An Inside Look

The Youngest Son is Leaving

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 22:13:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on October 3, 2009

My youngest son Nate is moving to Baltimore next week. He is moving in with his longtime girlfriend (a doctor no less) and will be starting a new job.

He is almost 28 years old, and it is perfectly normal that he leave to begin a new life. He is in love with a wonderful girl. It is what parents wish for their children.

So could somebody please explain to me why I am so sad?

Of course, next to my wife I appear ecstatic. She is trying her best to appear positive and cheerful, but it is hard when you are constantly in tears.

You see, Nate is very much his mother’s son. While he and I love each other deeply, Nate and his Mom are simply connected in a way I cannot possibly comprehend. Nate speaks “Mom”, and Mom speaks “Nate”. It’s actually rather humorous yet intimidating to watch.

Nate finishes his mother’s sentences. He knows what she is going to say before she does. When my wife is dropping the ubiquitous hints she so loves to torture me with, it is usually Nate who translates them into English. They have a love and understanding, a bond that goes well beyond the normal mother-son relationship.

My wife truly is happy for Nate, and loves his girlfriend. She was constantly sending him job postings in the Baltimore area, and even forwarded listings for condos and homes they might be interested in down there. She has known for some time this day was coming.

But now it is actually here. Next week he will be leaving. And this time he won’t be coming back except for visits and holidays and the many things we plan to drag them both back for. It’s not like the four years he spent in Virginia going to college, or the couple of years he lived in Boston. This time, it’s for keeps.

In truth, my wife is dealing with it much better than I am. This surprises me, though apparently not her. Nate and I have a somewhat different relationship from the one I share with my oldest son. While I love both equally, Nate is much more of a challenge because he is so different from me in so many ways. And the fact he is much like his mother has not always worked to our advantage.

Nate is a private person (which is why he will absolutely hate this column). Where I tend to tell everyone everything, he tells no one anything. Where I make decisions somewhat impulsively, he makes every choice like it is a life-changing process. You never make the mistake of asking Nate where he wants to go to dinner – unless you have an hour or two to properly discuss the options.

But my son is one of the most honorable people I have ever met. He is strong of character, has a big heart, and inherited his mother’s understanding of the value of family. He is smart, polite, charming and friendly. He is the kind of friend you want to have – loyal, understanding and reliable. He is every bit the man his mother and I have always wanted him to be.

I will miss going to all the Celtic games with him. I will miss rushing home to watch the Red Sox or the Patriots in our family room with him on the couch holding his laptop. I will miss him constantly proving to me he knows more about sports than I do now.

But more than that – I will miss my boy. I will miss seeing him regularly, hugging him often, and arguing with him playfully. I will miss his smile, his laugh, and his disapproving look when I mess up. I will miss my son.

We have warned them we will be visiting often and expect them back for some holidays. I will continue to tease him about taking his stuff with him when he goes. And I have asked for a written agreement that any kids he and the doctor may choose to have must be raised as Boston sport fans.

My son is moving away next week. That doctor in Baltimore is one very lucky girl.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist who feels awfully old today. He can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Parent of a 30 year old

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 13:04:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on August 15th, 2009

My oldest son turns 30 this week. How did this happen?

Sure, he’s married and has a beautiful son. That makes me a grandfather (did I mention my grandson’s name is William?) and that’s something I take great pride in.

But a 30 year-old son? That can’t possibly be. I demand a recount. It was only yesterday I turned 30. At least, that’s the way I remember it.

On August 17, 1979 I was a nervous 23 year-old husband expecting his first child. My wife was three weeks past due, and I was sure she was delaying just to make me miserable. She assured me carrying around an extra person through the very hot summer qualified her as the miserable one, but I remained convinced she was just punishing me.

That morning we had indications the long wait might actually be over. I rushed her to Sturdy Hospital, remembering to take our bag that had been packed for two months. It was 6:30 am when we got there, and I recall thinking the hospital parking lot was as empty as I had ever seen it. I rushed my wife upstairs to the maternity ward, sure she would be giving birth any second.

Nine hours later we were in our “Birthing Room” waiting for our son to make his appearance. I say son, but in fact we did not know the sex of the baby beforehand. But I was positive it was a boy. I refused to consider it might not be. We had the name picked out, and I would not consider a girl’s name. This was going to be my son, and his name was going to be Aaron Christopher.

I hung on the doctor’s every word whenever he made an appearance. Sensing my interest, he gave me a very important job. I was handed a pad, and told to write down the time of every contraction and how long it lasted. I did so for the next several hours, knowing the fate of my baby hung in the balance.

When the doctor returned to say the time was drawing near, I proudly presented my detailed record. He told me he had just given me that duty to keep me occupied, and threw the pad away. Thus began a lifetime distrust of the medical profession.

Finally, it was time. I scrubbed up and was allowed in the room for the delivery. As we were waiting impatiently, the public address system in the hospital blared a message that caught my attention:

“Will the owner of a grey Chevy Chevette, registration number ------ please move your car immediately, or it will be towed.”

I could not believe it – they were going to tow my car. I was told I had some time, so I ran to a hospital phone and called the front desk.

“They said they are going to tow my car, but I can’t move it now – I’m in labor!” I told an obviously confused clerk. While expressing sympathy with my plight, she explained that in my haste that morning I had failed to notice there was a sign posted in the parking lot saying it was being paved that day. So I had to get out of my scrubs and move the car, all the while muttering threats about what I would do should I miss the actual birth.

But I made it back, and at 7:04 pm my son Aaron made his debut at a whopping nine pounds, one ounce. I will forever remember the nurse walking towards me and saying “Here Dad – hold your son.” I did, and it was a feeling I have had only one other time since, when his brother was born two years later.

Now my first-born son is turning 30. He’s now taller than me, but I have forgiven him that. I am as proud of him today as I was the first time I held him, and I love him even more.

But someone is going to have to explain to me how this happened. Only old people have kids who turn 30.

I’m going to have to have a long talk with his mother.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist who wants to wish his son Aaron a very happy 30th birthday. The elder Gouveia can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Three Deaths

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 13:01:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on August 8th, 2009

Sometimes death can teach you a lot about life. At least, that’s what it has done for me this week.

I was touched by three deaths that occurred within the last month. The three people who died were different ages and personalities, and to the best of my knowledge never met each other. And truth be told, I didn’t know any of them all that well. Yet I found myself thinking about them, and learning lessons from each.

Ted Tausek died July 25th in Brewster at the age of 99. For the last 12 years of his life he lived in an assisted living facility on the Cape, and spent much time entertaining people with his musical abilities.

In the 1960’s he was a teacher at the LG Nourse school in Norton, and I was a student in the 6th grade. Mr. Tausek was my social studies teacher, and the first to install in me a love of current events and government. He was loud, he was opinionated, and he was enthusiastic. He definitely made an impression.

So much so that when I got married nine years later, the Ted Tausek Trio played at our wedding. We didn’t really pick him (he came with the country club) but it was a kick to have him there. I hadn’t seen him since that day 32 years ago, but his passing made me sadder than I expected.

Robert Legg of Norton died July 31st at the age of 76. I only met him a handful of times, but I was struck by his desire to help others and his willingness to put himself out there. A disabled veteran, Mr. Legg was a person who didn’t make excuses – he just worked hard to get what he wanted or needed.

I moderated a selectmen’s debate a few years ago when Mr. Legg threw his hat into the political ring. I can’t tell you he did well either in the debate or at the ballot box. His answers were rambling and hard to understand, and he finished dead last. But his enthusiasm, his dedication to veterans, and his courage in stepping forward when others would not stuck with me. I liked him, and I was somehow strangely proud of him.

Michael Hoyle of Norton died on July 28th at the far too young age of just 24. His death was a sad and tragic loss – a life ended not by old age or illness, but by demons that beset far too many young people. I know Mikey’s parents, though I didn’t know Mikey himself very well.

As I sat in the pew at his funeral, I looked around at the other attendees. I saw the grieving family members, and many of their friends and neighbors. And I saw many of Mikey’s friends – young people looking confused, upset, sad and hurt.

As I gazed at their faces, I wondered if Mikey might have more effect on some of these kids in death than he did in life. I wondered if the mistakes he may have made might become learning tools for these young men and women. I wondered if somewhere, somehow, a life might be saved because someone would remember Mikey – and that would make a difference.

There is nothing sadder than the death of a child or someone still in their early youth. It is not just the loss of the person we mourn, but the loss of all the potential contained in that person. There truly is no sadder phrase than “what might have been.”

Ted Tausek, Robert Legg and Michael Hoyle should serve as examples to us all. They each did some things well, other things not so well. But each will be remembered, and each will serve to inspire people who knew them.

When I remember Ted Tausek, I will remember a man who made others happy with the gifts he was given. When I remember Robert Legg, I will remember a man who was unafraid to step up when he believed he could make a difference. When I remember Michael Hoyle, I will remember that potential is not just an asset, but also a burden.

And I will remember what I learned from each.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist and can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Mom's Passing...

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 16:55:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on June 13, 2009.

I have never really felt old - at least, not until this past Sunday. Now I'm feeling a bit more mortal, and more than a little lost and lonely.

My Mom died in her sleep Sunday night, a peaceful way to pass from this world. She was 73 and not in the best of health, so while it was not a total shock it nonetheless was a crushing blow to our entire family.As I sit here preparing for her funeral and trying to figure out what to say about the person who brought me into this world, I have been reflecting on my own life. I suspect that is what people do when their last surviving parent dies, and they suddenly realize they are now the oldest generation in their family.

Mom taught me early on about the power of unconditional love. It was from her I learned that no matter how mad I got at my family members, they were still my family. She taught me that even if awful things were said and done between us, we still had to love each other.

And believe me, we tested that premise over the years. We were different in many ways, but we shared a common trait of stubbornness. Neither of us liked to lose an argument, and both of us knew how to throw that particularly cutting phrase in at the end of a battle. Of course, when you fight with your mother, even if you win you still lose. It took a long time for that lesson to sink in.

My parents split up when I was 12, and I became very protective of my mom. As I got older, I wanted to be out with my friends. But Mom needed me home to watch my younger brother and sister while she worked, because affording a babysitter was difficult. That led to many spirited discussions, and usually wound up with me sitting at home. Mom had a job working in the school cafeteria and later in the superintendent's office. That meant she was at my school often, and it was very difficult for me to get away with anything.

After I got married and had children, my mother discovered her true niche in life. She was born to be a grandmother. She loved my two boys with a passion and dedication that was as pure as it was strong. And she told me early on that life was short, and she had no intention of wasting any time.

"When I die, no one is going to be able to say I didn't enjoy my grandkids" my Mom used to say all the time.

Mom spent every moment possible with those boys. She took them places, played video games with them, refereed their indoor wrestling matches, and pretty much allowed them to do anything they wanted. At Christmas time, the toy stores would open early just to get my mother's business. My kids adored her, right up to the day she died.

And when my son gave her a great-grandson last year (did I mention his name is William?) my mother's life was truly complete. Although she knew him for just one short year, he captured her heart completely. Just when she thought she had given all the love she could, she found she had even more to give.

Now Mom is gone, and I'm a grandfather. All the things she did with her grandchildren that sometimes irritated me so much as a parent, I intend to do with my grandchildren. I'm not going to let anyone say I didn't enjoy my grandkids either.

The next time grandson Will does something amazing, I know I will catch myself reaching for the phone to tell my mother all about it. It will be at that time the true impact of this past week's events will truly hit home.

I'm now the oldest surviving member of my immediate family. It is now my turn to complain about high prices, the younger generation, and how the kids hardly ever call anymore.But I know I will never be able to do it all as well as Mom did. I love you, Mom.

BILL GOUVEIA is a local columnist, and the proud son of the late Patricia (Houghton) Keeler. He can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Grandson Will writes a column

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Mon, 04 May 2009 20:26:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on May 2, 2009.

I hope you readers will bear with me, because this is my first newspaper column. My name is Will Gouveia, and I just turned one year old – but please don’t hold my youthful inexperience against me.

My Grandpa Bill Gouveia usually occupies this space on Saturday mornings, but I asked Grandpa if I could borrow his column because I have a few things I want to say. He’s doing most of the typing.

I want to talk about relationships. Not the mushy kind, with all that romantic stuff. Remember, I’m only one. I want to talk about the importance of family relationships. Who knows more about that than someone who is completely dependent on them for daily survival?

Mom and Dad have to take care of me. It’s their fault I’m here at all (even though I’m not real clear yet how that happens). But I think I’m pretty lucky, ‘cause I’ve got really cool parents. It’s hard to imagine people who would love me more than they do. They tell me all the time – even when I’m screaming at three o’clock in the morning.

Mom works at something called a bank. All I know is lots of people go there, and they have lots of money. She’s a boss there, and tells people what to do – just like at home. Dad writes for a newspaper. I know what that is, because I love pulling them off the couch and crunching them up.

I want to say thanks to Mom and Dad for making my life so great. To be sure, they haven’t done everything right. Dad should have kept me away from that evil goat at the Petting Zoo, and Mom has dressed me in some pink stuff. But overall they are amazing, and I wouldn’t want anyone else for parents.

Since this is Grandpa’s column, I have to mention him. My full name is William George Thomas Gouveia. I’m named after my three wonderful grandfathers. Grandpa Bill thinks it is a really big deal my first name is the same as his. He tells everyone about it – and I mean EVERYONE!

Grandpa talks to me and tells me stories. He signed me up for Red Sox Kid Nation when I was two days old. He’s promised me one of his Patriot season tickets someday so I can go to a game – although he insists it will be the ticket he usually gives to Dad.

But he also talks to me about stuff I really don’t understand yet. He tells me how important it is to be involved with my family and friends as I get older. He introduced me to Uncle Rick, who isn’t really my uncle but has been Grandpa’s friend since they were in the first grade – which I think was back in the 1800’s sometime. He tells me that a person who has friends and family around him will always be rich, even if they don’t have any money. He says I should be happy I have so many uncles, aunts, and great-uncles and aunts too – not to mention great-grandparents.

The best part about spending time with Grandpa is getting to see Grandma. She taught me how to humor the old guy and get what I want. She apparently has been doing that a long time. She is extra-special in her own right. I learn so much from her, and next to Mom she gives the best hugs in the whole world. Grandpa is a lucky guy.

Grandpa has what he calls his “Golden Rules” and has taught them to me. They are: One – your family is always your family regardless of how much they tick you off. Two – always treat people the way you want them to treat you. And three – never, ever leave Fenway Park until the game is over. Grandpa is a guy who has his priorities straight.

Thanks for reading my first column. Now I’m going to have Grandpa get me some juice. I’m not really thirsty, but it makes him happy to think he did something for me. Dad and Uncle Nate say he wasn’t this way when they were kids. I guess they just didn’t have my charisma.

And neither of them was named William.

Will Gouveia’s grandfather Bill Gouveia is a local columnist, and can be laughed at by emailing aninsidelook@aol.com.

Fighting the Furniture War

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 13:09:00 +0000

This column originially appeared in the Sun Chronicle on March 7, 2009.

The war in Iraq seems to be going better lately, the war in Afghanistan worse. But the biggest shift has been in the Furniture War being waged in my humble household.

One of the most basic rules of engagement is never become involved in a war you cannot win. Despite this valuable advice, men continue to marry women at a dizzying clip. Over time, the losses begin to pile up.

The Furniture War started when the first Caveman dragged home the first comfortable rock chair, and the first Cavewoman made him put it out of sight in the basement. Nowhere are the differences between men and women, or husbands and wives, more clearly displayed than in their furniture preferences.

That is not to say I am completely without victories in the furniture arena. We have a large-screen TV in our family room that if my wife had her way would not be there. Our previous living room furniture was bought over her objection when I got a deal from a friend in the business, and used my then-young children as pawns to gain my evil way.

But my wise and patient wife is in this for the long run. After nearly 32 years of marriage she has clearly developed the upper hand with regard to furniture (and most everything else). Currently she is in the midst of an aggressive offensive, clearly establishing her control of the Gouveia furniture empire.

It started a few years ago when it became time to replace our sectional sofa. We discussed what we wanted, but I had an ultimate goal. I was willing to sacrifice color, style, perhaps even comfort on the sofa purchase. But I was fixated on and prepared to hold out for what I considered one critical yet practical necessity.

I wanted cup-holders. You know, places to put my drink while watching TV. I was willing to compromise and accept cup-holders hidden in the foldable arms, but I really considered cup-holders to be a vital and necessary piece of a functional sofa.

My wife reacted as if I had suggested selling advertising on the couch cushions. She told me cup-holders were for a frat house, not her house. I thought I could wear her down. I brought my youngest son with me during shopping to help plead my case. But in the end, it was simply a hill my forces were unable to secure. Today my beverages sit alone on the coffee table, hopelessly and helplessly out of my easy reach.

So I changed my strategy. I began to work on the coffee table itself. I saw these tables that rise and move towards you, then lower back to their original position. I considered this to be a wonderful compromise. I sent a peace emissary to my wife, and we began negotiations towards a non-violent settlement.

She showed some signs of weakness here. She actually went with me to the store, and eventually agreed to allow me to purchase a table she could “live with if I have to”. But she raised some valid points about the integrity of the table’s construction, and her attitude sent the message that a victory here would most likely cost me dearly in another yet-to-be-determined arena. I meekly surrendered my position, living to fight another day.

But she recently pulled off a major coup in the war. On our way back from the Cape one day, she slyly suggested we stop at a furniture store having a huge sale. It was not for us, she insisted, but rather to look for something her sister was seeking for our nephew. I fell for it.

Half an hour later we left the store – with a new kitchen set. I had not been aware we needed one. It consists of high wooden chairs that narrowly fit my ever-widening rear end. I am a beaten man.

I have informed my wife that should I spill a beverage on her carpet or couch, it is not my fault – I have no cup-holder. She merely shakes her head, and goes back to plotting her next move.

War is Hell. Now where did I put that drink?

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist and a thirsty veteran of the Marriage Wars. He can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Sign of the Times

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 18:23:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on February 28th, 2009

“Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
Blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind
Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?”
- Five Man Electrical Band

Is it a sign of the times, a sign of trouble, or a sign of things to come? That remains to be seen, but the attitude of Norton officials towards some local businesses is a bad sign in general.

The Norton Planning Board is currently considering a ban on certain types of illuminated signs in town. You’ve all seen the signs – the ones that look like small television sets displaying not only words but actual animation.

The concern of Norton planners (and I use the word “planners” loosely) is twofold. First and foremost, they are concerned about safety. Some believe the signs are too distracting for motorists, particularly at night, and could cause accidents and injuries.

Secondly, the signs offend the delicate sensibilities of some officials and residents. Selectman Bob Kimball summed that attitude up saying “It kind of takes away from the small-town look of things. It kind of gives it a Vegas look.”

Yeah, just the other day a motorist on Route 123 in Norton stopped to ask me how to get to Caesar’s Palace. The signs along the roadway had obviously convinced him he was on the downtown Vegas strip. You know how we locals are easily confused.

It is not my goal here to make light of safety concerns or the wishes of many to live in idyllic rural bliss. But in a town with a record and reputation of being as anti-business as Norton, it would seem officials would have a lot more important things to do than cracking down on good taxpayers who are just trying to survive and make a living.

Norton did not have zoning until 1974. It does not have a clearly defined “downtown”. It is a large town area-wise, consisting of almost 30 square miles. It contains one supermarket, five donut shops, four banks, five schools, two car washes, a small industrial park, a PGA golf course, and a whole bunch of small businesses trying to stay afloat in these oppressive economic times.

Some of these businesses have embraced technology and utilized eye-catching signs. The signs are helping their businesses. The signs are conspicuous (which is what signs are supposed to be) and draw attention.

But are we to believe in this day of cell phones, CD players, GPS devices and car speakers the size of Rhode Island that an illuminated sign on the roadside is a threat to the public? Drivers are capable of safely looking at a GPS screen in their car, but an outside sign advertising a car wash might force them off the road?

Norton has never been a business-friendly community. There was a McDonald’s in Moscow before there was one in Norton. A pizza delivery company was not allowed to locate in the Roche Brothers plaza because of traffic concerns. A Dunkin Donuts near the alleged center of town has been denied a drive-thru by the Planning Board, but homeowners living on tiny residential lots in a Water Protection District have been granted permission to raise chickens on the premises.

Our federal government recently passed an $800 billion economic stimulus package to revive our failing economy. Yet Norton continues to make things as difficult as possible for those small businesses that make up the backbone of our economic system.

I’ve lived in Norton virtually my entire life. I’ve watched it grow from 6000 residents in 1965 to close to 20,000 today. I loved the town I grew up in during the 60’s, and I love the town now.

But I’m able to recognize those are two different towns. The rural Norton of my youth has gone the way of my late grandparents’ Norton farm. It’s still there – it just doesn’t look the same anymore.

To those who are offended by the illuminated signs, I ask – would you be happier with normal signs proclaiming “Out of Business”? Would those signs make your town better and safer? Reasonable regulations on illuminated signs are fine, but don’t ban them.

Norton has many problems requiring prompt action. Illuminated signs are not one of them.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist and longtime Norton resident. He can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

A Curling we will go...

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 18:00:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on January 24th, 2009.

As much as I love sports, I have never been much of an athlete. Anyone who knows or has ever seen me can vouch for that fact.

But that hasn’t stopped me from trying to compete over the years as best I could. As my sons got older, I tried to join them in certain athletic activities. As recently as two years ago I pitched on a slow-pitch softball team, and managed to hold my own. I did decimate a hamstring simply running to first base – but hey, at least I tried.

Lately my attempts to best my two boys have been limited to events such as horseshoes, bocce, and the more-my-speed world of fantasy football. Let the record show I did finish ahead of both of them in one league this year, and for the first time won a championship in a different league. But that doesn’t really count in an athletic or physical skill sense.

Now I am attempting to compete with them in a new and entirely unfamiliar sporting arena. Starting next week, I will be on a team competing against my sons in a sport (?) I never thought I would be playing.

I am now attempting curling. That’s right – curling.

For those who don’t recognize just what curling is, think back to the winter Olympics. Did you see that strange game with people slowly gliding big round rocks down a sheet of ice while others frantically swept in front of the rock like deranged 1950’s housewives? That is curling.

My younger son Nate got into curling while attending college a few years back in Virginia. After watching the Olympics, he and some friends found a curling club in Maryland and decided to give it a try. He thoroughly enjoyed the experience and raved about it to his family members.

His older brother Aaron, a newspaper reporter on Cape Cod, covered an event at the Cape Cod Curling Club in Falmouth a short while back. Intrigued by the unusual game and remembering his brother’s stories, he decided it would be a great Christmas gift to sign the three of us up for curling lessons.

You may be thinking it can’t be all that difficult to slide a big rock down a sheet of ice – and you would be right. But curling is a much more skilled and difficult game than it looks like on television, as I quickly found out. Sliding the rock is easy, but getting it to stop where you want is not.

There is much strategy involved in the game, and I am just beginning to understand it all. The captain of each team – called the Skip – calls all the shots and tells his teammates where he wants each rock to land. The first player to throw on each team – called the Lead – is asked to simply get his rocks in the way of the other team. The third thrower (the Vice Skip) takes over when the Skip throws the last rocks and “has the hammer” as he tries to score. You sweep the ice in front of the rock to make it slide further.

Confused? Me too. But I’m slowly learning.

You deliver the 42 pound granite rock by sliding down the ice and gently releasing it as you gracefully glide. My first attempt ended with me face first on the cold surface. My sons were hardly perfect in their early attempts, but they did catch on much more quickly than their competitive Dad.

There is a definite code of conduct amongst curlers, and a lot of etiquette rules. My fellow curlers are of all ages, although a large percentage of the club members are my age or older. This may have something to do with the fact the average age of a Cape Cod resident appears to be 98 or so, but age is not a big factor in curling. It is much more a game of skill than endurance.

My first match in league play will be Tuesday night. I’m practicing my sweeping. My lofty goal is to try and not make a fool of myself. I’m playing Nate’s team. If I fail, I’m sure my sons will let you know.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist, a grandfather, and hopefully a curler. If not hospitalized, he can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

The Power of Will

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 16:54:00 +0000

The column below originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on Saturday, January 3, 2008.

It has been said having a grandchild changes everything. But when whoever coined that phrase said everything, I didn’t know they really meant “everything”.

As I might have mentioned once or twice before in this space, I was blessed with my first grandchild this past April. Grandson Will (did I mention his name is William?) is everything a grandparent could possibly want. He is adorable, personable, and smart as a whip. He has made the lives of everyone around him so much better.

Well – almost everyone.

You see, since Will was born on April 3, 2008 strange and mysterious things have been happening. Changes have occurred not only in the lives of Will’s happy relatives, but in the political world, the business world, and in particular the sporting world.

Since Will was born, politics have undergone tremendous change. The Republicans nominated a woman for Vice President. The Democrats carried Virginia in a presidential election. And of greatest note, the country elected an African-American President for the very first time.

Since Will was born, 300 point daily swings in the stock market have become the norm. The Fed has lowered interest rates all the way to zero. Mortgage rates are at their lowest in decades, and the Big Three car companies are begging for money in Washington like panhandlers on a street corner.

But Will’s greatest impact may have come in the sporting world, in ways both good and bad. Let’s review what has happened there since Will’s debut.

Shortly after Will’s birth, the Celtics went from a last-place team to winning the World Championship, their first in 22 years. The Boston Bruins, the laughing stock of Boston sports for the last decade, are now the hottest team in hockey.

On the flip side, since Will was born Tom Brady has played less than one quarter and suffered a season-ending injury. The Patriots won 11 games and somehow did not make the playoffs. The Red Sox went from World Champions to losing the American League Championship to – it is hard to say this – Tampa Bay.

On the opening Sunday of football season, my son brought Will to our house to participate in our good-luck rituals. He wore a Tom Brady jersey, and we watched Super Bowl video’s (not last year’s) to warm up for what promised to be a great Patriot season.

After Brady went down with his injury, the tiny Brady jersey was promptly removed from my angelic grandson and stuffed in a drawer where it can no longer harm anyone. Later, my son put a Tedy Bruschi jersey on him – and Bruschi got hurt. We are not blaming Will for either injury – but we didn’t put anyone else’s number on his back for the remainder of the season, just in case.

After the Pats were eliminated from playoff contention last Sunday, my family members began to discuss the post-Will world in which we now all live. It quickly became apparent to us that my grandson has been endowed with some type of strange power, and is struggling to control it.

We will now try and find ways to harness the wonderful power of Will. We must find ways to channel his karma for purposes that help us, and steer it away from the unwitting damage his unchecked aura has created.

Maybe we could get him Yankee pajamas and hope it leads A-Rod to marry Madonna and retire from baseball. No, forget it – there is no way we would ever allow Yankee pajamas on a beloved family member.

Of course, non-believers like Will’s mom and grandmother firmly reject any notion that young Will could somehow be connected to anything that brings bad luck. They need to understand we are not saying Will is unlucky – just that he has yet to grow into the superstitions and rituals we all know control the world. We just have to get him through this difficult stage.

I love my grandson with every ounce of my being. But I’m telling you, if the Celtics go on a long losing streak, Brady breaks his other leg, or the Detroit Lions beat the Pats in the Super Bowl next year – we are going to have to cover that kid in rabbit’s feet.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist and has a grandson named William, who is the greatest. Grandpa can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

A New Holiday Battle...

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 20:08:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on November 22, 2008

The Holiday Season officially kicks off Thursday with my personal favorite, Thanksgiving Day. My wife and I will gather with family, eat some turkey, watch some football, and enjoy our favorite holiday traditions.

But there is a power struggle going on within our clan over just where the holiday celebrations will be held this year – and with whom.

This is our first holiday season as grandparents, and that is a joy I cannot properly express. My 7 month-old grandson (did I mention his name is William?) has given us renewed holiday spirit the likes of which we haven’t enjoyed since our own two sons were toddlers looking amazed beneath the tree on Christmas morning.

But our family is a bit more spread out now. Our married son and his family live on the Cape. They have expressed a desire to experience their own holiday celebrations this year, skipping some or all of our traditional family gatherings to start their own traditions.

That’s nice. Misguided, but nice.

Just who do these new parents think they are? They have the first grandchild on either side of the family, and decide they will dictate where and when the holiday celebrations will be? Sorry – that’s our job.

You see, we have earned our spot in the family pecking order. These young people haven’t paid their dues yet. There should not be any leapfrogging over those of us who have put in our time.

Almost 30 years ago my wife and I were the newly-married parents of the first grandchild on both sides. This made us very popular. Our presence was requested – read that to mean expected – at the traditional gathering of each family at holiday time.

Concessions were made as to schedules so we could bounce from one family celebration to the other. For years we took our kids on a hectic holiday tour, visiting relatives and friends and usually eating two holiday meals. And for years, we complained about it.

We tried to cut down on holiday travel. People can come see us, we reasoned. But we had a small home, and elderly and handicapped relatives for whom travel was simply too difficult. The mere suggestion we “alternate” holidays between the families was met with disapproving stares and teary-eyed sad faces.

But when my son was a year old, we informed my family we would not see them Christmas Day. My mother was hysterical. My grandmother, to whom I was very close, called me to her hospital bed early in December saying she had to ask me something.

“Please don’t take our baby away from us on Christmas,” this saint of a woman cried to me. I folded like a cheap suit, and promised her I would work something out. And I would have fulfilled that promise – except she died that Christmas morning and our celebration was decidedly muted.

As the years went on and people got older, we eventually gained in holiday status by virtue of our longevity. We bought a bigger house, and began hosting dinners for both families. It took a while, but we got there.

Now we find our status prematurely threatened. Our son and his wife are trying to pull a bloodless coup. With virtually no time served, they are expecting to move into Most Favored Nation status. This would be the political equivalent of Barak Obama totally skipping the presidential primaries, but still expecting to be nominated at the convention.

Our kids live in a condo not large enough for the entire family. While we have tradition on our side, they have a powerful tool in this fight – our perfect grandson. They know full well there is nothing in this world we wouldn’t do for Will (what a great name) and that we would never put our needs and wants above his having a wonderful Christmas.

So we wait and see what will happen. Strategic and top-secret negotiations will no doubt take place. Both sides seek a peaceful settlement.

Maybe we did it wrong all those years. But remembering my grandmother always convinces me that in the end - it was worth it.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist, and – in case you hadn’t heard – has a grandson named William. You can send him holiday advice at aninsidelook@aol.com.

A Teacher Who Made A Difference

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 12:52:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on October 25, 2008

As voters throughout the area prepare to pack the polling places Nov. 4, I have to wonder: Why don't people get this involved and excited when it is time to participate in their local government?

The obvious answer is - they didn't have an Al Nuttall.

Ever had a teacher who greatly influenced your life? Al Nuttall is a former long-time teacher at Norton High School. If people want someone to blame for my involvement in local government, then Al is their man.

Mr. Nuttall taught social studies - and nearly everything else - during his many years in Norton. He coached several sports, ran the school-sponsored recreation program, and was a student favorite.

In my senior year, Mr. Nuttall taught a course called "Modern Problems." I'd like to tell you I took his class because it sounded interesting and challenging. But in truth, it just sounded a lot easier than math or science.

In that class, Mr. Nuttall introduced us to the politics of government. We studied how the Miranda case changed law enforcement in America. We learned about discrimination and the disgraceful resistance to racial equality in this country. We were exposed to political extremism and topics I knew about, but never really understood.

We also learned how our local town government worked. We studied Town Meeting and the issues facing it in that year of 1974. We learned of the role of selectmen, school committee, and finance committee. It all sounded pretty boring - until Mr. Nuttall decided to bring it all to life for us.

He set up a mock Town Meeting, completely run by students. Some of my classmates were selectmen, and they took positions favored by that board. Others were finance committee members, arguing the opposite position. The issue was what raises should be given to town employees.

The mock Town Meeting audience was the student body. The actual Town Moderator, the late Joseph Yelle, came to run the meeting. I played the role of Finance Committee chairman.

The debate was actually very intense, as both sides argued hard for their position. I don't remember which way the "town meeting" actually decided. But Mr. Nuttall made sure we all learned the rules, how to be recognized, how to treat others with respect, and how to make and vote on motions.

A week later, the recreation budget was up for debate at Town Meeting. As a newly-registered 18 year-old senior, I went to the meeting with Mr. Nuttall. He told me if I cared about the program, I needed to go and support it.

After a resident got up and spoke against it, the chances of approval seemed dim. With Mr. Nuttall's words ringing in my ears, I stood and was recognized. I spoke of the program, how it helped kids and was important to the community. People seemed pleased to hear from somebody who actually benefited, and the budget was approved overwhelmingly.

Mr. Nuttall couldn't stop smiling.

A week later I was called to the school office. I was a bit nervous - that is hardly ever a good thing.

In the office was the principal, Mr. Nuttall, and Town Moderator Yelle. Sensing my confusion, Mr. Nuttall told me the moderator had something to ask me. "I'm looking for a young person to serve on the Finance Committee" the distinguished and dignified Mr. Yelle told me. "Your teacher thinks you would be a good choice, and so do I. What do you think?"

I was probably the first would-be appointee ever to say he needed to go home and ask his mother first. But I did accept, and that led to 15 years on the Finance Committee, six years as a selectmen, 34 years of attending Town Meeting, and eventually having the honor to serve in the moderator position once held by the man who first appointed me.

But none of that would have happened without Al Nuttall, as I said when I spoke at his retirement dinner years later. I told all the people at that gathering that Al Nuttall had made a real difference in my life. And now I've told you.

Everyone should have an Al Nuttall.

BILL GOUVEIA is a local columnist and the Norton town moderator. He got an A in Mr. Nuttall's class. You can reach Bill at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Guns DO Kill People

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 12:43:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on November 1, 2008.

In this country and this state, we protect children. We insist they be strapped into car seats. We urge parents to make them wear helmets when riding bicycles. We regulate what snacks they can eat in school.

Yet this past week, 8-year-old Christopher Bizilj was allowed to go to a private gun club in Westfield with his father and fire a fully automatic weapon on his own. Not surprisingly, this weapon, designed for no purpose other than killing people, was too powerful for this innocent young child. Unable to handle the recoil, he shot himself in the head and died.

Now I fully admit I am not a gun person. I do not own one. I do not shoot them. I believe they should be heavily regulated - quite a bit more heavily than seatbelt wearing and bicycle helmets.

But I do not support eliminating all guns. I favor responsible gun ownership. I respect the rights of hunters, collectors and enthusiasts to own certain weapons. I back the right of individuals to protect their domicile and property by responsibly keeping a weapon in the home.

But gun shows where 8-year-olds are allowed to shoot Uzis? Sorry NRA - I definitely draw the line there.

While I do not necessarily support a ban on all guns, I see no earthly reason why anyone who is not in law enforcement or the military needs to own a fully automatic weapon. And it is disgusting and confusing to me when those who own them vigorously defend their right to do so.

We have the right to bear arms in this country. That should never be interpreted as the right to possess fully automatic weapons in residential communities. Any argument that it does is, quite frankly, absurd.

I know the gun lobby will spin this incident with this poor child. They will rightfully blame the instructor for lack of supervision. They will rightfully blame the parent for failing to watch over his child properly. They will rightfully blame the gun club for not having proper security.They will blame everyone and everything - except the gun. It is never the gun's fault.

You see, if they allowed blame to be placed on the gun it would be a threat to their industry, their philosophy, and their beliefs. Guns don't kill people - people kill people, goes the famous tag line. That is nice glib advertising, and it gets their point across quite well.

But dead 8-year-old children shot in the head by weapons that should only be used in war make a pretty serious point in the opposite direction.

Guns do kill people. So do cars, planes, and knives. We don't ban cars just because some people do not operate them properly and harm others. Why should guns be any different?

The answer is because they do not serve other purposes as well. People own cars because they make our lives possible. They transport us to and from places. They allow us to make our livings.

Automatic weapons kill people. That is why they are made. That is all they do. They are machines designed for no other purpose.

We are not talking about hunting rifles, or collectible muskets, or target pistols. You don't take an Uzi out deer hunting and gun down an entire herd in five seconds flat. So why in the name of all that is sane do we not ban these weapons across the country?

The NRA and others tell us there should not be bans on automatic weapons and hollow point ammunition. If you do that, they reason, then only the criminals will have them and the good law-abiding folks of this country will be overrun. Also, if you let them take our Uzi's, then they will come after our other guns next. You can't let "them" get a foot in the door.

That argument is as sad as it is wrong.We should ban automatic weapons. We should not allow them at gun shows where you don't need a permit to shoot them. We should more strictly regulate places where guns are shot. And if anyone wants to know why, we should tell them:

Christopher Bizilj.

BILL GOUVEIA is a local columnist and a staunch supporter of responsible gun control and healthy 8-year-olds. He can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Sox

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 17:02:00 +0000

After watching the Sox come back against the Rays Thursday night, I'm exhausted. But I'm thrilled that at long last, the real baseball season is underway.

It may only last one more game, but who cares? This is what sports is all about, this is the payoff for being a fan. These are games that matter, this is intensity, and this is why I love sports.

CoCo Crisp's at-bat in the eighth inning was incredible. Ten pitches. Ten excruciating, painful, suspense-laden pitches. I was screaming at the TV with my youngest son, telling CoCo he could do it while never for a second truly believing he would. But he did. They did. it was wild.

Now I can't wait for Game Six tonight. I have a surprise 50th birthday party to go to for my secretary tonight, but I will be leaving early. I feel bad - but I will still leave early.

Some things are simply more important than others.

Angry Liberal

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 16:31:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Norton Mirror in August 2006 - but it remains relevent today!

Okay folks, step back. Secure the women and children, batten down any hatches you might have, return your seat backs to their upright position, and buckle all safety belts. You are about to hit some reading turbulence.

Today, I am one ticked-off Liberal.

I have never minded the political and social debates between liberals and conservatives. I’ve always thought a spirited discussion of the issues and philosophies of the times was a good thing for this country. And I have shared in trading barbs, good-natured and otherwise, with friends and foes in the past.

But now the mind-numbing and bigoted conservatism of those on the far right, especially those in positions of national leadership, has finally gotten to me. I’m not going to sit back any more and chuckle at their ignorant antics and tactics, or let them paint me and others as supporters of terrorism or valueless demigods concerned only with themselves.

To Dick Cheney, Ann Coulter, Karl Rove, and those locally who are disciples of their conservative brand of hatred and discrimination – your 15 minutes are up. We Liberals (and yes – we are still out here in great numbers) are no longer going to sit back and let you define who and what we are.

I’m so tired of hearing how Liberals are out of touch with mainstream America, how our values are non-traditional and un-American. That’s pure bull****, and those saying it for their own political advantage should be ashamed.

Liberals believe in individual rights and personal freedoms. These are the very principles that drove our founding fathers to create this great country. They came here in search of religious and individual liberties, trying to found a country where people were inherently equal. They were truly the first American Liberals.

You want to tell me my values are un-American? I ask you – what is more American than wanting to ensure equal rights for everyone regardless of their race, creed, national origin or sexual orientation?

You want to tell me that voicing my opposition to this war in Iraq is un-American and gives aid and comfort to the enemy? That is so stupid even those like you who are blinded by political power and ambition have to see it.

Liberals love this country just as much as you do, and they are just as quick to defend it when necessary. But we are not so arrogant and insolent as to think our American way of doing things is right for everyone. We see no need to force ourselves upon those who see or do things differently – unless they threaten us or our allies.

Every great empire in history began to fade when they decided they had to create their own vision of the world everywhere they went. Liberals understand that, and have trouble grasping that ultra-conservatives do not.

We reject terrorism and will battle it wherever it exists with the same ferocity and patriotism you possess. But we will not write a blank check to leaders who manipulate the terrorist threat to advance their political agendas.

We seek to allow people who love each other to marry – you do your best to deny them that right. We seek to give people the right to end their lives with dignity – you seek to control them and use them as political pawns.

I don’t question your love for this country – don’t you dare question mine.

The greatest leaders in this country’s history have been Liberals, and those currently in power aren’t worthy to hold their political sneakers. So spare me any more of this sanctimonious and pious garbage. You hold no edge over us when it comes to values or love of country.

To all you Liberal-bashers out there – Bite Me! We are a peace-loving people, but you really don’t want to make us mad.

Camping Never Gets Better...

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 18:38:00 +0000

This column oringinally appeared in the Mansfield News in August 2004.

I must either love my wife beyond all reasonable boundaries, or I am deathly afraid of her. No other reason can possibly explain my actions.

I am sitting here alone at a warped picnic table at 6:30 am in the beautiful woods of Maine. As I type my weekly missive, I am left to consider perhaps the greatest and most baffling question facing all of mankind today:

Why do people camp?

Those who have perused this space over the years know my position on this back-to-nature train of thought. If God had truly wanted us to sleep in tents, on the ground and outside, he would never have created hotels. This is known as the Holiday Inn Theory of Evolution.

Yet here I sit at dawn on a beautiful Sunday morning, fresh from my five-minute hike to what passes as a bathroom in these primitive surroundings, and I am alone. In the tent behind me my beloved tries to sleep despite my constant zippering and unzippering of the tent to retrieve some important item. The tent to my right reverberates with the ungodly snoring of my eldest son and his girlfriend. It must be her – males in my family never snore.

To be fair, I did offer to come along this year on the annual camping trek. It has been several years since I braved the wilds of Maine, much to the relief of our fellow campers. But my wife loves this unnatural activity, and since my son could only stay a few days, I decided she might welcome my company.

If you asked either of us this morning, you might get a different take.

I discovered this year that of the 40 or so camping regulars who make this annual pilgrimage, we are apparently the only ones left who sleep in tents. The others have invested in camping trailers or RVs, or rented similar equipment.

While they store their food in nice cupboards and place their perishables in small refrigerators, we live out of something less efficient and pleasant. Our dry goods are in stackable plastic bins secured to prevent marauding wild animals. Our perishables are stored in an ice chest the size of a small coffin. The highlight of each day is the trip to the local IGA store for life-giving ice.

Our site is on the shore of a beautiful lake, and the view is truly magnificent. Last night we had a perfect view of the rain and lightning as it quickly rolled over us, trying to thwart my son’s meager attempt at a campfire.

On our first night, my wife left with her friend to make a quick trip to the store. She returned three hours later, thus breaking the primary camping commandment: Thou shalt not leave Bill alone while camping (though she claims since my son and his significant other were here, there was no violation).

So last night I sat around a small fire, gazing longingly at my cell phone that refused to work up here in Moose Country. I spent much of the evening contorting my body in unusual ways, attempting to get my headphone radio unit into a position where it could receive the signal of the Red Sox game.

Now I sit here calmly watching while our friends climb into boats and head out to fish, another activity I have never really been able to embrace. I have been awake since 6 am, when a crow decided to locate directly above our tent and apparently begin broadcasting on the EBN (Emergency Bird Network). His shrill shrieks, in perfectly timed bursts of three, will be in my head for weeks.

I know my wife, who was delighted when I announced my intention to come along this year, is inside our tent now reevaluating that decision. I have a strange feeling that next year, when the annual camping trip comes up, I will be asked to remain at home and guard the family compound.

It will be a shame to miss that camping trip, but after all – duty calls.

Fathers of the Groom - Unite!

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 17:37:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Norton Mirror in September 2003. When you read it, keep in mind one of my sons is now married, and the other...well, his doomsday clock is ticking! :)

When you are a parent, there are many opportunities to bask in your pride in the children you have raised. Of all those opportunities, perhaps none are more emotional and meaningful than when your child is married, and enters into that wonderful world of wedded bliss.

That is the time parents are officially recognized for their hard work in raising the child they are giving away. The father of the bride walks his daughter down the aisle, and has that special dance with his little girl. The mother of the bride is escorted to her seat of honor with all eyes upon her. The mother of the groom is also escorted, and has that emotional dance with her grown son. Yes, each parent has their well-deserved very special moment.

Except for the totally neglected and disregarded parent when it comes to most weddings – the ignored and seemingly forgotten father of the groom.

As you may have guessed by now, I am the father of sons. While none of them have yet gotten married (or even vaguely considered such a thing), I must admit it is one of the events I look forward to someday. Or at least I did, until I began contemplating a very sobering fact.

As father of a groom, I will have virtually no official place or chores in the average wedding. No real duties in the ceremony, no traditional dance at the reception, no shining moment of glory on that special day. While all the other parents have a clearly defined role and a starring moment, the father of the groom is relegated to a mere supporting role.

In fact, he is the appendix of the wedding party. He really doesn’t serve a purpose, and he can be removed with virtually no harm to the wedding itself.

The bridesmaids and ushers walk down the aisle. The maid/matron of honor stands next to the bride. The best man gives the ceremonial toast. They all are vital parts of this meaningful and special day.

The father of the groom does nothing. He wears a tuxedo for no apparent purpose. He is often mistaken for the caterer or the head waiter. He directs people to the restrooms and kindly declines to take drink orders.

Oh sure, he gets to walk down the aisle at the beginning of the ceremony. But he trails the mother of the groom, who is escorted ceremoniously by an usher. He isn’t even considered good enough to escort his own wife to her seat of honor. His only job is not to trip or step on her dress from behind.

I’m sure that in some ceremonies the father of the groom is tossed a bone. Maybe he gets to welcome people to the reception. Maybe he lights a candle on the altar. Maybe he gets to park cars at the reception.

But generally, he is ignored. He sits back and lets the other parents bask in the spotlight and the glow of this once (we hope) in a lifetime experience. He is shunned, the ultimate redheaded stepchild.

Oh I know this day won’t be about parents and glory and spotlights. The day will belong to the happy couple. It is all about them, their love, and their new commitment and life with each other. The day is all theirs.

That would be the noble stance. It is very easy for the other three parents, all of whom have their traditional moments-in-the-sun, to agree with that crap. After all, no one asked them if they were friends of the bride or groom, or slipped them a few bucks and told them to be careful with the new car.

If any of you faithful readers out there have suggestions to right this wrong and restore the father of the groom to his rightful place in the marriage ceremony hierarchy, please let me know. I’d be very grateful.

And take your time. Fortunately, my sons are in no hurry.

Little Anniversaries, Big Weapons

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 15:45:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Norton Mirror in December 2006.

Today is my anniversary. But please, don’t tell my wife. I’m counting on her forgetting.

No, it is not our wedding anniversary today. That comes in May, and will be our 30th. This is a different anniversary, one of those “little” anniversaries that you usually celebrate when you are a young couple, full of hope and happiness, gazing adoringly at each other and together into the future.

You know, the kind we older couples now mired in the reality of our lives scoff at and ridicule when we observe? Well, I no longer laugh and scoff. I have taken what was formerly a liability and turned it into an asset. I no longer forget these anniversaries – I use them.

Today is 34 years to the day that my wife and I first kissed. It was when we were in high school, and took place while standing at the front door of her house. Her youngest sister was having a slumber party in the front room that night, and our first kiss ended when one of her friends watching us in the darkness felt compelled to shout out “Eeewww, mush!”.

This is just one of the “little” anniversaries we have celebrated over the years. We celebrate the anniversary of our first date, the day we started going “steady” in high school, and possibly a few others we won’t discuss here.

Over the years, the observance of these “little” anniversaries has diminished quite a bit. Kids and life in general will do that to you. I always had to struggle and try to remember all the dates, not wanting to be the one to forget and seem uncaring.

But now, with our kids grown, my wife has a busy job and career. Oddly enough, she manufactures calendars. You would think that gives her a decided advantage on all things related to dates, but in fact just the opposite is true.

She is always thinking years ahead, and has to worry about making sure she has planned all the special occasions and dates for calendars well into the future. This means she often has no idea what the current date is, let alone what it might represent.

So the first time I gave her a card for one of our “little” anniversaries and saw the look of horror and dismay on her face as she realized she had forgotten, I knew I was on to something.

At first she tried to pretend she had left her card for me at work, but eventually admitted she had forgotten. The tearful apology that followed, along with the wonderful treatment I was accorded in the aftermath, soon had me over the disappointment of being forgotten.

But I milked it – boy, did I milk it. I gave her the sad eyes, all while telling her it really didn’t matter. After all, I told her, at least she knew that I still remembered and thus still loved her. Oh yeah, I was workin’ it.

From that day on, our “little” anniversaries have become little competitions. I always get her a card, and then give it to her just after the stroke of midnight when it becomes our anniversary. Sometimes she triumphantly pulls her own card out from under her pillow, with that smug look on her face that says I have not bested her this year.

But other times I see the look of consternation, and I know I have won. On those occasions I have gained the upper hand in our relationship, albeit for a very short time. I can see the pang of regret in her eyes, the guilt that sweeps all-too-briefly across her lovely face.

So while my friends and my children may ridicule these “little” anniversaries and the way we observe them, I merely smile knowingly. After nearly 30 years of marriage, I and others like me understand the importance of any edge we can possibly gain in our relationships.

Our next anniversary is January 7th. If you see me smiling, you’ll know she forgot. I’ve got my card all signed, ready to go.

Gay, Straight - Who Cares?

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 16:32:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on September 20, 2008.

This newspaper's recent series on how young people in the area perceive and react to gays has stirred a predictable pot of controversy.

Gay activists have applauded it. Conservative traditionalists have condemned it. And the overwhelming majority of folks simply yawned and went on with their lives.

They have done so not because the series wasn't interesting or well written, because it was indeed both. Instead, their reaction to the story merely reflects the reality of the situation both here and across Massachusetts.

Gay people are just no big deal anymore.

They are your neighbors, your friends, your family members. They have jobs like you do, pay taxes like you, and have problems similar to yours. They have their successes, their failures, and in most cases their lives are just as screwed up.They are no more or less interesting than the rest of us.

At long last, they have earned the right to be just as anonymous and ignored as their straight majority counterparts. Congratulations to them - I think.

Over the last four years homosexual marriage has been legal here in Massachusetts. Thousands of gay couples have entered into legal marriages or made their unions official in the eyes of the law. They have availed themselves to the rights and privileges previously given only to their heterosexual counterparts.

They have also been welcomed into the world of divorce, child custody battles, and the other less glamorous aspects of marriage we straight folks have kept to ourselves for so long. There is no taking the good without the bad.

But not everyone wants gay folks to become simply an accepted part of our social landscape. Some insist on trying to single out gays, to point out how different they are from the rest of us.

These good people with their "traditional values" insist homosexuals are seeking rights beyond what "normal folks" are accorded. They accuse them of seeking not equality but rather special treatment. They charge this newspaper and the "liberal media" with seeking to promote the "homosexual agenda".

Agenda? Wow - I didn't even know they had meetings.

I need to make a full disclosure here. According to the apparent rules of the prevailing political atmosphere, I am a Liberal. And even worse - I'm not embarrassed by it in the slightest.

I'm not sure which is considered worse today, being gay or being a Liberal. But it is now clear one of them is an actual choice, while the other is arguably not.

We all choose our politics, choose who and what we stand for. We choose our religions, our beliefs. And thank God we have the freedom in this country to do just that.

But choosing our sexuality? That hardly seems within our power. You can choose to perform heterosexual acts, but that does not make you a heterosexual. It is not what you do that defines your sexuality. Rather, it is who you are.

Homosexuality is not a crime - at least not in this state. Neither is it a disease for which a cure is available. It is not a political party, at least no more than conservative religious groups are.

The danger with our youth today is not that they will become too accepting of homosexuals, but that they will learn to hate and distrust people simply because they are different from themselves in ways kids cannot possibly fully understand yet.

We rightfully protest when other countries deny basic rights to women based upon nothing but their gender. Yet here at home we seek to deny rights to people we deal with every day for no reason other than their sexual identity. Is one really any worse than the other?

Does preaching acceptance make us weaker as a society? Does teaching discrimination and distrust make us stronger?

I was wondering - have I been guilty of promoting the Heterosexual Agenda all these years? Did I miss those meetings too?

What The Sun Chronicle series pointed out to me was the strides gays have made towards simply becoming ignored like the rest of us average Americans.

Sometimes you have to stand up for the right to be unnoticed.

BILL GOUVEIA is a local columnist. His writings appears here every Saturday, and he can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

The Purple Door

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 02:01:00 +0000

This column orginally apppeared in the Norton Mirror in 2003.

Early on in the relationship you are the Man of the House, the King of your Castle, the head of your family.

Then you come home one day, and your front door is purple. And now the world knows what you in your heart have known for some time. The King is dead. Long live the Queen.

Although most of my friends and acquaintances say it happened many years ago, for me official confirmation of my demise as pretender to the throne of my household came this weekend. Up until Sunday afternoon I was clinging to the pretense of power, putting up a solid front for the rest of the world. But now the symbol of my emasculation is emblazoned upon the front of my once revered domicile – that damn purple door.

It began last week, when my wife asked me (in that sly way that wives pretend to ask) what I thought about changing the color of the front door to our house. I reacted in typical male fashion. I told her there was nothing wrong with the color it was now, that I liked that color, and I did not want it to change. In my mind, thus endeth the discussion.

Then she asked me a trick question. She asked me what color our front door was. I scoffed at her ridiculous question, ignoring her knowing smile. I hemmed, I hawed, but she was not to be denied. I was finally forced to admit that I had no idea what color the front door of the house I have lived in for almost 14 years truly was. Damn those tricky females.

Despite this setback, I was adamant that the color not be changed. She said it was time to change it, and suggested black or purple. She says our house is grey, although the name of the paint color is Federal Blue. She said black would look good, but purple would really look wonderful.

I knew this was the time to stand firm. I said I did not agree, I thought the red (remember – red, I told myself) was the best color. I emphatically stated I did not like either black or purple, and would not grant my consent to such a drastic and outlandish change. It was out of the question, a bad idea, and I would not grant my needed agreement.

My wife looked at me in disgust, and told me I had no taste. It has been the same color for 14 years, she tried to reason with me. It will look classy and you’ll really like it when it’s done, she went on hopefully.

But it was no use. I felt like General Custer the night before Little Big Horn. I was calm, I was cool, and I was confident. The answer was no. Of course, I was smart enough not to state it as an order or an ultimatum. After all, 26 years of marriage had to teach me something.

My wife seemed to take it well. She shook her head, looked a little angry, but went on to bigger and better things. I swaggered off savoring the heady taste of my small victory, secure in the knowledge my red door was safe.

Then came the weekend, and work took me out of town. I talked to my wife several times while I was gone, and she couldn’t have been nicer. I was cautiously optimistic there would be no after-effects from the firm stand I had taken in turning her down flat.

Then Sunday afternoon I got home, turned my car into the driveway, and stopped short. There, glaring down at me like a maniacal giant jar of jelly, was my newly-painted purple front door. It was mocking me, and I knew in my heart I deserved it.

Oh, I went in and made the rather pointless complaints. I asked her why she painted the door after I said no. Her answer was simple and complete.

“I told you I wanted to do it”, she said.

I’m now telling people the purple door was my idea.

Feeding Grandpop to the Ducks

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 02:01:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle in December 2007.

The recent discovery of the cremated remains in a pond in Plainville turned out to be a simple thing. The woman’s last request to be scattered at the pond had been fulfilled, except instead of being “scattered” she was more “placed” in the pond, container and all.

After five years the container was discovered by some kids when the water level fell. They turned it over to police, who traced it back to the family.

While the story may have seemed odd to some, in my family it brought back memories of a similar situation that still makes us both laugh and shudder to this day.

Almost 20 years ago my wife’s maternal grandfather passed away. Grandpop, as we all called him, was one of the nicest men I have ever known. Deaf since an early age, he was a skilled engraver and artist with a kind heart and a gentle soul.

In his retirement years Grandpop would often walk to the park near his home. While there he would sketch people as they sat or walked, and every day he would feed the ducks populating the big pond in the center.

He went so often the ducks would recognize him and come running to greet him. His final wish was to be cremated and have his family scatter his ashes around the pond.

So it came to pass my wife’s entire family gathered together on a sunny Sunday afternoon to fulfill his final wish. Since disbursing remains in a public park is generally frowned upon, my dear late mother-in-law reminded us all to “be inconspicuous and not be noticed”.

Looking around at the assembled family members, I had to stifle a laugh. There were about 25 of us, all dressed in our Sunday best. The group included a large number of children, three wheelchairs, and my rather large mother-in-law carrying an urn.

I can’t be sure, but I think someone might have noticed us.

Once we got there, it was decided everyone would take a turn spreading a little of Grandpop’s ashes into the pond as we walked around it. Wanting to get my turn out of the way, I stepped up and offered to begin the process.

If you have never had the opportunity to spread ashes, you probably don’t understand the consistency of them. I certainly didn’t, and was a bit surprised. I took the urn and shook a little into the water, then passed it to the next relative and stepped back to view the process from a distance.

As the procession continued to sprinkle and move along the water’s edge, I noticed the ashes floating back to the surface of the water. As I stood wondering if I should tell anyone, I suddenly realized someone else had noticed.

The ducks, who Grandpop had fed every day, were rapidly swimming in towards shore. Where we saw a solemn ceremony, they merely saw dinner.

Panic struck me. I quickly strode down, tapped my wife on the shoulder, and quietly said “Don’t get upset, but the ducks are eating Grandpop.”

Already emotional over the death of a loved one, my wife alerted the others. There ensued a wild period of splashing, yelling and distracting the ducks to the other end of the pond while others stood at the edge in a desperate effort to sink Grandpop to his final resting place.

We would never have forgotten Grandpop under any circumstances, but after that experience it was even harder. And we did learn our lesson.

When my wife’s grandmother passed away a few years later, we went back to the park. But this time we brought bread, and during the scattering the ducks had a more conventional meal on the other side of the pond.

Please remember to check the law and the local regulations before spreading your loved ones in any particular area.

And it doesn’t hurt to have a loaf of bread handy, just in case.

Bill Gouveia, who wants to take his remains with him, is a local columnist. He can be reached in this world at aninsidelook@aol.com.

It Ain't Your Mother's Ice Cream Parlor anymore...

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 15:57:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on August 30th, 2008.

I made a big mistake last weekend. I volunteered to go out and get ice cream for the family.

This used to be a fairly simple task. You took the family order for ice cream or sundaes and made the trip to your local ice cream parlor. The most complicated part was remembering who wanted whipped cream and who didn’t.

But today things have changed. It is no longer enough to have a plain old hot fudge sundae or a simple shake. And the old-fashioned ice cream parlor has given way to a virtual ice cream assembly line, where strange and unusual concoctions are slapped together before your very eyes.

My wife’s new favorite ice cream palace is in the new Mansfield Crossing mall. Whenever I announce my travel plans might take me within a five-mile radius of this devilishly addictive place, my wife’s eyes light up the way they did for me many, many years ago.

But a trip to this ice cream nirvana is not an easy journey for this old-fashioned husband. You don’t just go to a window and order. The process is much more lengthy and involved, lacking only a credit check.

First, you stand in a line to get to a long counter. While standing you get to view the large wall signs that display the many offerings available for your gluttonous pleasure. And through the glass counter you can view the tubs of ice cream, complete with flavor names designed to confuse small minds such as my own.

In addition to the usual and boring chocolate and vanilla flavors, you get to choose from flavors like Cake Batter, Cheesecake, Sweet Cream and Cookie Dough. And then there is Orange Dreamsicle, Caramel Latte, Green Apple Gummy Bear and other varieties my tired eyes were too exhausted to peruse.

The wall also boasts of the signature choices, special products with catchy names. You can order a “Cookie Doughn’t You Want Some”, a “Strawberry Blonde”, or the Hollywood-inspired “The Pie Who Loved Me”.

When you order your ice cream selection, the young people behind the counter go into interrogation mode. What do you want with your ice cream? Would you like chocolate chips, or M & M’s, or Rainbow Sprinkles? How about raspberries, pineapple, or apple pie filling? Would you care for some Almond Joy, Black Licorice, or Malted Milk Balls mixed with your ice cream?

That’s right, I said mixed. Not only can you get these additional elements added on top of your dessert, you can get them chopped and mixed into your ice cream with near-surgical precision.

Using large metal shovel-looking devices, the employees slice your ice cream more than they scoop it. It is rolled and spread on a counter. Then all these extra choices are mixed in and rolled into a giant ice cream ball, and placed into either a large waffle cone bowl or a more standard dish.

But even the dishes are complicated. I discovered I could not ask for a small, medium or large. Rather I am forced to choose from one of their custom sizes known as “Like It”, “Love It”, and the overwhelming “Gotta Have it”. I admit to being uncomfortable ordering an ice cream and telling them to make it a “Love It”.

Once I finally get my ice creams and move down the line to the register, yet another surprise awaits. As I paid my bill, I saw a jar for tips. I dropped a dollar in the jar, and began to walk away.

I stopped when I heard someone yell, “Hey guys, we got a tip. How about a song?”

In a moment the entire working crew behind the counter began chanting a clever (if somewhat unenthusiastic) little jingle about their ice cream and service. I paused to listen, somehow feeling obligated since my unwitting donation had started this whole thing. Then I smiled politely, and made a break for the car and a clean getaway.

The things I do for my wife. I’m just too good to her.

Of course, I did eat my entire sundae. I forget what it was called. But believe me, I earned it.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist who has clearly enjoyed far too many ice creams. His column appears every Saturday, and he can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Mansfield Tragedy Ongoing...

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 20:03:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on Saturday, August 2, 2008.

There are stories with happy endings, stories with sad endings, and stories that never truly end. The tragic tale of Rosie Shatz and Aaron Fine is unfortunately one of the latter.

On December 2, 2006 Rosie Shatz was a carefree 10-year-old girl riding her bike near her home. Aaron Fine was an off-duty Mansfield police officer driving a truck belonging to his landscaping business. They were both living lives of hope and promise.

But when the police officer’s truck collided with the little girl’s bike, both their lives ended – one literally, and one figuratively.

Rosie died that awful day, leaving her grieving family seeking answers they will likely never get.

Fine would be acquitted of motor vehicle homicide, but convicted of operating negligently and without the proper license. He was sentenced to two years in the House of Correction, but will serve only two months.

The emotional damage to himself, his wife and children, his parents and his friends has no doubt forever changed the officer and his family. Their answers are also difficult to find.

If Fine was a carpenter by trade, his future after prison would be quite a bit more certain. He would be free to go back to his vocation and perhaps find himself again in the work he trained for much of his life.

But he is a police officer, and by all accounts a fine one. A former leader of the local police union, his job performance has been hailed by many. It is a profession he loves.

“Aaron’s worked hard. He wants to be a police officer. That means more to him than anything else he would do”, said his father recently.

But he may not be able to return to his job.

That will be up to the Police Chief and officials in Mansfield, as they struggle to balance fairness to their employee with the best interests of the citizens and the department.

What is the right decision here? That is a tough call, and no one envies those who must make it. There is much to consider.

Aaron Fine made a mistake – of that there is no doubt. He did not set out that awful morning to kill a little girl. There was no evil intent here. It was a stupid decision with tragic results.

Who among us has never done something stupid that could have possibly endangered lives? But most of us got away with it. There but for the grace of God go I, the saying goes.

But Aaron Fine did not get away with it. He hit Rosie Shatz and she died. He cannot escape that awful fact, nor avoid the guilt and responsibility that will follow him the rest of his life.

Fine should serve his brief sentence, go back to his family, and do his best to lead a productive and happy life. He should not lose everything for this one horrible error.

But he should lose his job on the Mansfield police force.

Fair or not, police officers are held to a higher standard. They are the very symbol of law enforcement. They do not have to be perfect, but they simply cannot callously break the laws they are sworn to enforce.

Fine had a responsibility to know the law and follow it. He failed, and a little girl died. If he were to return, the credibility and integrity of the police department would be severely damaged.

Maybe Aaron Fine can be a police officer somewhere else. Maybe he can be happy in another profession. But if he returns to his job in Mansfield, he will forever be “that cop that killed the little girl”. Both he and the town need better than that.

Fine’s father told the Sun Chronicle “He cries about Rosie Shatz. He cries about the world. He is being brutalized, and he won’t let go”.

Aaron Fine needs to let go – of his pain, of his anguish, and unfortunately of his job. He made a big mistake. He must now move on and live his life.

Which is far more than little Rosie Shatz can do.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist and longtime town official. His column appears here every Saturday, and he can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Unethical or just dumb?

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 18:24:00 +0000

This column first appeared in the Sun Chronicle on Saturday, June 28, 2008.

This morning I would ask every registered voter in the Town of Mansfield to do something.

Please walk into your bathroom, look carefully in the mirror, and tell me – do you look as stupid as your town officials apparently think you are?

In an outrageous situation, Mansfield officials this week stopped a building project that had apparently begun despite one small detail: The money had yet to be approved by the voters.

Officials blamed the situation on poor communication that extended through several months, through multiple public meetings, and discussions between the town’s highest elected and appointed officials.

To review briefly, the school department wants to build modular classrooms to house an increase in students at a cost of $775,000. Voters face a Proposition 2-1/2 override next month for this and other projects.

School Superintendent Brenda Hodges, Finance Director Ed Vozzella and School Committee member Jean Miller say they were told by Town Manager John D’Agostino the money would be appropriated at the May Town Meeting and was not in doubt.

D’Agostino, Finance Committee Chairman Andy Gazzolo and Selectman Chairman Sandra Levine say the school officials misunderstood the funding timeline. They also claim they thought school officials were talking about the $50,000 design phase, not the actual construction.

In April, a contract was signed with the builder to proceed. Actual construction apparently began, all without the approval of the voters.

Selectman Levine says the mix-up was simply a use of words that did not jibe. “It was just a misunderstanding” the chairman stated.

Showing up to a wedding at the wrong time is a misunderstanding. Misreading your spouse’s supposed romantic signals is a misunderstanding. Coming back from the supermarket with French bread instead of dinner rolls is a misunderstanding.

Beginning work on a $775,000 public building project without approval is not a misunderstanding – it is a screw-up. A major screw-up. An inexcusable major screw-up that cannot be tolerated or simply explained away as a “misunderstanding”.

Mansfield town officials are now in a very difficult position. This preposterous situation can only be explained in one of two ways.

Perhaps officials were trying to get the townspeople invested in the project early so they would feel obligated to approve funding through an override or other means. If the project was already started and a debt incurred, it would be harder to say no. This would, of course, make the town officials sneaky and unethical.

Or it is possible these experienced, educated officials truly misunderstood the need for funding to be actually approved and available before a nearly one-million dollar public building project could be undertaken. That would mean they weren’t being sneaky or unethical – just dumb.

So which is it, Mansfield officials? Is this a case of politically unethical behavior, or just good old-fashioned stupidity?

Either way, it certainly doesn’t give Mansfield residents much reason to have confidence in their elected and appointed officials.

This is not someone misreading the fine print in a contract, or a complicated state reimbursement formula, or the misapplication of a complex law or regulation. This is an entire collection of Mansfield’s top financial officials doing a Keystone Cop impersonation over what should be the simplest of matters.

You go out to bid. You get a price. The voters approve the expenditure. You build the project. That is the way things work, the way they have worked since horses and buggies rode the streets of Mansfield. It is not rocket science.

Now this same group of town officials is asking Mansfield voters to approve a $3.2 million override, the spending of which they will oversee.

Does anyone else think there might be a small credibility problem here? A better explanation is needed, and quickly.

It may very well be this proposed override is necessary and a good thing for Mansfield citizens. Voters should not automatically decide to vote No on the override based upon this recent financial fiasco.

But boy, it has to make them think twice. If their town officials can’t handle the simple stuff, why should they trust them with even more money?

Of course, voters could say No – and then later tell officials it was all just a “misunderstanding”.

Bill Gouveia is a local columnist who is always frightened when looking in the mirror. He can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

Father's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 17:46:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Sun Chronicle on June 14, 2008.

Tomorrow is Father’s Day, and across the area Dads are preparing for the onslaught of bad cologne, ugly ties, homemade cards and useful power tools that usually accompany this auspicious occasion.

Last Father’s Day was my first without my own Dad, and as a result it was a bit subdued. Tomorrow is also a ground-breaking Father’s Day for me, but for a much happier reason.

This year my oldest son joins the much-maligned Fraternal Order of Fatherhood club (FOF for short). With the birth of my first grandchild two months ago (did I mention his name is William?) my son Aaron is officially entitled to all the rights and privileges that come with recognition on Father’s Day.

His wonderful wife is planning a great celebration, complete with a trip to Fenway Park for a tour with son Will. I am sure his first Father’s Day will be both memorable and meaningful.

For me, this has put a bit of the spark back into Father’s Day. While I have no complaint with either of my sons or my wife when it comes to how I am treated on Dad’s Day, I must admit as my kids have gotten older the day has become something less than it was.

I miss the years when my young kids would trash the kitchen in a desperate attempt to make me breakfast in bed. It was some of the worst food – and best times – I have ever had.

As I type this column, to my left sits a pencil holder made by my oldest son in the first grade for Father’s Day. It is an aluminum can wrapped in paper and badly colored with crayon – but I have saved it for over 20 years now. It sits next to the decorated rock paperweight my youngest son Nate made for me when he was in kindergarten.

You just don’t throw that stuff away.

My lovely wife has gotten me some wonderful Father’s Day presents over the years, some useful and some unusual. My favorite is the year she gave me a toilet seat. I unwrapped it and stared at it like it was from another planet, not quite comprehending the significance of such an emotional and thoughtful gift.

When I questioned the appropriateness of her lovely gesture, she reminded me money was tight and we needed a toilet seat. I nodded solemnly, making a mental note to buy her a bathroom scale next Mother’s Day.

But this year I am excited for my son. He loves being a father, and seeing him get to experience the joy of being a parent has lifted my heart and lightened my spirit.

We are all influenced by our parents, in ways both good and bad. My son inherited my love of writing and my skill for placing my foot squarely in my mouth. But I’d like to think he also learned from me about being a father – both from what I did well and what I could have done better.

Nothing pleases and dismays us more than seeing ourselves come back through our children. We proudly note the similarities that make us smile, and gloss over the irritating traits we know full well they got from us.

But watching my son as a Dad is a great joy, one I had not really considered before. Welcoming him into FOF is sort of like taking him to his first ballgame. It is a right of passage for both of us.

My relationship with my Dad taught me to never hold back my feelings for my boys. I have told them countless times they will never be too old to kiss their father, and I tell them I love them as often as I can. I have always tried to be a positive influence in their lives, and with a few exceptions I think I have succeeded.

Now to see that all coming back in my son being a father to my grandchild – well, that’s one of the best Father’s Day presents I could ever receive.

Of course, it’s no toilet seat…

Bill Gouveia is a father, grandfather, and local columnist who wishes all the other Dads out there a great day tomorrow. Bill can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.

I'm a Grandfather!

noreply@blogger.com (Bill Gouveia) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 01:41:00 +0000

This column originally appeared in the Attleboro Sun Chronicle on Saturday, April 12, 2008.

I'm a grandfather.

It hasn't truly sunk in yet, but I am a grandfather nonetheless. And it is already one of the greatest experiences of my life.

Last Thursday my oldest son called to tell us his wife was officially in labor. Since the due date was not for another 13 days, we felt confident this was just a false alarm. But apparently no one told the baby about the due date.

Around 8:30 p.m. my son called again to say this was the real deal, and the baby would probably be born between 2-4 a.m. the next day. Coincidentally, that would be my daughter-in-law's 30th birthday. He told us to stay home, and when the time came he would call us to make the trip from Norton to Hyannis.

Then at 9:33 p.m. my phone beeped. It was a text message from my Aaron, my son. All it said was "Now!"

I ran to my wife, who is recovering from recent major surgery. I asked if she wanted to go and be there for the blessed event. She teared up and confessed she simply wasn't physically able to make the trip.

My heart ached for her, and I said I would stay home and wait with her. She looked up and said "Go Bill - if the roles were reversed, I'd leave you in a heartbeat for this!"

God, I love that woman. So I jumped in the car and sped off.

As I raced down Route 495 my mind was working overtime. Would it be a boy or a girl? The parents-to-be had chosen to be surprised. Most thought it was going to be a girl. I had steadfastly insisted it was going to be a boy.

I thought back to the night this baby's father was born. He took his sweet time and was three weeks late. My wife's labor with him had been relatively short, and all 9 pounds, 1 ounce of him had come quickly into the world.I remembered that night they handed him to me and said "Here's your son." There are no words to describe that feeling - the wonderment, awe and total joy. And now tonight, my child was going have a child of his own.

My phone rang at 10:14 p.m. It was my daughter-in-law's phone. I nearly drove off the road trying to answer it.It was Aaron. "Hey Dad", he said conversationally. I asked what was happening, and he laughed and said "You want to hear something pretty neat?"

Seconds later I heard the strong cry of a newborn baby, and chills ran down my spine. "That's your new grandchild," Aaron said with pride.

I managed to inquire as to the sex of the baby. My son - who is just way too much like his father - said "I'll tell you when you get here Dad."

I threatened him with grave bodily injury if he did not tell me right away. He laughed and said "Dad, just get here. That's your new grandson."

I asked him to repeat it. When he did, I proceeded to scream "I have a grandson!" as loudly as I could, while also managing to say I knew it would be a boy. I asked for the name, but he said he had to go and would see me in a bit.

When I got there I kissed my son and daughter-in-law, and then Aaron walked me over to the baby."Meet your new grandson" my son beamed. Then he looked at me and said "He's William - William George Thomas Gouveia, named after his grandfathers."

I heard nothing after he said William.

I was speechless (no small feat) and had to sit down. I had a grandson, he was beautiful, and he shared my first name. I was overwhelmed with emotion and love for my child, his wife, and their new baby son.

I have had much happiness in my life, but this moment will be special for as long as I live. I have a grandson, he is healthy and perfect, and all is right with the world.

Did I mention his name is William?

BILL GOUVEIA is a local columnist who - in case you hadn't heard - has a new grandson named William. Grandpa can be reached at aninsidelook@aol.com.