David X. Sheehan
Bio
I write my memories, family, school, jobs, fatherhood, friendship, serious and silly. I read Vocal authors and am humbled by most. I'm 76, in Thomaston, Maine. I seek to spread my brand of sincere love for all who will receive.
Stories (72)
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A Horse of Another Color
I fell in love with her purely by accident. In those days, I travelled a lot and always let work get in the way of affairs of the heart. Building bridges for an international consortium, only gave me time to work and eat with little sandman time each day.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Beat
Summer Memories from 2013
In 2013, I took a trip from my place at Fort Myers Beach, Florida to spend the summer in Brattleboro, Vermont. I would stay a couple of months with my sister Pat and her husband Conrad. They were about to open a B&B called The One Cat. Pat had spent many many years in England, and she and Conrad, got a good deal on the house, after deciding to return to the USA; it was a good chance to catch up with each other. The idea was for me to get away from the high temperatures in a hot Florida, and spend some time in a more mountainous atmosphere where the summers were cooler. (WRONG) The summer of 2013 in Brattleboro, Vermont had a couple of weeks, when the temps, even at night, did not fall below 90 degrees.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Wander
My First Job Had Impact
Three floors up, I knock a few times on an ordinary door; wooden and painted the most common beige of my day, which, at this point, is 1963. It’s a Saturday and I’m delivering groceries for Gilmore’s Market, Brockton, Massachusetts; a Mom & Pop Store on the corner of Grove Street and Montello Street and around since the early 1900’s. I am 16 and only needed a couple of minutes to slow my breathing from the climb. I wondered if my dad and his brothers made the same 3 story walk ups when they were my age. I got this, my first job, as a sort of tradition passed from my grandfather to my dad and his brothers then on to me and my brother, Christopher, a year or two after me.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Journal
And Then We Were Six
1966 was, in today’s terms, a breakout year of firsts for me. First college, first girlfriend, first wife, first time father to be, first time living apart from family; all under blue skies with only a great future to look forward to, my life was good. By October, “Cherish” by The Association, seemed a reasonable word.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Families
In the Beginning
I first began writing little bloggy stuff on Facebook, back in 2012, after retiring from my Customer Service job at Publix Supermarket on Fort Myers Beach, Florida. I wrote mostly of what I write about today, me and my childhood. Memories of people that romp around in my mind, even after all these years. In 2014, I made a peregrination, that ended in my home town as a committee member of my 50th class reunion.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Longevity
Writing is I
My first few days on Facebook were tedious, getting friends? How do you do that? It was hard and frustrating to me. I was recently retired, 62, and like an infant when it came to trying this, for me, new media platform. My daughter, Jennifer or Jenny, Jen or Poo or Poo Poo or strung together Jenny Poo Poo, was calm. She understood my Facebook friend’s frenzy and told me her friends on Facebook, were a collection of people from when she was little, school friends, work buddies, relatives and church. This was enough to launch me into seeking Facebook friends.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Motivation
Sleeping With Your Basketball
Dribbling my basketball up Main Street in Thomaston, Maine, heading to the academy yard to shoot around, I had to stop several times to catch my breath, and to yank the towel from my back pocket and wipe the sweat from my face and forehead. No kids around to make up teams, or even one to play HORSE with, but it didn’t stop me. I was, in my mind, the most valuable player on my team of one. Today I would be shirts instead of skins, because my 74 years old belly would scare small children and disapproving adults. Even the squirrels stood up on their haunches, to see what this ballooning blob of bloated blubber was up to on such a hot day. Thinking “no varmint ever called me Porky”, I started with a layup from the left side and it hit the bottom of the rim and came back at me quickly. Still got those cat-like reflexes Porky, I said under my breath, and dropped back a few feet and popped one in from halfway to the foul line. The sound was music to my ears, swish, nothing but net or on this day nothing but chain, either way, there’s a shot of dopamine to my brain that makes me want to do a Fred Astaire (with a dribble in the middle) across the court and do a quick turnaround jumper, swish, another surge of dopamine (also known as the happy hormone or the feel-good hormone). I can go about ten minutes non-stop, but this pesky COPD, blocks my air supply and so, before I get to my panic mode, I stop. This day I was prepared, I had my over one shoulder back pack, and it contained 4 bottles of Poland Springs (what else I’m in Maine), some bug spray, though any “squitos” today would drown or slide right off my Adonis/Buddha body, toothpicks (don’t know why), my cell phone and little notebook, which I use to keep track of how long of what I did and what it was, to be converted to calories lost, when I get home to my laptop and its My Fitness Window, and to jot down thoughts that come to me while doing, well, anything, the idea being to find the perfect alignment of words and phrases that would make me famous someday, hopefully not posthumously, and pushing for the run on sentence record. The best item out of my back pack cost 34.99, a telescoping portable stool, which I’m sitting on now. From previous experience, I know that 10 minutes of constant shooting around, with no stopping, can burn approximately 90 calories, so I make a note. I’m going to try for 60 minutes today, at least that’s what my head says. Taking 2 puffs on my Proventil (Albuterol Sulfate), and grunting while standing, round two, coming up, and I dribble left-handed to the right side of the foul line and quickly hoist up the kind of shot you use as the shot clock runs out, and boink off the front of the rim, and the ball goes, of course, running down the school yard toward Route 1. Ah, a good chance to try my sprinting technique, and makes the best use of this second ten-minute vignette. On the way back to the court, I dribble, and almost send the ball back to the road, trying to do a behind the back move that was so easy, years ago. Seems there was a lot less to go around then.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Fiction
The Pond's Secret
Gordon’s Pond was renamed each time, the cute Cape Cod House, on Spring Street, that sat above it was sold. It’s funny, but when I was a boy, not many people moved. The pond seemed to change names every couple of winters or so. In summer it wasn’t much to look at, some frogs and tadpoles, and occasional snake, but there were bigger and better ponds around town. It was in winter, when it was below freezing for enough days in a row, that the Gordon’s would have the fire department hook up to the hydrant just up the street and lay down an even layer of water, so that at its deepest point, it would be maybe three feet. On a sunny day, the frozen pond would reflect the Gordon’s house and landscape beautifully, but this didn’t last long. On Saturday, one by one, cars would randomly slow, stop, let out a child or two, and they would descend the slope to the pond. They would sit on logs that had been placed there for the sole purpose of pulling on your skates and tying them up tightly. Soon, any picturesque reflection would be gone until the next time water was added. Now straight and crooked lines would mar the once clear surface, and a sort of build up of a slushy nature would be made. For me and my pals, this was a perfect reason to carry hockey sticks and brush the excess ice off to the side. At opposite ends, we’d pile up two straight lines, that served as goals for the first hockey games of the winter. Time of day and size of player determined who would be playing, usually the little ones early and then the big kids after noon. Somehow, everyone else skated around the action, sometimes having to quickly move aside to avoid a three-man rush. No one had the right equipment, just skates and sticks and pucks, it hurt like hell when a stick rode all the way up and whacked a mitten covered hand, or a stick to the shin would give you some time on the sideline, where you could sit on a log and literally put your skates into a fire that was always going, and was pit stop to warm hands and sometimes feet. At night, there were a couple of lights hung up high in the trees facing and shining dimly on the pond, this skating was for the parents and those lucky enough to be going steady and needed some together time. No hockey could be played, and thus at 9:30 PM the lights would blink a couple of times and at 10:00 PM off they’d go, leaving only the dying fire for skaters to change from skates to shoes or boots. For years, we used the pond for skating or we’d use the one down by the Police Station. Eventually an ice-skating rink was built in Brockton, and the serious hockey players began going there. It was too expensive for me, and my mother would say, you have a hoop outside, shoot some baskets, so I did.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Fiction
May all your lights be green
It was a quiet ride home from The Frog Pond Restaurant. Mary’s morning sickness had brought a quick end to their first anniversary dinner. She was leaning toward me, but not on me, like she would have back in 50’s and 60’s, when bench seats in the front of most cars, afforded a green light for passion to continue, even while driving. She held my arm and closed her eyes, as it began to rain, and I was annoyed, not distracted by the trinket swinging from the rearview mirror. It was a mini replica of a hanging traffic light, yellow in color and only different by the fact that all three lights were green, a little tag read, “May all your lights be green”. Each time a car would come toward us, their headlights would illuminate the green light, and reflect on my beautiful wife’s face.
By David X. Sheehan4 years ago in Families
