Getting stitches was a rite of passage in the Brooks family.  My oldest scar, I am told, dates back to the toddler days.  I toddled to a coffee table and slammed my head into its sharp corner.  Stitches.  Scar embedded in right eyebrow.  (I have that table, by the way.  It’s consigned to my basement forever.)

The first stitches I remember came as a result of a rock fight at the site of new home construction.  Two (idiots) against two (morons)…shielded by huge mounds of dirt.  I jumped up to wing a rock, not knowing my teammate Walter Bater (who, yes, had the unfortunate nickname Master) was right behind me, ready to uncork.  And he did.  Directly into the back of my head.  Knocked the sense out of me, apparently forever.  This was not easy to explain to my parents.  Or the E.R. doctors.  Stitches.  Scar, hidden by hair which is rapidly disappearing.

A couple of years later, at breakfast, I dropped a gallon glass bottle of orange juice.  I tried to catch it before it hit the floor.  I missed, then saw red in the orange.  It was a gusher.  Left middle finger sliced open at the base.  As my mother rushed to dress to get me to the hospital, I saw the gash, and had this conversation with my father.

“I’m gonna puke.”

“If you puke, I’ll kill you.”

I didn’t puke, he let me live, and I can still hear him saying those words like it was yesterday.  Stitches.  Impressive scar.

I defiled my left hand again a few years later when I was stocking pipe in a plumbing supply company.  Shoved a piece of one-inch pipe deep into the meat of my greasy hand.  It was, in a word, gross.  My boss and I had a deep mutual dislike, and he took no small amount of glee in my predicament.  I knew he had just one lung, and offered to deflate it for him.   Lots of stitches.  Pipe-sized scar.

There was also the time I stepped on a rusty nail.  Twice.  With both feet.  I remember the look my parents gave each other. (He’s ours?)  No scar, though, so that’s a story for another day.

By the way, Colin’s fine show airs weekdays at 1pm on WNPR.   And in case you’re wondering, this was an unsolicited endorsement.

Most everyone oohs and ahhs over all the smartphones and tablets everyone was holding to record the historic event in 2013, compared with the nearly digital-free scene at the election of Pope Benedict in 2005.

What I see are people who passed on a chance to witness history with their own two eyes.  People who sacrificed the moment, visceral or spiritual, by putting a viewfinder between their eyes and history.  They crossed the digital divide for pictures that would be instantly available anyway.

Some things are just better committed to memory.

Look at what my camera saw at sunset one day last week in Mexico.  The photo was not retouched.

The trouble with this picture?  The panorama was far more breathtaking than what the camera saw.  I took a couple more pictures, started to get frustrated, and that’s when it occurred to me.

Some things are just better committed to memory.  I put the camera down, and enjoyed the moment.

Seems to me that sometimes we’re so eager to “share” our lives, we forget to live them.

My wife called it “The Brian Visit.”

Brian and I worked together at WPOP and WFSB.  From a working relationship came a close friendship that lasted nearly 40 years.  We both have a strict definition of the word “friend,” so to lose a friend is a profoundly sad experience.

Today, I am profoundly sad.  I have lost my friend.  There will be no more “Brian Visits.”  At least, not in person.

In the days ahead, I will join with other friends to raise a glass to Brian Garnett.  We may cry, but we will definitely laugh.  And we will appreciate who he was.

He made my life better.  He made me better.  I will miss him.

It was probably 1958, maybe ’59.  Years before I realized that “TV PEOPLE!!!” were just people.  On TV.

I was getting a haircut at the barber shop in Pinefield Shopping Center in the Saxonville section of Framingham, MA.  Bob the Barber took a drag on his cigarette, and tapped it into the ashtray on the armchair.  He suggested it was going to be a special day, but wouldn’t say why.  And then his next customer walked in.

REX TRAILER!  Singing cowboy.  Star of “Boomtown” on Channel 4.  Friend of Pablo, and of boys and girls from Boston to Worcester and beyond.

He asked if I’d mind getting him a coffee at the bakery next door.  Mind?  I’d have robbed a bank to pay for it myself, but he gave me the quarter.  It was a huge responsibility.  And it would make a great story around the housing development Campanelli Builders called “Cherryfield II.”  (There was a field.  There were no cherries.)

Fast forward 50 years.  2008.

I learned that I would be receiving an award for being relatively good at what I do, and for being, well, old.  I would be inducted into the “Silver Circle” of broadcasters at a ceremony in Boston.  And then I found out who was being inducted into the “Gold Circle.”  I called my mother to tell her about it.

“I’m going in with Rex F*****g Trailer!!!!  Can you believe it!!!”

I do believe that under the circumstances, Rex would have forgiven me for giving him a middle name in my excitement.  I neglected to mention that to him when we met on a glorious November night, though I was thinking it.  (“Me and Rex F*****g Trailer!!!”)

I babbled on about getting him that coffee 50 years earlier, and how much my brothers and I loved “Boomtown.”  He was genuinely appreciative.  Genuinely nice.

And today, I’m genuinely sad to learn he’s gone.

I was thinking that a week ago I was in Mexico, where many American tourists are afraid to go.  Because of the violence.

I was thinking about the wrapped gifts already purchased and waiting under the Christmas tree for kids who will never get to open them.

I was thinking that when I was in elementary school, the only drill we had to learn was getting under a wooden desk to protect ourselves from an atomic bomb.  (And I’m still congratulating myself for never believing that desk would stop the bomb.)

I was thinking that I can’t stop thinking about the families.  That includes the Lanzas, Peter and Ryan.

I was thinking we all owe Ryan Lanza an apology for reporting he was the shooter.  And that he shot his father in New Jersey.  Which he didn’t.  There has to be a better way.

I was thinking that State Police Lt. Paul Vance is one helluva guy.  But I’ve always thought that.

I was thinking Morgan Freeman is a great actor gifted with the voice of god, but does not speak for the nation, and did not author an anti-news media treatise.

I was thinking it’s too easy to perpetrate a hoax.

I was thinking President Obama is an incredible speaker.

I was thinking we have to put his words spoken in Newtown into action.

I was thinking I should stop thinking for a while.

Linda McMahon

She spent more than 77-million dollars of her own money to run for the U.S. Senate in 2010 and again in 2012.  (Excuse me, I want to see that in all numbers.  $77,000,000.  Wow.)

Much of that money was spent on broadcast advertising.  Which pays our salaries.

It seems to me that it would be wrong not to say, “Thank you.”

I never fully understood why Mrs. McMahon, or anyone, would spend that kind of fortune to run for public office, no matter how civic minded they may be.

I suppose because they can.

I forgot to mention she didn’t win either race.  So far be it from me to discourage her from spending, oh, another 40-million or so to run for governor in two years.

She says she won’t.  Too bad.  But there’s  plenty of time to reconsider.

This day after, critics are saying, “Think of all the good that money could have done.”

Oh, but it did.

She asked me to check out the website of a Mexican resort that friends will be staying at.  And when I did, I saw the magic words:  COMPLIMENTARY GREENS FEES.  (Silent squeals of delight.)

Except…I couldn’t find anything on the website about a golf course.  Hmmmmm.  Oh, look, there’s the word “activities.”

click!

Ah, golf nearby!  And again, the magic words: COMPLIMENTARY GREENS FEES.  “Click to learn more details.”

click!

There it is…in teeny tiny print:  “Terms and conditions apply.”

click!

“Premium tee time supplement: $35.”  (A premium tee time turns out to be anything between 6AM and 1PM.)

“Cart fee: $50 per person in shared cart.”  (Carts mandatory.)

Nothing about complimentary transportation to the course.  Let’s figure at least $20.

So COMPLIMENTARY GREENS FEES will run at least $100.

click!

Like waiting for a cable car to take us back up to Nob Hill in San Francisco.  It was a long wait.  But the weather was perfect, and this street performer was fabulous.  We will remember him, even though we’ll never know his name.

We treated ourselves on this trip.  Three days at the Bernardus Lodge in Carmel Valley was as relaxing as a week somewhere else.  For all of the amenities, the vase of roses in the room stays with me for some reason.

And the deck of our room was the scene of our Rummikub wars.  Wherever in the world we go, Rummikub comes.  There’s always a time to stop touring, sit down with wine and cheese, and try to beat each other’s brains out in Rummikub.

Sometimes the best days just happen.  One day, we had no agenda.  Looking for a parking spot for one restaurant in Carmel Valley, we came across another, Cafe Rustica.   My wife had read good things about it, so we parked the car, then we parked ourselves.  Vacation is also about leisurely lunches when you have no particular place to go.

Seals sunning in Pacific Grove, CA.  How can you not love seals sunning themselves?  Seals.  Sun.  Smiles.  Can’t beat it.

And speaking of nature, we had near-Scottsdale, AZ weather at the end of our round at Pebble Beach.  And we had Pebble Beach weather the morning of our first day in Scottsdale.  The storm clouds approaching our friends’ house were awesome.  So was the desert storm.  And we still got to tee it up later in the day.

Small moments tied together that make for one great big happy memory.

How lucky are we?  Very.

And we know it.

My wife and I returned from Italy on September 10, 2001.  As we flew into JFK, I said the same thing I always said as we would see the Manhattan skyline come into sight.

“There’s the World Trade Center.  We’re home.”

It was a perfect blue sky day, same as the morning we watched the world as we knew it change.

We still fly into JFK, and now there’s a new World Trade Center to acknowledge as Manhattan comes into sight.

But we will always have double vision.  We will see the new tower before our eyes.

But in our mind’s eye, we will see the twin towers.  And think of those who left us that day.

Forever.

After playing the gorgeous courses of the Monterey peninsula, I had no idea of the visual treats my friend’s home course would offer.  Until we went to hit some balls on the range.  I could spend the day at this range.  Hit balls.  Sit in Adirondack chairs.  Sip cold water.  Rinse and repeat.

And then there was the view from the first tee at Desert Highlands.  It is majestic.  You feel as if you’re on top of the world.  In reality, it’s a short par 4.

The bunkers are unlike any I’ve ever seen.  They are huge.  On some holes, waste areas transition directly into bunkers.  This is the 9th hole.

And speaking of bunkers, how’d you like to be in this one?  Would you concentrate on the flag, or could you keep your eyes off Pinnacle Peak?

What a privilege to play the courses I did.  And what fun it was to play them with a friend I’ve known nearly all my life.

I’m so happy for my friends.  They are dedicated professionals who worked hard their entire lives, earned every penny they made, and are about to enjoy a wonderful life they richly deserve.

And we make wonderful houseguests.  (We’ll be back.)