Day 149: Saturday, March 6, 2010:  Indians tried to tie you to a stake, but ran out of rope.

Another good Mac Story:

I remember him sitting in that porch chair like it was yesterday, with Boston traffic going by outside, telling me “The Dock Story”:

Shortly after World War I, a guy named McCree drowned while working the docks with Mac, so they wrapped the body and put it in a horse-drawn cart, after informing the police.  Their boss had been a foreign diplomat at one time, so they asked if he would tell McCree’s wife what happened, and he agreed, but they stopped at a bar first and bought each other liquid courage.

Eventually they drove the cart up to McCree’s house, and the former diplomat knocked hard on the door.

“Who the hell is it?” asked Mrs. McCree.

The diplomat asked, “Does the widow McCree live here?”

“I’m Mrs. McCree,” she said.  “But I’m no widow.”

He said, “The hell you’re not.  Wait till you see what we’re dragging up the stairs.”

Swear to God.  Mac would tell this story and laugh, then cry, then tell me the docks were full of tough, drunk characters.  The thing I remember most was his stand on the Vietnam war, and how he would personally “send our asses to Canada” if my brother and I were drafted.

“I know a lumber camp on the Saint John’s River,” he would tell me.  “It’s the best education you could ever have.”

God I miss you Mac.  I miss you so much.  I need to see Boston soon, and put another Red Sox hat on your grave.  They actually won another couple of World Series.  I swear.