know how many times a week he visits his dad's gravestone. Is it only when the camera is rolling?

Here's a little "Foxy on Foxy" for my blog readers, for ESPN, and for Barry Bonds. I miss my dad, too. He died in 1983. He put demands on me while I was growing up. He said, "As long as you live under this roof, you follow my rules!" So I followed his rules, to the best of my ability. He set high standards, and it wasn't always easy to reach them, but I know I'm a better person because of it.

He told me, "Just remember, son, every day when you get up, you have to look at yourself in the mirror!" I knew what he meant. It made an impression. I still think of it to this very day. But I don't see ESPN offering me any 30-minute show to tell the world. Maybe I'll toss a videotape in my camera next week and have a videographer follow me around, waving to people downtown, talking while I'm driving my car, saying things like, "It's tough being Foxy Gagnon. How would you like being 5' 6" and bald?" Think I'd dig up much sympathy?

You can bet that next Tuesday I won't waste thirty minutes with "Bonds on Bonds." I've got better things to do, like the Press Republican crossword puzzle or looking for that one woolen sock I'm missing.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 8:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

I've been worrying about this for awhile now, and a recent Time magazine cover story highlighted the age of technology and its effect on young people today. Try going someplace these days without seeing someone younger than you carrying either a cellphone, an iPod, a laptop, or some other technological device. I've always been five-to-ten years behind the crowd in accepting change. My former colleagues at Stafford Middle School can attest to that. In fact, I've just started getting excited about my growing CD collection, only to find out that teenagers today aren't buying CDs anymore. They don't have to. They can have all the songs of their choice around the clock on their MP3 or iPod.

Yesterday I hired Tony Hollop to be my videographer for a "Fox on the Run" show I was making in Chazy. Tony is an intelligent well-adjusted, well-traveled 16-year-old, an honor roll student at Plattsburgh High School. When he hopped into my car for the trip to Chazy I was playing some Amos Lee songs on my CD player. But Tony was holding this intriquing white contraption with a screen on it. He explained that this was an iPod with an iTrip. He could play songs from his little machine and the music would come through my car radio. I said, "I don't think so!"

He chuckled that this 57-year-old would be so out of touch. He explained how it all worked, but it just sounded like some mumbo-jumbo to me. I repeated, "I don't think so!" He offered to show me. So Tony clicked off my CD and dialed up a channel on my car radio. He then pushed a few things on his white contraption, the iPod I mean, and, lo and behold, some Jack Johnson song comes out my radio speakers. He said, "See, it's working because of this iTrip," pointing to a small cyclinder attached to his iPod. I repeated, "I don't think so!" But it was... it was really working. Tony further explained that his little iPod could hold thousands of songs. I said, "I don't think so!"

And that's what I'm worried about. Tony's generation has no use for a radio. These days I often listen to WIRY Radio and other radio stations at least when I'm in my car. But Tony's generation doesn't listen to the radio. They don't have to. They have all the music they could ever want. How long can radio stations survive? I'm worried.

During my lifetime I've enjoyed WEAV, WKDR, and, of course, the survivor, WIRY. As I grew up I remember listening to Chet "Chester O" Bosworth (I even marched around the Breakfast Table), Sid Spiegel, Ben "Never Rest" Everest, and, of course, Gordie Little (Who's He?). And listening to the local high school sports calls of Mike Mannix. In more recent years we've all enjoyed the WIRY personalities, such as Bob Pooler, Ducky Drake and Charlie Stone (the King of the Snippets).

Anyway, when was the last time you bought a radio? When was the last time you bought your teenager a radio? I still love the radio for local news and Yankee baseball. But can you survive on that? My mom plays the radio throughout the day when she's home. But she's 84. I don't see any teenagers playing the radio. And I don't think a radio is going to be on any of their wedding wish lists.

In 1979 a guy named Trevor Horne wrote a song called "Video Killed the Radio Star." It was the first song ever played on MTV, predicting the demise of the radio. But the video hasn't completely killed the radio. Local radio stations have survived somehow, and MTV has changed its format from strictly videos into a variety of programs. Maybe it's time for someone to write "iPod Killed the Radio Star."

I was impressed with Tony's modern-day music machine. I guess all of his friends have one, too. But am I ready to run out and buy an iPod with an iTrip attached? I don't think so.

Posted by Foxy Gagnon at 6:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)