Duxbury Beach Layover

Hello to Sarah and Nikki, who I encountered in my travels.

I'm visiting Duxbury Beach, where I grew up. The Cape Cod house is 99% done, but until all is ready, I'm at my sister's house in the old 'hood. When I visit Duxbury now, I feel like Robert E. Lee when he entered Pennsylvania- an invader of a land that was once mine. It's surreal- I grew up here, but I stopped fitting in with the cliques in the 1990s. I moved, and tried not to look back- which isn't that hard to do when no one from your old neighborhood has ever called you.

I'm not bitter, though. I'd be the first to tell you that I'm a bit eccentric. I can't say for sure that I'd  hang out with me. Life does that to you. There are two ways to deal with it.

- Mope, see a shrink, discover some nightmare lurking in your subconscious, and undergo lengthy psychotherapy that will eventually cause you to blame your mother.

- Move to a nicer house on a better beach.

We here at High Above Courtside are all about winning the war, even if we lose a battle or two along the way. George Washington was beaten like a Gaza Strip protester for most of the Revolution, but he stuck with it to become first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.

Dollar George is a muse often invoked in this column. If I can end up on some currency before I die, you'll see a smiling Monponsett at the wake. I'd even settle for the quarter, which GW would gladly cede- seeing as he is already on the dollar. When you have the wanton talent I possess, there are very few contemporaries you can relate to.

I'm rambling, but I'm also recuperating. One of my last acts as a Monponsett resident was to scold some children who were trying to hurry a huge snapping turtle across Route 58. When I saw how worried they were that this nasty f**ker was about to get flattened by some SUV, I decided to help ol' Gamera to the lake he was heading for. Big mistake.

Turtles are a pretty good representation of what coaches mean when they differentiate between speed and quickness. Continental drift can outrun a snapping turtle, but that head of his was lightning quick. Before I knew it, my left pinky was a bloody mess and I got my first stitches in a few years.

And the bastard got away before I could come back with the .44 and even the score. But he forgets my French heritage- I have recipes for his kind, and Mr. Stephen will eat anything if properly starved. Somewhere in Monponsett Lake, a turtle laughs. Someday in the future, I will laugh last.