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 (69/0)
Music Pill Angst Reliever
When I think of threading the needle, and because I’m a guy, my mind shifts to football and basketball, not so much the beautiful fluffy works of sewing various cloths together. Regardless of genre, threading the needle requires perfection in moving something through a difficult obstacle and coming out neatly on the other side. The internet calls “to thread the needle” a verb, to find harmony or strike a balance between conflicting forces, interests, etc., and normally is used to indicate difficulty of doing so; also, sarcastically, for a failed attempt.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Beat
July 4th The Fireworks Day
News of yet another killer bomb, filled the office. Lately, it seemed that’s all people talked about, at water coolers and cafeterias all over the greater Boston area. “Probably another postal guy, pissed off for some lame reason” said Richie Reinold, my friend and fellow buyer here at Oakhill Foodservices. Others chipped in their two cents worth, and as the mundane daily reports of outs and inventory levels found each person’s desk, all went separate ways to conquer the demons of their day.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Criminal
Chocolate Cake to Die for
The headline read “Lexington crash, leaves man hospitalized in coma and on life support”. Typical front-page stuff for the Beantown Messenger, one of Boston’s oldest newspapers. Pete, a veteran reporter, leaned way back in his chair and with feet on the desk, blew out a perfect smoke ring from his unfiltered Chesterfield King cigarette. “I don’t f____ing, understand why they don’t put the f___ing man’s name on the front page. Now you have to waste your f____ing time, looking it up on page 12”. It could be said of Pete, that he never met an expletive he didn’t use, and often. Pete shared the office with four other reporters, two women and two men, all of whom had marvelous control over their expletives.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Fiction
Another Old Barn Story
As a pre-teen boy in the 1950’s, escaping the confines of 361 Spring Street in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts, was exhilarating; even if it meant I had to take my younger brother, Chris, with me. It was freeing, knowing parents weren’t looking over our shoulders and we could do what kids do. What that was, was never sure, but it started with walking out of the back door (“don’t slam the door”) and out of our driveway, which, at the time, was made of small sharp stones. Kicking a rock down the street, and crossing over North Elm Street, Chris and I were headed toward the opening on the odd side of Spring, just before reaching the Spring Street School further down on the right side.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Families
The Stringy and Spot Club
My father, David X. Sheehan Sr., exited the U.S. Navy in 1946. His hitch was up, in the Naval District of Portland, Maine. He had met my mother, Willa Anne Tibbetts, while on Shore Patrol duty at George’s Delicatessen, where she waitressed and he and his partner often ate.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Families
Jerry Krebs Was My Best Friend
Growing up in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts, my closest friend was one Jerry Krebs. I was born on March 4, 1947 and Jerry on March 19, 1947. Gerard Allen Krebs lived at 19 Maolis Avenue, a quick bike ride from the Sheehan house at 361 Spring Street.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Families
A Walk In The Snow
It had been twenty years since the EMPW’s (Electro Magnetic Pulse Weapons) had destroyed any semblance of normalcy; and Aras couldn’t believe how arduous the hike, so far, to the ocean was. Air travel no longer worked and routes that had once been easily drivable, were warped and broken; walking was the best means of getting from one place to another. Aras had left Albany, New York in hopes of finding relatives in Osterville, Massachusetts on Cape Cod. With every step, the visions of hugging and better yet, talking to a friendly face, strengthened the resolve to make it home. Figuring an average of 10 miles a day, Aras reckoned it would take about 25 days to complete the trip. The plan was to arrive on Christmas Day, as long as there were no life threatening, obstacles to overcome.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Fiction
Put some Vaseline on it
My father spent no small amount of time teaching us as he had been taught. Treat everyone with respect, especially women; do the best you could no matter what the subject was. Respect and love your mother, and above all if you get hurt "don't cry". My brother, Chris, and I became intimately acquainted with Papa's many remedies: "Rub it up", "put some dirt on it", "big boys don't cry", "they're tough". Phrases like these along with "put some Vaseline on it" or "it'll make an American out of you", each meant to discourage us from crying, but usually had the opposite effect.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Families
Miss Tibby
“If you make me cry, I’ll unplug the crock pot.” This was a statement I made to my sister, Vicki, on Sunday. In that moment, I thought to myself, would this be a good way to start a memoir? Our conversation continued, while trying a new idea I had, trying to slow cook a dozen chicken legs in a small crockpot. As I lifted the lid to take a whiff, we continued our conversation, which had to do with how similar we are in some ways to our mother, particularly in the way she interfaced with people. Looking back at Vicki, I noticed tears, which led to the first sentence of this writing. I’ll leave it for Vicki to recall her memories, as I begin to unfold some of my recollections of a woman I knew as Mama.
By David X. Sheehan3 years ago in Families