Auntie B, Fred Lynn, Carl Yastrzemski, & Me

I promised I would have something much less intense - and more uplifting - than the most recent group of posts, and here it is. 🙂

Two defining traits of anyone who transitions are determination and perseverance. It was my good fortune to learn that these traits ran in my family and that, I, too, could learn them for myself. This is the story of my Aunt B, a hot summer, lessons in math and life, the Boston Red Sox, and hot fudge sundaes - not necessarily in that order. 🙂 Follow along below the fold.

My Aunt B was an SSND (School Sisters of Notre Dame) nun, celebrating her silver jubilee that year. She had been teaching fifth grade for most of those 25 years at her parish in Cambridge MA. She was beloved by her students, in spite of - or perhaps because of - her firm but caring manner. I recall her stories of students she kept after school for some offense who then offered to help her clean her room once their punishment was done. The number of former students in attendance at her jubilee celebration attests to the impact she had on her students over the years.

While she was close to all of her numerous nieces and nephews (she was one of eight children), we shared a special bond, as we were both die-hard fans of the Boston Red Sox. The summer of 1975 was a particularly magical time, as the Sox were en route to the American League pennant and their epic World Series with the mighty Cincinnati Reds, a/k/a The Big Red Machine, still considered one of the greatest ever played. (We Sox fans understand that they won that Series three games to four. 😉)

The custodian at her school was a longtime season ticket holder (box seats, no less) who kindly shared them regularly with my aunt - and, often, your.humble blogstress. Many years we would attend 20-30 games, some years even more. We would both bring transistor radios with the little plastic ear bud, listening intently to the Sox's stellar radio broadcast team of Ned Martin and Jim Woods, two of the best in the business. We didn't talk much during the games; we were serious fans, and this was serious business.

That was the backdrop for Auntie B's weekly effort to help me master the mysterious world of fractions. Each Wednesday morning either my mother or father would drive me to the convent adjacent to the grammar school where she taught. We would begin at 9:00 sharp, sitting in a small office adjacent to the main entrance and working diligently for the next three hours. 

Auntie B was an excellent teacher, working her ever-present stick of cinnamon Dentyne gum as I struggled mightily to master the seemingly impossible world of fractions. She never once so much as hinted that she was impatient or frustrated. Each time I tried and failed to grasp her latest approach, she would offer words of encouragement and praise my effort, even if we weren't achieving the hoped-for results.

We would typically wrap things up at noon, noting where we left off so we could pick things up from there in a week's time. We would then usually catch the electric bus to Downtown Crossing, the main shopping area in downtown Boston. We would alternate having lunch at Brigham's or Bailey's, where I would munch on a hamburger with mustard (don't ask me why I chose that particular combination) and she would usually have a hot dog. We would then indulge our sweet tooth (sweet teeth?) with an ice cream sundae. Both were excellent, but a Bailey's sundae was something special:

We met each Wednesday from mid-May through the third week of June. We had one remaining session, as I was flying to North Dakota, believe it or not, where I would spend the summer with my Aunt M (my mother's twin sister), Uncle A, and cousins Mc & Mk (also identical twins, which is exceedingly rare). (I will write a separate post about my adventures in Langdon ND in a future post at some point.)

Our car pulled up to the convent on that steamy late spring/early summer day. I rang the bell while my father fished out his car keys and opened the trunk to retrieve his tool box as Auntie B opened the door.

 "Right on time," she said with a smile, then turned to my father. 

"Thank you for offering to help with the desks we talked about, Bill," she said.

He nodded solemnly.

"No problem at all. I'll just add it to your tab."

"Tab?" she said in mock disbelief. "It's about time you actually did some work, Willie Boy."

("Willie Boy" was her affectionate nickname for my father when she was having a bit of fun with him, while "Bill" was how she addressed him in a normal conversation.)

"Well, at least this time I won't have to worry about getting an infection from all of the splinters I got sanding down those desks a few years ago," he said, poker-faced, He held up his hand. "Why look, I think I see one of them right now..."

Auntie B snorted her derisively, then they both laughed. She turned serious as she held out the keys to the school.

"Thank you, B." she said. "This will be a huge help."

He nodded.

"I'll be there most of the morning," he said. "I have a traffic detail at 1:00 PM, so I'll have to wrap things up before then. M (note: my mother) will pick him up later." 

"So," Auntie B said as we entered the small conference room adjacent to the front entrance. "I thought we might try something different today and see if it helps. Is that OK with you?"

"Sure," I said. "If you think it will help."

"I do think it will help," she said.

She pulled a notebook from her satchel and wrote for several seconds, turning it face down when she finished. 

"Let's pretend we're talking about the Red Sox," she said, "particularly the hitters."

She flipped the notebook over, and I read the following.

"Carl Yastrzemski comes up to bat ten times and gets three hits. What's his batting average?"

".300," I replied immediately.

"Right!" she said. "Very good. Try this one: Fred Lynn gets four hits in 12 at-bats. What's his batting average?"

".333," I said after a moment of mental gymnastics.

"Right again!" she said. "So, how do you know that Yaz hit .300 and Fred Lynn hit .333?"

"Well, Yay had three hits in ten at-bats, like you said, and Lynn had four out of 12."

"And those are... what?" she asked, smiling.

I thought for a moment. Then it clicked.

"Fractions!" I exclaimed. "They're fractions!"

"That's right!" she said. Her slender hands reached out and squeezed mine. "See? You did it! I'm so proud of you!"

"Thank you, Auntie B," I said. "I should have figured this out a long time ago though."

She shook her head vigorously. 

"No," she said, her voice firm. "That's not true at all."

"You've been coming here every week since you got out of school for the summer. You could have been spending this time playing with your friends, or swimming in your pool, or sleeping late. Or you could have quit after a week or two.

"But you didn't. You kept coming and worked as hard as you could. And you stuck with it until you figured it out.

"Hard work and determination will take you a long way," she said. "And not just with math. You can do just about anything you set your mind to if you work hard enough at it like you did this summer. Never forget. Promise?"

I smiled.

"Promise."

"Good," she said. "Now let's get going. If we hurry we can catch the next trolley!"

***

 

Auntie B's words stayed with me after that June morning. I still found math to be a challenge, but I knew I could persevere if I remembered what I had learned that day from my aunt about hard work and self-belief. That lesson also helped in other areas of my life, particularly as I grew older and it became apparent that I was different from other kids, even if I couldn't yet articulate those differences.

In August 1980 we were attending a Red Sox game against the Oakland A's with my cousin R, who was charitably be described as a casual fan (and I say that with no malice), consuming an awe-inducing number of Fenway Franks and lukewarm, watered-down Cokes. The Sox were a so-so team that year, finishing the season in 4th place with a record of 83-77. The A's would also finish with an 83-79 record en route to a first half AL West division title the following (strike-shortened) season. 

In 1980, however, this was hardly a marquee matchup, particularly for a Red Sox fan, as they trailed 6-2 headed into the bottom of the 9th inning trailing Oakland 6-2 in a snooze fest.

"Wanna get going?" R asked Auntie B. "They're aren't gonna to come back from this."

"I'd like to stay if you don't mind," she said. She turned to me. 

"How about you, L?"

When it was the two of us we had an unspoken pact: you never leave until the final out is tallied, win or lose. It was a hot, humid day, and the game had hardly been one worth preserving for posterity up to that point. Nonetheless, I had already up my mind before she finished asking the question.

"Let's stay," I said. "After all, you never know." 

R, always an amiable, agreeable sort, simply shrugged, said sure, and flagged down the cotton candy vendor.

Well for once that misbegotten season my words were prophetic. In a wild half-inning, the Sox fought back with a Jim Rice solo homer, two singles, a hit batsmen, and a base-clearing triple by Sox rookie Glenn Hoffman. Jim Rice led off the bottom of the 10th with a titanic home run, his second of the game, for the walk-off win.

"Can you believe it?!?" exclaimed Auntie B to myself and R, shaking her head. "What a game!"

R turned to me with a wide grin.

"You were right - you never do know, do you?"

"Nope," I said, returning his grin. "You never do."

***

I remained close to my Aunt B through the years. When the Red Sox completed their historic, near-miraculous comeback against the New York Yankees in the 2004 American League Championship Series and then swept the St. Louis Cardinals for their first World Series win in 86 years, Auntie B was the very first person I called from Seattle, where I was living at the time. We were able to celebrate one of the happiest moments of our lives together, a memory I will always cherish.

Aunt B lived long enough to meet Cassidy. As documented elsewhere in this blog, my transition met with much resistance from my family, particularly my parents and my now ex-brother, a/k/a F***head (my sister C calls him far worse, believe me). I was not welcomed at that first Christmas as myself, a painful, bitter pill to swallow. 

On Christmas Eve I went to retrieve my mail. On top of the pile of bills was a card postmarked from  Cambridge and with Auntie B's unmistakable handwriting. I opened it up and began reading.

"Dear, dear Cassidy," it read. "Your mother and father shared your news with me today. I'm so sorry they can't currently provide you with the love, support, and respect that you deserve. I will pray for them to find the strength and compassion to do so. And I will pray that you finally get to live the life you have always deserved as your true self at long last. 

"Always remember: you can do anything you put your mind to.

"Merry Christmas, dearest Cassidy.

"Your loving Aunt B."

Thank you, Auntie B. Love you too.

***

A few songs to wrap this one up. First. the quintessential Who song (at least in my book), "The Real Me," from Quadrophenia:

Next up, one of Bruce Springsteen's best B-sides, "Be True," recorded live in March 1988 in Detroit:

And to wrap up this post, my favorite Talking Heads song, "This Must Be The Place." Check out its lovely, charming video:

 

Until next time, hope you are in the right place.