OK, so I had to take a deep breath before typing in that title, but the bottom line is Gov. Deval Patrick should hold fast onto the hand he's holding when it comes to the legislative battle over casinos. Everyone, it seems, is beating up on the Cadillac for simply not going along with the rank and file and accepting the proposal of "racinos" (race tracks with slot machines).
Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we want a governor who wouldn't do things as they always had been done? Patrick has failed miserably at that, but now, late in the game as it is, he is finally getting it right.
The so-called racinos are being pushed only to boost the prestige of certain state lawmakers, who want that big pat on the back from constituents.
The bottom line is this proposal just doesn't make sense - or cents, while we're at it.
The recession has hit everything and casinos are no exception. Reports tell us slot revenues at both Foxwoods and Mohegan, the two most successful casinos on the eastern seaboard, are down. This state wants to put up 3 casinos AND 2 racinos?
It is a losing bet and Patrick, while still undeserving of re-election, is holding the right cards on this one.

When I hit "send" on that email late last week to my publisher at Stonebridge Press, I knew there could, and most likely would be consequences. I had challenged him, basically put him in a corner because I believed passionately that as executive editor, I shouldn't just be told what the company was doing and what I have to do. I had to see, every single day, how frustrated my reporters and other editors were. How angry and frustrated. And I shared all that. Ever since our co-owner died, I think my faith in our company and mission was slowly waning. I told Frank Chilinski, our publisher, I either wanted to have a place with upper management, a voice for the editorial dept. or that I would appreciate a layoff and not be fired. I didn't think he'd do it over an e-mail, by having our CFO slide a printed copy of it across the desk to me, but that's how he chose to do it.
It's a new day now and I have a newborn son and a 12-year-old and a wife and the chance to seek a new opportunity. I didn't WANT to leave Stonebridge Press, but I guess I gave what was basically an ultimatum as a test to see whether Frank understood how frustrated we all were in the editorial department. He didn't and that's too bad. I will miss everyone I worked with. They are family to me. And I will miss everyone I dealt with in Southbridge and beyond, but I'll be back somewhere.
And if anyone has the need for someone who has a decade plus experience with newspapers - writing columns, editorials, news stories, feature stories, working with the public and local organizations (Under my watch, the company was named a Platinum Sponsor of Relay For Life) - I'm available.
I bring passion, a work ethic that's hard to find nowadays and, I'd like to think a bit of talent. Thank you Stonebridge Press and David Cutler - and yes, even Frank Chilinski. I wouldn't have learned all I learned if not for my time there.

Had a blast at our latest concert on the common Saturday night. The Latino band Los Soneros de Borinquen was outstanding. Those who don't know, this series is done by the Southbridge Recreation Committee. I am an agent with that committee because I was not reappointed after Sarah and I moved to Brimfield. Unbelievable, the town has NO ONE willing to put up with the BS and volunteer and here I am, loving the town and having a great time with our committee, but I can't be on it officially. So what, right? We're still working together and would love to see more and more folks come out for the remaining concerts. Next show is Sunday, Aug. 8 with the Brian Kearsley Jazz Trio. After that, it's a Who tribute night on Friday, Aug. 13 - FRIDAY THE 13TH!!!! OOOOH - with the band Happy Jack. Please, please spread the word and I would also like you to help spread the word about this site. People should feel free to respond to my posts or comment on whatever they choose.

 My wife was due to deliver our first child on Sept. 8.

Oliver David Bird had other ideas.

On Sunday, July 18 my wife walked slowly up to me on the Town Common in Southbridge — where as a member of the Recreation Committee, I was getting ready to help with our second concert of the summer, which also featured a craft fair.

I had been expecting her to show up, but when she did, trouble had found a home on her face.

“I have to go to the hospital,” she said.

She had been experiencing cramps since the night before. They hadn’t become noticeably better and when she experienced a few other symptoms, she called her sister, who advised her to get to the hospital.

She started walking back to her car after delivering that news, but my fellow committee members could clearly see the concert had quickly slipped from primary concern to: “What concert?”

So I caught up with her and drove her to Harrington Memorial Hospital. There, they checked on the baby — everything seemed OK — and they were going to send her home, after doing a couple more things. My wife sent me back to the concert and called me when she was ready to be picked up.

We went out to eat and went home.

On Monday, sometime in the afternoon, she called me to tell me she was going to her OB’s office. Things just weren’t right, she said, and if anyone knows her body, it’s a mother-to-be.

They ended up sending her back upstairs, where, as the night before, the care was top-notch. My wife was having contractions and they wanted to administer medicine to stop them. They also were going to give her an Ambien to help her sleep.

The main concern was to keep her from slipping into premature labor.

I finally left to go home, figuring my wife would soon be out cold. Five minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was my wife.

“My water broke. You need to come back.”

We were seven weeks away from our delivery date. I’m no doctor, but I was big “ER” fan (before that, an even bigger “St. Elsewhere” fan). I knew a woman’s water isn’t supposed to break more than a month out from her due date.

At this point, the decision was made to send her to UMass-Memorial in Worcester. Things moved rather quickly from that point. Suffice it to say, in no time she was up on the fourth floor of UMass-Memorial. By now, it was becoming quite clear that the boy/girl inside my wife (she had wanted it to be a surprise) was not going to wait until September.

They gave her a dose of steroids in an attempt to at least mature the baby’s lungs so he/she wouldn’t be unduly strained upon entering the world. They needed to wait another 24 hours for the second dose, which they said was important to make sure the lungs were at least strong enough to help the baby breathe on its own.

The mission now became to keep the baby inside for at least that long. All the while, even with a continued dose of medicine that was supposed to stop, or at least ease, the contractions, they kept coming.

She was able to get to that next dose of steroids. The plan from there, the doctors said, was to keep her on the contraction pills until 10:45 the following night (Wednesday). At that point, they’d cut stop the medicine and let whatever was going to happen, happen.

Apparently, while his father makes a living out of meeting deadlines, Oliver has no regard for them. The contractions started lasting longer on Wednesday. By mid- to late afternoon, my wife was pretty much having one continuous contraction.

She had entered the hospital at 2 centimeters dilated. She was now at 3.

Things were starting to move more quickly.

Sometime around 5 or so, my wife informed her nurse and doctors that she was ready to go.

Literally.

“I have to go somewhere,” she said, not liking it when I reminded her she could go nowhere.

Then she announced she was ready to deliver.

The doctor came back in and checked once more. She was now at 6 centimeters and was officially declared to be in “active labor.” To that point, she was merely in pre-labor.

What happened next is pretty much a blur. What I know is my wife got an epidural around 5:15 p.m. It takes a little while for an epidural to take hold. About a half hour later, my wife let us know the baby was coming out.

At exactly 6:56, a tiny, 4-pound baby boy joined the eight or so of us in the room. He was 17 inches long. Small and long. My wife, save for a collection of broken blood vessels courtesy of some heavy duty pushing, was sore, exhausted and, more importantly, fine.

We had been well prepared for what would take place once our “premie” arrived. We’d get to see him momentarily before he was taken upstairs to the NICU (natal intensive care unit). They had hoped he’d be able to breathe on his own, but warned us he may need tubes.

It turns out he didn’t. After cutting his umbilical cord, I watched as the doctors and nurses did their thing and I listened to the sound I knew I would soon come to loathe — crying. On this night, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

We had already decided upon a name. Oliver would be the first name. We both agreed David made a fine middle name, in honor of my mentor and one of the two owners of Stonebridge Press, who passed earlier this year.

Today, Oliver David Bird is 9 days old. He’s still in the NICU, but his mother is not far away, having been able to snag a room at the hospital to be at the ready. Oliver will be there for another two or three weeks, they tell us.

In the meantime, there’s a crib to be set up and all sorts of other preparations to make. Oh, and there are some people to thank: At Harrington Hospital, Drs. Cindy Shiro and  Mark Simonelli for the absolutely personal and expert care and attention they gave my wife; Firefighters Mike Gonynor and Glenn McDonald for their professionalism and speedy delivery of my wife to Worcester; and all the doctors, nurses, residents and attendings who dealt with my wife before, during and after delivery at UMass Memorial, especially those in the NICU.

Welcome to the world, Oliver. Now the fun starts.

 

Walter Bird Jr. may be reached at 508-909-4017

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