Venetian Blinds and Parking Spots

There are undeniable attributes about people from Everett that simply cannot be denied. You know that old saying about people from a certain geographic location that says, "You can take the person out of "so-and-so," but you can't take the "so-and-so" out of the person?" Well, that truly defines someone from Everett.

An acquaintance from Saugus once told me, "We sold that house down on Summer Street to a family from Everett. Once they moved in, they drew the blinds down in every window and never opened them again." That is so Everett, is it not?

You really can't blame us for that one though. The houses in Everett are so close to each other; they almost touch. If you want any privacy at all, you gotta draw the blinds.

I fondly remember summer days when the windows were wide open to let that East wind blow through in the late afternoons. We'd be sitting down to supper at the kitchen table and I'd only have to turn my head to talk to my best friend living next door.

"Hey, Stanley? What are you guys having for supper?" I'd ask.

"My Dad ordered a pizza!" He didn't have to shout. He'd answer in a normal speaking voice.

"Hey, Ma! Stanley's having pizza. Can we get a pizza?"

"No! We're having a boiled dinner."

"A boiled dinner? Yuck!"

"Ha ha, you gotta eat a boiled dinner and I'm getting pizza," Stanley would taunt.

Next thing you know, my mother's over at the window shutting the blinds.

"Hey, I wanna talk to Stanley," I'd protest.

"Never mind talking to Stanley, for Cries sake, can't we set down to the supper table without having to deal with the neighbors?" My mother snapped.

So here I sit, eating a boiled dinner. Gawd, how I hate boiled dinners. Everything tastes so blandly like everything else because it's all boiled together in the same pot. You can say what you want, but in my opinion, nothing beats Italian food, and I'm not even Italian.

All of a sudden I hear Stanley's doorbell ring next door. Then, I hear his mother yell, "Pizza's here!" We can hear all the fun and excitement going on over at Stanley's house. They're eating pizza for supper. You know what happens when you eat pizza for supper? Everyone gets happy and has fun.

The sound of a happy family enjoying a fun meal together next door is drowning out the dreariness at our supper table. There is not one once of fun in a boiled dinner. We're all sitting there miserable, trying to suffer through this tasteless lump of wet vegetables while festive pandemonium is exploding next door.

What's worse is that they sound like they're right in the same room with us. I can hear Stanley's voice above everyone else. He's doing it on purpose to tease me, and I don't blame him one bit.

Here's what the conversation sounds like at my house. "You better eat all those carrots and boiled potatoes or you're not going out to play after supper, Buddy. If you don't eat all your squash, you won't get any more peas. And don't forget to drink your glass of water either!"

Here's what the conversation sounds like at Stanley's house. "Can I have another piece of pepperoni pizza, Ma? Yes, I'll have more potato chips. Can I have some more Coke? Thanks." Now, you tell me. Whose house would you'd rather be dining at this evening?

That isn't the only reason we shut the blinds. No sir, it goes way beyond that. Let's fast forward to the day before going back to school at the end of the summer. My mother took me shopping at J.M. Fields on the Parkway to buy the most out-of-style school clothes she could find. Now, she wants me to stand up on a kitchen chair, in my underwear, to see if she has to take up the hem on the pant legs.

The next voice you hear comes from my classmate, Karen, next door. She yells over, "Hey Paul, you're looking really sharp in your underwear. Wait till I tell all the girls in school tomorrow!" Tell me, is there a store somewhere that sells paper bags with the eyeholes already cut out of them?

Another idiosyncrasy we acquire from growing up in Everett is our obsession with parking spots. That spot along the curbstone in front of my house belongs to me. I know it's city owned public property, but you know that's my spot - don't you? The only reason you park there is because you're out to get me - right?

Well, I'm just gonna sit here at my living room window, all day, until you move your car. And as soon as you do - bingo bango - I'm out the door. I'll pull my car out of my driveway and right into that spot so nobody else gets it. Nobody's pulling a fast one on me!

So that's what happens. That goober finally moves his car. I race to the driveway, leave rubber pulling out of the driveway, and I've got that spot faster than you can blink.

All of a sudden, a cop pulls up beside me. He rolls down his window and says, "Hey Buddy, no parking on this side of the street on the first and third Wednesday of the month." You gotta be kiddin' me. All that for nothing.

That goober knew he was setting me up for this the whole time he left his car there all through the night. Hey, every dog has their day - right?

First thing on Thursday morning, you can bet your life I'll be the first car pulling into that spot. You can make book on it. Then I'll be able to relax for the rest of the day - right? Wrong!

On Thursday morning, I'm up at dawn. As soon as that guy goes to work, I grabbed that spot. Five minutes later, I'm singing in the shower. That's when the doorbell rings.

Now what? I wrap a towel around my naked butt and open the door. There's a guy standing there who asks, "Hey Buddy, can you move your car so I can pull in to let the other cars go by? I gotta get to work." Damn, I knew this was too good to be true."

There's two lines of cars facing each other deadlocked in the middle of my street. There's so many cars parked on both sides of the street that the traffic can't move. This is no isolated incident. This happens every day on every street in Everett.

I swear, an elderly person hobbling along with a walker on the sidewalk can go from one end the city of Everett to the other, three times faster than I can in my car. That is not an exaggeration!

So, I throw on my bathrobe, scuff into my slippers, and pull the car back into the driveway. Guess what happens next? The last car in line is that same goober who keeps parking in my spot. Sure enough, he pulled right in and took my spot. You know he did it on purpose. I'm telling ya, this guy is out to get me.

Sometimes, you just can't win and you can't break even!

Games People Play

The early 1960's really were an age of innocents. We were yet to be corrupted by drugs and the politics of the Vietnam War. It was a time when you could wander the streets without fear. Oh maybe you came across a bully or two, but your life was not in any danger.

Our neighborhoods were close knit communities. Everybody knew each other. Everybody talked to each other. And if they weren't talking to each other, they were talking about each other. Everybody knew everybody else's business.

It was that kind of social atmosphere that bred familiarity amongst the people. That familiarity built a comradery, which built a community that could live together in peaceful co-existence. And all of the above reasons are what allowed the Everett kids in their respective neighborhoods to gather together to play games.

The girls played House, Hula-Hoop, Jump Rope, HopScotch, and Roller Skated up and down the sidewalks. The boys played Tag-Rush, Street Hockey, Baseball and Basketball. They all played Hide n' Seek, Buck - Buck, Tag, Kick Ball, Dodge Ball and "You-Can't-Cross-The-River," together.

During the summer months, we all played out in the middle of the street until the streetlights came on. That was okay because, most of the time, our parents were sitting out on the front porch talking back and forth with the neighbors. Every once in a while one of them would yell out, "Cars Comin!" We'd call time-out and run towards the sidewalk.

Everett kids were notorious for making up variations of games to fit the situation. For example, to play a game of baseball in the middle of a busy city street required a different set of rules than playing at the park. For one thing, first base might be a parked car and home plate might be an old record album somebody found in the trash.

The fact that nobody had a bat was no reason why we couldn't play Baseball. As a matter of fact - we didn't. We played "Stick Ball." A broomstick made an excellent bat; not for a regulation baseball of course, but we weren't using a regulation baseball. We went down to the corner store and bought a ten-cent pimple ball. And we all had to chip in to buy it.

Another variation of Baseball that grew out of "Stick-Ball," was "Half-Ball." Sometimes we cut the pimple ball in half to play stickball. We did that because if someone hit a homer, the ball bounced out into the middle of Ferry Street. You could get killed shagging it. It took a mighty wallop to drive a half of a pimple ball any significant distance, giving a more competitive edge to the game.

If you couldn't get enough kids together to play stick-ball, you played, "Off-The-Wall." At the bottom of Arlington Street stood the Storm-Shield building. They manufactured storm windows and doors. That building had a windowless solid brick wall that was perfect for playing "Off-The-Wall."

The kid up at bat bounced the ball off the wall out to the other kids standing in the middle of the street. If nobody caught it on the fly, you got a man on base. If it cleared the opposite sidewalk without anyone catching it, you scored a homer. Sometimes we played in teams, and sometimes, each person was his own team.

I'll never forget the day my Dad brought me home a regulation size Indian Rubber ball. One bounce and that thing flew into the air with unimaginable force. For a joke, I used it for my turn up at bat without the other kids realizing what I was doing.

With a mighty slam did I bounce that sucker off the wall. It sailed effortlessly way over everybody's head, and straight through Mrs. Coolin's living room window, smashing one of her decorative lamps to smithereens.

She came out onto her front step holding the ball between her thumb and forefinger yelling, "Take a good look, Paul, because you'll never see this ball again in your life!" She was right. I never saw that ball again.

Another variation of baseball that we played was "Punch Ball." This was what we played up at the Horace Mann Elementary school playground before school. They honestly expected us to stand quietly in a military line waiting for the bell to ring. In Everett??? No way!

All the boys got together before school to play a few innings of "Punch Ball." Yep, we punched the ball. We had a full outfield, but no pitcher. When it was your turn up at bat, you stepped up to the plate, threw the ball up in front of your face, and punched it off into the outfield.

Was it fun? It was a blast. Hey, it was everyone's favorite sport up at the Horace Mann. That's gotta tell ya something. I'll go out on a limb here and say that just about every boy who attended the Horace Mann school in the 1960's played Punch Ball.

Okay, so what else did we play? Well, Pitching Pennies up against either a wall or the curb stone was another favorite past time - as was pitching baseball cards. Man, I hated losing my Roger Marris to a Bill Momboquette - I'll tell ya.

A "leany" beat all unless somebody knocked it down on their throw. You had a "leany" if your card landed standing up against the wall. Even getting your card to tuck up against the edge of the wall was no guarantee that you won. Somebody could cover your card on their throw and you'd lose.

It was "No Fairs," though if they taped their card with scotch tape for extra weight and strength. That was strictly forbidden in a fair game of pitching Baseball Cards.

Speaking of cards, how about a nice game of knuckles? Now there's a fun-filled family card game you could teach your children. After each game, you add up the score, and that's how many times the winner gets to whack the loser on the knuckles with the edge of the deck of cards. Sounds fun - doesn't it? Man, did that game hurt!

I often wondered if some of the games we created mimicked the spankings we used to get from our parents when we stepped out of line. What makes me say that? Well, because on Arlington Street, we played "Hot Beans!"

We usually played Hot Beans in my backyard because it was a huge parking lot type of thing. Somebody hid a big thick garrison belt, and the rest of us would have to look for it. The person who hid it would tell us if we were hot, cold, or getting warmer while we searched for it. Once somebody found it, they held it up into the air and yelled, "Hot Beans!"

The rest of us would then run like hell out through the driveway out onto the sidewalk. The sidewalk was gools. Why did we run? Because the person that found the belt could whack you across the legs with all of their might until you got out onto the sidewalk. That's why!

You can only imagine what it felt like to get whacked with a belt being swung by some of the whackos I grew up with. What gets me is, how come when my mother whacked me with the belt, I cried? When I got whacked playing "Hot Beans," I laughed. Does that make any sense to you?

Wait a minute. I gotta go. The streetlights just came on and I hear my mother calling. Before I go, give me hand - will ya? We'll tie these old shoes together and try to whip them up over the telephone wires. Let's throw them over the wires near that telephone pole we threw the bicycle tire over last week - okay?

Everett Ingenuity

Everett kids didn't need a lot of money to have fun back in the 1960's. They made their own toys. They made things you couldn't buy in the stores anyway. Using either ordinary household items or odds and ends they found in the trash, they built some of the most innovative contraptions that set a child's imagination on fire.

Beginning with the more simple contraptions, paper airplanes have always been a huge success. With nothing more than a common piece of notebook paper, a personal message could take to the airwaves, sailing smoothly across the classroom, landing accurately at its desired destination in only seconds.

Some kids got really creative with their paper airplane designs. I've seen kids make paper airplanes that absolutely astounded me. They looked like a swing-wing F-111 fighter jet and flew masterfully. I never could make one of those.

The creative arts and computer technology are my specialties. Other than that, I'm virtually useless. It took me thirty years to learn how to blow a bubble with bubblegum. That's a true story!

Another skillful craft that caught my eye was making jewelry out of dog chains. Do you remember when that was a fad? Some people could make flawless jewelry out of dog chains. I was always quite impressed and green with envy over the artful skill with which some kids could design such excellent pieces of dog chain jewelry.

The girls had a few crafts that seemed to boggle my imagination. They could fold paper in such creative ways that they actually constructed sculptured works of art. What first comes to mind is those little paper do-hickeys that you work back and forth to open and close until finally, you flip over one of the tabs to find the mysterious answer to the question you asked.

Don't ask me what you call those gadgets, but they've always amazed me. Heck, I'm still struggling to fold a simple letter to fit into an envelope properly.

Another craft the girls mastered was making ornate paper chains out of chewing gum wrappers. Do you remember those? How did they do that? Each link in the chain was so intricately interwoven to the next that it looked like it was machine manufactured. It takes a lot of patience to make one of those - believe you me. Leave it to those Everett girls to always outshine the boys - right?

The boys had a different perspective of fun anyway. We had another idea on the proper use for a bobby pin that the girls never thought of. We bent them back to create spring tension so when you lightly touched someone's arm with the bulb at the top of the bend, it snapped forward and stung them with the sharp exposed end. You had to chew that bulb of paint off the end of the bobby pin to expose that sharp edge.

What else are bobby pins good for? By wrapping a good strong elastic around your thumb and pointing finger, you can make an awesome crossbow for shooting bobby pins. At close range they're both deadly and accurate. You could knock a pigeon right off the telephone wires with one of those things.

My favorite homemade gadget was the clip clothespin friction match shooter. That was a blast and a half. We could twist, bend, and electrical tape a clip clothes pin into a little contraption that shot out one of those self-igniting blue tipped stick matches. As soon as that match struck the sidewalk, it ignited. There were burned out stick matches all over the sidewalks back in the days of the clip clothespin shooter.

It was a major let down to every little boy in the city of Everett when they stopped manufacturing friction stick matches. It was just as well. My hide was getting raw from all the spankings I got for stealing my mother's kitchen matches.

I don't dare even touch upon the subject of what we used to do with a cigarette lighter and a can of our mother's hairspray. And I don't dare discuss nail-throwers. Let's just reminisce about them without giving a whole new generation any more bad ideas - okay?

If nothing else, you could entertain yourself for hours on end with a good straw and a bag of split peas - especially if you lived on a busy street. Pinging them off the heads of the people standing at the bus stop, and then ducking down behind the window sill so nobody catches you, could entertain you all day. Heck, every twenty minutes you got a whole new slew of innocent victims to torment.

The day my big sister outgrew her roller skates was a happy moment in my life. Remember those old fashioned roller skates the girls tightened to their shoes with a skate key? My sister threw hers in the trash. Do you believe that? Lucky thing I spotted them before the trash men came.

All I had to do was knock the toe and heel frames off and I had four good sets of casters. Nail them to the bottom of a good strong board - and bingo bango - you've got yourself one of the coolest skateboards around.

What made these skateboards far superior to the modern-day versions was the unpredictability inherent into the design. On these new skateboards, a simple lean in either direction takes you there. Lean forward to spin, lean back to slow down and stop. How boring can you get?

On our homemade skateboards, there was no control mechanism at all. They had no balance, no center of gravity, and the only way to stop was to crash into a chain link fence. I remember zooming down the sidewalk from the top of Arlington Street with both hands flapping in the wind while yelling, "Look out - look out - look out!" Until finally, I crashed into a parked car or a streetlight. What a blast!

We had a million and one ways to pass the time away - did we not? How many of you tried this one? You go down to the corner store and buy a whole box of caps for a nickel. Then you go behind the Sunoco Gas Station on Ferry Street or a similar area in your neighborhood, to find a brick. Next, you take that entire box of caps and set it on the curbstone. What happens next?

Well, if you're lucky enough, you'll hammer that sucker at "top-dead-center" and your ears will ring for the next 14 minutes. If you're not so lucky, you could come straight down on top of your big toe and do the one-foot "ooh-eeh-aah" ceremonial pain dance - right?

I shake my head in disbelief when one of my kids say to me, "Gee Dad, what did you guys do without video games, cable TV, or the internet?" What really gets me is that these kids are far more bored than we ever were. And it really is all our fault. Instead of buying all these new fangled electronic gadgets for our kids, we should buy them caps, elastics, and bobby pins.

Wrapping The Swings

There was once a time, when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, that I was too little to wrap a swing around the crossbar. I stood in awe as the bigger kids gave a mighty one-hand back flip and that swing wrapped rapidly around the crossbar until there was no chain left to dangle. How do they do that?

Before you can learn to run, you gotta learn to walk. I had a long way to go, and so much to learn, before I could even hope to do that. What I had to tackle first was learning how to get that swing back down so I could ride on it.

If I could find one of the bigger kids, I only need ask. They can leap up and grab hold of that swing with one hand. While suspended in mid air, they give their whole body a jerk and with one mighty throw, that swing spins like a propeller until it unwinds all the way down to the end of the chain - amazing!

If no one else is around, I'm on my own. Leaping up to grab hold of the swing gets me nowhere. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to leap the distance. You just wait. One of these days I'll be just as big as those older kids. Then, I'll show em.

Okay, so wishing and hoping is getting me nowhere. It's time to roll up my sleeve and get to work. So, when you're too little to jump up and unwrap a swing for yourself - what do you do? C'mon people this is isn't rocket science. Besides, there's going to be a quiz on Friday.

Right! You shimmy up the pole. And when you get all the way up to the cross bar, you hang on for dear life. You gotta reach out with your other hand to throw that swing over the crossbar. And since you're too little to unwrap a swing in the traditional way, you've got to continually repeat each step in the process until you get that thing all the way down. Then, and only then, can you slide back down the pole like a fireman. That's the fun part.

What eventually does happen is that each time you shimmy all the way up to the crossbar, your confidence level builds. You'll soon be up there with just your legs wrapped around the pole to hold on while using two hands to unwrap the swing. Before too long, you're sitting up on top of that crossbar like the fearless daredevil of the century - right?

It all happens in stages. One day, you arrive at the playground only to discover that the swing is no longer up to your chest. They either lowered the swings in the middle of the night, or there's a little more space between your knees and your toes. Regardless, you know the time is right to put your best foot forward, give it all you got, and wrap that swing around the crossbar.

It may not happen on the first try, but once you know you're only a fraction away from getting that little devil over the crossbar; you will not surrender - am I right? Heck, I'd stand there flipping that swing till doomsday if I had to. That sucker was going down!

There is something about raw determination that simply cannot be denied. Once inflicted with it, nothing will stand in your way. You step into the zone. You're whole being becomes focused. You are on this planet for only one purpose, and right now, that purpose, is to flip that swing over that crossbar. It's going to happen. You just know it!

You no longer become easily discouraged if it keeps banging against the crossbar and falling short of the goal. Even the swing knows it's only a matter of time now. Not even tangled twisted chain knots will stop you from pursuing your dream. After all, knots were made to be untied. I'll stand with the patience of Job, and untangle any knot this inanimate object dares to throw at me. This is my day.

And then, it happened. I actually felt the accomplishment before the fact. The rhythms of my motions were so in tandem with the mechanics of the swing that it all felt so natural. The chain stayed straight. It arched beautifully up into the sky. It sailed over the crossbar at full chain length.

I stood there mesmerized watching that swing finally clear the crossbar and come back towards me in beautiful harmonic motion. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. How amazing it was to watch the seat of that swing come right back towards me against the backdrop of a deep blue sky.

Then all of a sudden - "WHACKO!" It smacked me right on the bridge of my nose. Sprawled out on the ground wiggling in nervous convulsions, I saw stars. Everyone crowded around me to see if I was all right. My face was covered in blood. I was numb from head to toe. Someone in the crowd yelled, "looks like he broke his nose." Oh, is that all? I thought I was dead!

It was weeks before I fully recovered from that one. But recover I did, and from that day forward, I was an official swing wrapper. Yeah, the day did finally arrive when I could wrap that sucker up tight against the crossbar with a single backhand flip.

What I'd like to know is - how come whenever I finally accomplish one thing, something new always takes its place as the cool thing to do? By the time I had become a swing wrapper, the bigger kids had a new favorite past time.

They were now snapping the S hooks off the chains by holding onto the seat of the swing and giving it a quick shake. The S hook would pop off and the chain just fell off the crossbar. Now all you had was a broken swing that was of no use to anybody.

This one didn't make any sense to me. I had looked forward to the day that I was the one who could leap up and unwrap the swings for the littler kids. I knew how impressed they would be. Not only that, but I'd be like a hero to them. It's a great feeling all around.

Why is it that somebody always has to out do everybody else even if it means crossing over into the absurd? Wrapping the swings was fun. Breaking them was stupid.

What kind of selfish person would go around breaking the swings without any consideration for the littler kids anyway? They were the very same ones who taught a third grader how to break into a food canteen to steal all the food. That's who.

Those kids were a really rough crowd. Most of them grew up and lived on the wrong side of the law as adults. They spent their lives in the fast lane. As a result, only one of them is still alive today. That's gotta tell ya something.

One more thing before I go. I can't imagine an age group who cannot relate to a story about learning how to wrap swings. That's why I try to reach out to every generation who ever grew up in Everett. Although the technology in our lives might change, people are still people. Age has nothing to do with it.

What I realize is that those who past this way before me, and those who followed after me, possess unique experiences that shed new light, from different perspectives, of what it was like to grow up in Everett. And the same applies to people from all of our different neighborhoods.

We, the people, are what made Everett, Massachusetts, special. Don't stand there shaking your head saying, "I hate Everett!" First think about all the good times you've shared with others while growing up there. Think about how lucky you were to have been born on that little section of the planet. You could have been born starving in the desert somewhere. Learn to count your blessings.

If nothing else, what I hope to prove to you through my blog, is that no man is an island. We are a communal animal. We need each other. We are not alone. We belong to a larger family of people that keeps growing and expanding every day.

I recently received an email from a fellow Everett person that said they enjoy the blog, but don't care to touch base with anyone because they carry a life-long grudge against someone. To that person, or anyone else that feels that way, I say this...

No one is asking you to do anything. Come, enjoy the stories, listen to the music, sit out there in the audience anonymously and enjoy yourself. That's your prerogative. That's your right. But holding a grudge against someone all your life will eat at your insides. Why punish yourself like that?

We are your Everett family. Go to that person. Have your say. Clear the air between you. Give the other person a chance to apologize. And be mature enough to accept the apology. Life is too short. Don't waste it!

The Parlin Jr High in 1967

1967 was an incredible year. The Red Sox made it into the World Series - but lost it in game 7 to the St. Louis Cardinals over a stupid dropped ball at first base. Was that a fix or what? The Green Bay Packers defeated the Oakland Raiders in SuperBowl II. Next year, the AFL would shock the world.

The WBA stripped Muhammed Ali of his world heavyweight title because he refused to join the Army. Muhammed Ali was a conscientious objector.

South African surgeon, Christian Barnard, performed the world's first heart transplant. The Swiss invented the world's first electronic quartz crystal wristwatch. And the Six-Day Arab-Israeli War erupted in June.

In November, President Johnson signed the Public Broadcasting Act into law creating the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. By December, more than 475,000 U.S. troops were sent off to South Vietnam (including my big brother), and Otis Redding died at 28 years-old when his plane crashed in Wisconsin.

In music we listened to "Ode to Billy Joe" by Bobbie Gentry, "Somebody to Love" by the Jefferson Airplane, "Ruby Tuesday" by The Rolling Stones, "All You Need Is Love" by The Beatles, "Light My Fire" by The Doors, and "The New York Mining Disaster" by the Bee Gees.

Pantyhose sales skyrocketed this year because the girls went wild over the new miniskirt - the guys did too.

While all this was going on in the outside world, I was stuck in detention at the Parlin Junior High School - handwriting the entire school character fifty times. You know the routine. During one of those really bad NorEasters when you're stuck in the house all night, you sit there listening to Dick Summers on WBZ while writing out a stock pile of school characters - just in case.

Back in 1967, everyone thought the whole world was going crazy. Well, I wasn't sure about the entire whole world, but life sure was crazy at the Parlin Junior High School.

We had one teacher that everyone called, "Crater Face." If he caught you without a tie he pulled a nutty. He had a collection of obnoxious neckties from the 1930's, and he'd force you to wear one for the entire day.

After a while it became a joke amongst the students. We'd purposely take off our ties so he'd give us one of his stupid ones. The idea was to see who could get the ugliest tie to wear around school all day. We soon stopped playing that game when somebody came up with idea of blowing their nose on Crater Face's neckties.

Then there was crazy Mr. Barry who taught English. All this guy ever did was walk around the perimeter of the classroom dictating grammar notes. And all we ever did in his class was sit there writing them down, word for word. If you so much as turned your head to the left or right, he went ballistic.

I was told that many years later, somebody pulled a prank that seriously injured him. Somebody put a large pin on his chair. Barry may have been a real jerk, but he never laid a finger on anyone. He didn't deserve that. Nobody deserves that.

My eighth grade homeroom teacher was Anthony Sarno. Years later, he would lose his life in a tragic skiing accident. The city of Everett lost a distinguished contribution to its public education system when it lost this noble character.

Knowing the man as I do, even to this day, thinking about the magnanimity of such a loss edges my eyes with tears. Anthony Sarno was more than just a great teacher - he was a wonderful human being.

That year, a female classmate of mine claimed that somebody stole a ten-dollar bill out of her desk. She said that she saw "ME" do it. Mr. Fortunato called me down to his office. He questioned me at length for over an hour.

The critical drawback to her story was that - I was absent on the day that she claimed to have seen me do it. That alone should shed some serious doubt on her credibility - don't you think?

So, there I sat across the table from Mr. Fortunato while he spelled out for me every reason in the book he could possibly conjure up to validate her story - in spite of the fact that - I was absent.

Regardless of any rebuttal I made, the man continually twisted the facts to the point where even I was beginning to doubt myself. It became painfully obvious that he was going to except nothing short of a guilty confession. What happened next surprised even me.

Anthony Sarno unexpectedly came into the room. He respectfully addressed Mr. Fortunato and said, "If Paul said he didn't do it, then, he didn't do it."

When Mr. Fortunato reiterated that the other student saw me do it, Anthony Sarno asked when was it that she saw me do it. In response to Mr. Fortunato's reply, he said. "Paul was absent. Call his mother. If she verifies that he was at home yesterday, then you owe Paul a sincere apology."

He then said, "Paul's been through enough for today. I'm taking him back to class." On our way back to the homeroom, I asked him why he stood up for me. This is what he said.

"Even I doubted you, at first. After questioning that girl a second time, her story had changed. When I told her that you were absent yesterday, she changed her whole story all over again. She now claims she saw someone else do it. I'm beginning to believe she lost her money and is looking for someone to blame."

"Besides that," he added, "I went looking through your desk. I never knew you wrote poetry. You write beautiful poetry. Your poetry is certainly not the work of a criminal mind. I've gained a new respect for your character through your poetry. I'm afraid I may have misjudged you."

For the first time in my life, I was speechless. I should have thanked him sincerely. What he said surprised me so much that I found myself entirely without words. I just followed him quietly back to class, and took my seat without so much as glancing at my accuser.

About a week later, I heard the actual culprit bragging in the schoolyard about stealing that ten-dollar bill. Not for nothing - but this person knew that I had been put through the third degree over that theft.

No one ever apologized to me for the false accusations. I couldn't care less that someone stole her money, especially after she had blatantly lied about seeing me do it. I was just proud of the fact that it wasn't me who took it.

I never stole anything from a fellow classmate, but I've pulled off some really scatter-brained pranks in my day. What comes to mind is the prank a group of us pulled on a fellow classmate in Miss Moscaritollo's Math class in the ninth grade.

Let me tell you a little bit about our victim. Jimmy was a redheaded, Irish lad that always had a big smile on his face. He was a happy-go-lucky kid that everybody loved. He was a lot of fun both in and out of school.

On this particular day, both he, and Miss Moscaritollo, were late arriving to class. Somebody came up with the idea of removing all of the screws from Jimmy's desk. These old wooden desks and chairs were interwoven one-piece units. You had to stand at one side of these things to slide in comfortably to sit down.

We tried everything to loosen those screws - to no avail. I then came up with the idea of using a dime out of my pocket. It worked. We carefully removed all of the screws from his desk and chair. No sooner had we removed the last screw, did Miss Moscaritollo enter the room. We all scurried back to our seats.

Seconds later, Jimmy came bouncing into the classroom. We were biting our lips not to laugh. He innocently plunked down into his chair, and began to open his books in preparation for today's lesson. Nothing happened. We all looked at each other with the biggest look of surprise on our faces.

Five minutes later, while knee-deep into our math lesson - "CRASH!" Jimmy was sitting on the floor and his desk and chair were in pieces. We laughed hysterically.

"JAMES!" Miss Moscaritollo shouted.

"What are you yelling at me for?" He asked innocently enough.

"Because you're always disrupting the class," she answered sternly.

"Somebody took all the screws out of my desk," he said.

"That's not the point," she shouted. "You're always at the middle of every controversy."

"Do you think that I took the screws out of my own desk? Be serious!" he shouted back.

"Take another seat and be quite," she demanded. "You're a, a, a good-for-nothing!"

As soon as she said it, I said, "Ooooh," as if surprised at such a remark. To which she replied, "I'm sorry for using such strong language. I don't usually. But James needs to learn how to act properly in class. I'm sorry for losing my temper."

She never did apologize to Jimmy. She knows she should have. Jimmy was a good sport about the whole thing. He laughed it off. We did later fess up to him what we had done. We even gave him the screws. He said he was going to keep them as a souvenir. I wonder if he still has them.

The funny thing is, in any other class, following a big inquisition over who took the screws, a heavy penalty including detention and 100 school characters would have been dished out to the culprits. None of that ever happened.

If Jimmy had been guilty, I'm sure Miss Moscaritollo would have seriously come down on him. Don't ask me why. For some unknown reason, she did not like this kid. What's so odd about that is that Jimmy was one of the more popular kids in school. He never had an unkind word to say about anybody. He was just a really good kid.

Yep, 1967 was a crazy year all around. 1968 would even be crazier. Come to think of it, each passing year seemed to get crazier and crazier. Me? Yeah, I'm still crazy after all these years. I suppose you are, too - right? After all - "We're From Everett!"

Ugly People and Penny Candy

There's nothing like thumbing through old photographs to vividly revisit the past. My mother keeps her entire collection of photographs in a dozen old candy boxes. Don't ask me why.

Every once in a blue moon, I'll convince her drag them down off the closet shelves and rifle through them with me. Some of these photographs are now 100 years old. Now that's nostalgia for ya!

Even she doesn't remember half of the people in these photographs - and these are her relatives. My mother is almost eighty years old. So, if she can't remember them, chances are, they're identities are lost forever.

Let that be a lesson to you. Don't get so hung up on the little things in your life. Eighty years from now someone is going to look at your picture and say, "Who in the hell is that?" And the person asking the question may be the only living relative left that could possibly have known you.

Okay, okay, I know all this talk about drifting closer and closer to the far horizon can be a little unsettling. Whenever I complain about growing old, my mother always says, "Don't be afraid of growing old, because when you stop growing old - you're dead!" Well, if you put it that way - just keep those birthdays coming - right?

Looking at some of these photographs is hysterical. I've got some seriously ugly relatives. I know what you're thinking. Don't say it!

My mother has this gawd-aweful picture of an ugly woman posing on the beach in what looks like a striped pair of long johns. Man, I hate to admit it, but my grandmother was uglier than road kill! Now I know what they mean by that tee-shirt that says, "Beer has been helping ugly people have sex for over 150 years."

Which reminds me. My mother once told me that I was the ugliest newborn baby she had ever seen in her life. She said that I was so ugly that she asked the doctor if I was going to be all right. Gee, thanks for the boost in confidence, Ma.

Looking at these photographs of my ancestors, I'm not surprised that I was such an ugly duckling. Hopefully, they all had wonderful personalities, because they were all ugly as sin. Thankfully, there is some beautiful old-fashioned scenery in the background to offset all these ugly people.

My parents were living in that six-family apartment building at the bottom of Arlington Street when I was born. My great aunt from Newfoundland owned that building. I'm looking at a picture of my parents when they were very young. They're standing in that backyard on Arlington Street, holding onto a little baby monkey. Hey, wait a minute. That's no monkey. That's me!

Behind us, I can see the back of the apartment building on Ferry Street that was once owned by Henry Gray, the auctioneer. If you'll remember, his storefront windows on Ferry Street were decorated with three really old model ships.

What I'm looking at in this photograph, behind that little monkey (oops - I mean me), is a small back door that leads to a penny candy store on the ground floor of that building. A middle-aged woman named, "Cassie," owned that store.

In my pre-kindergarten years, I was not allowed to venture outside my backyard alone. My backyard was actually the parking lot for both our apartment building, and Gray's apartment building on Ferry Street. That means, I was allowed to venture down to Cassie's candy store, provided I entered through the back door.

So, in my pre-kindergarten years, all I saw of the world outside was a parking lot and a candy store - and I was as happy as a pig in a poke. I had cars to climb on, shrubs to crawl under, trash barrels to pick through, and a candy store. Who could want for anything more?

My dad took care of us kids when he got home from work in the afternoon, because my mom went off to work at Transitron in Melrose. During the summer months, he'd let my older siblings go up the street to play at the Horace Mann school ground after supper until the streetlights came on. Because I was so little, I had to stay in the backyard.

What he would do to make me promise I wouldn't go sneaking out of the yard, is give me a nickel to spend at Cassie's. He knew what he was doing. With a whole nickel to spend any way I choose, I was going to be tied up with indecision for at least an hour or more at Cassie's. There was so much penny candy to choose from, and so little time to decide.

When you're only four years old, the candy counter looks about the size of a forty-foot trailer truck. It's made of glass on all four sides. You can see everything all at once. It is so overwhelming. I always told myself that when I grew up to be rich and famous, I was going to come down to Cassie's and buy everything in the candy counter.

My favorite candy in the whole world is Malted Milkballs. Just one Malted Milkball sends me into a state of frenzied ecstasy. I can't control it. You can get three Malted Milkballs for a penny at Cassie's.

I've still got four cents left. I could get one of those squirrel Nut chewies, or maybe a piece of Bit-O-Honey. I love the commercial. "Bit-O-Honey goes a long-long way. If you have two heads, it'll last all day!" A cartoon character that had three heads sang the little jingle.

Believe it or not, I can also get three red licorice sticks for a penny. Those are good. I'll get those. I've still got three pennies. Hmmmm - let me think.

Hey, how about one of those chocolate Ice Cubes? I gotta have one of those. No wait a minute, one of those cost two cents. I'll get the Chunky instead. With only two pennies left, we're getting down to the real nitty gritty now.

I know, give me one piece of Bazooka Bubblegum. That comes with a Bazooka Joe comic inside. It's like getting two treats for a penny. Yeah, give me one of those.

Down to my last penny. What to do? What to do? I really want to stretch this penny so far it makes Lincoln scream. Oh, I know. Give me a paper strip of those candy dots. There's gotta be at least three dozen dots on that one strip. Yeah, I'll take that, also.

Standing on my tippie toes, I stretch across that glass landscape and plank my nickel down as if I had just bellied up to the bar. Cassie reaches across to hand me that little paper bag that's all twisted at the top with those licorice sticks sticking out up into the air. The bag is so full it's bulging at the sides from all that mouth watering penny candy - yeah!

And just as I grab hold of my booty, I hear my big sister's voice say, "Hey Paul, Dad says it's time to come home!"

Time to come home? I just got here! When I turned to look in the direction of her voice, I can see through the plate glass window that it's starting to get dark outside. Where did the time go?

I had all these visions of sitting on the back steps, all by myself, pigging out on penny candy. You know what's going to happen now - don't you? I'll get home and my dad will make me share my treasures with my two older brothers and my big sister. I'll be lucky if I get to keep so much as a Malted Milkball and a licorice stick. It happens every time. It never fails.

Why do these things always happen to me? Life is so unfair. How come I always get the dirty end of the stick?

And that's what's wrong with the world today. We've taken childhood away from the children. There's no more penny candy stores. You don't create a childhood with intricate 3D video games, laptops, and a cell phone. You create a virtual adolescence with those things. Children need a real childhood with all the trials and tribulations that come with the territory.

Our five year-olds are dropping virtual bombs on virtually cities, and blowing virtual monsters into smithereens with a virtual AK-47. And we're wondering why there's so much violence amongst children these days - DUH!!!

If we truly want to make a better world for our little kids to grow up in, we need to open up some neighborhood candy stores. The heck with virtual ecstasy, let's give em the real deal. Let's give em some Malted Milkballs!

Singing on the Swings

Who amongst us did not absolutely love riding on the swings at the playground when we were little kids? I know I did. When we were children, the playground swings were the recreational drug of choice. Riding on the swings sends you off on a journey in another world of your own - especially during one of those rare moments when you actually had the playground all to yourself.

Think about it. It makes sense. Using your entire body in harmonic motion, you fly through the air, going nowhere, in rhythmic time to any song you sing. That's why riding on the swing makes you sing. It's a tranquil state of total ecstasy.

It's funny how we don't stand at the bus stop in the middle of a crowd of strangers, and all of a sudden burst into a song. If you do, you'll notice the other people drifting towards the other side of the bus stop sign - away from you.

But when you're riding on the swings, you lose all of your inhibitions. You don't care if you're surrounded by strangers or not. You'll just burst into a song. Funny thing is, the strangers all around you will think nothing of it. Hey, they just might hop onto the next swing and join right in.

Do you not fondly remember at time when you and a half-dozen of your fellow playmates were swinging in all different directions bellowing out the same song at the top of your lungs? Wasn't that a blast?

Okay, what I've always wanted to know is - who wrote those songs we all sang on the swings? The kids all over America and Canada all sang the same songs. Isn't that amazing? It's like a worldwide unsolved mystery. Who wrote the songs, and how did we all learn them? I never heard any of these songs on the radio or TV, and yet we all knew them.

I don't even have to teach you the words or the rhythm. You know them all by heart. Everybody does. Man, if I could have only remembered my school lessons the way I memorized these songs, I'd have a Ph.D right now - wouldn't I?

Okay, hop onto the swing beside me, get your body pumping, and we'll sing out a tune. Let's start with the infamous "Bean Chant." You ready? A one...and a two...and a...

"Beans, beans, they're good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart. The more you fart, the better you feel, and then you're ready for another meal!"

Great job! Okay now; let's take it to the Marines.

"The first Marine bought the beans - parley vous. The second Marine baked the beans - parley vous. The third Marine ate the beans and shhhhhhhh all over the submarine - inky stinky parley vous!"

We're on a roll. Let's turn up the heat. Ready?

"Matches, matches, m-a-t-c-h-e-s! You can light em on the wall. You can light em on the grass. I once knew a girl who could light em on her - matches, matches, m-a-t-c-h-e-s!"

Come on; let's get personal. Is there anybody named Eddie in the playground right now? Okay then, let's taunt him!

"Eddie Spaghetti with the meatball eyes, put him in the oven and make French fries!"

- and now let's taunt one of the girls -

"I see London, I see France, I see someone's underpants!"

Yes! Yes! We're rockin now! Let's do another song - shall we?

"My mother gave me a penny - to give to Jenny - I didn't give it to Jenny - I bought some bubble gum! E-E-E-E-E Bublegum - E-E-E-E-E Bublegum - E-E-E-E-E Bublegum - How I love bublegum!"

And let's not forget the unofficial Boy Scout song...

"On my honor - I'll do my best - to help the girl scouts - get undressed!"

Forgive me - I'm getting carried way here. That's what happens when you jump up onto the swings and let yourself go. Man, I could go on and on forever. I haven't even begun to scratch the surface.

Having had kids of my own, I got to relive moments like that when my kids were small enough to ride the swings at the playground. I hate to admit it, but now my grandchildren are old enough to play on the swings. Kind of scares you - doesn't it?

With every new generation, comes a few new compositions added to the repertoire. And it absolutely floors you when you hear them for the first time. For example, the first time I heard this new version of "Yes, Jesus Loves Me," I laughed so hard I cried. It goes like this...

"Yes, Jesus love me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus love me, but he can't stand you!"

And another one that absolutely blew me away was...

"Ain't you dumb - you pick your nose with your thumb - then you roll it into little balls - and stick it up your bum!"

Where do they get these songs? Who writes this material? I hope it's not copyrighted. I'd hate to see the RIAA start arresting all the elementary school children for singing on the swings - but I wouldn't put it past them.

I mean really, they sued a twelve year-old child for downloading a song from the Internet. Do you believe that? And they did it with the full support of all these so-called trend-setting entertainers who grow rich off of our hard-earned cash. Imagine, the stars we idolized went on a greedy search and destroy mission to sue our children.

I think it's time we struck back - don't you? Don't buy any more mass media music. Support your independent musician instead! They're far more talented anyway.

If we don't put a stop to all this phony Hollywood nonsense now, our kids will soon be forced to just think the songs when they're swinging. I suppose they'll find a way to scan your brain to see if you're thinking one of their songs as well - right?

It's a crazy world - isn't it? It's no wonder we're all crazy. After all, We're from Everett!

Cruisin' On The Parkway

Since the state of Massachusetts extended the Revere Beach PARKWAY through Everett back in the 1950's, it has undergone many changes. So much has come and gone over the years that it staggers the mind when you think about it.

To my friends in New York, yes, you are so right, we never had a Broadway like yours, or a Madison Avenue, but you never had a Parkway like ours! You people had to pay a bazillion dollars for shirts and shoes when you went shopping for school clothes. We didn't. We had JM Fields!

Go ahead and laugh, but the PARKWAY once housed so much industry that it boosted Everett's ranking in commerce to the point that Everett was once the largest industrial site east of the Mississippi, second only to Pittsburgh - and that's the truth!

You loved Charlestown Chew candy bars didn't ya? Yep, from Everett on the Parkway, dudes! You loved Cain's mayonnaise and potato chips didn't ya? Yep again, from Everett on the Parkway. And where would we all be without a good dose of toxic chemicals from Monsanto? You guessed it, from Everett on the Parkway.

Laugh at my hometown will ya? Well, just let me take you on a trip through the Everett Time Machine. I'll show you a Norman Rockwell 50's and 60's Americana that would soften the hardest of any nostalgic buff's heart. Let's take a cruise down the PARKWAY!

My father bought a new car every year. Nah, we weren't rich. We were virtually penniless. My dad always paid around 50 bucks for his cars. They always needed a new transmission, or a back seat, or a rear window, or sometimes he had to rivet a piece of sheet metal over the holes in the floorboards so we wouldn't fall through. Never the less, we always had a car.

I don't know about you, but after church on Sunday, we went out for our Sunday drive. Oh, the memories. Back in the early 1960's, you could drive up Broadway without getting stuck in traffic. Good thing for us because our cars overheated if they had to idle for more than 45 seconds.

So, where did we drive? Man, we went everywhere. Sometimes we took a drive up old Route 1, past Governer Dummer Academy, the Topsfield fair, over the bridge into Amesbury, and all the way up to Strawberry Banke park in Portmouth, New Hampshire. And sometimes we took a cruise along Revere Beach. To get there, we drove down the Parkway.

What really sticks out in my mind on the way to Revere Beach was that great big giant Bull with the big hamburger on top of his horns. Yeah, the Big Burger, that's it!

The coolest street rods congregated at the Big Burger. The guys flirted with the cute little carhops, and hung around waiting for a challenge to happen. What kind of challenge? You know, some rumbling hot machine would cruise in and lay down the gauntlet. Next thing you know, they're doing the streetlight to streetlight drags to defend their titles.

Too bad the M.D.C. cops got in the way. That scene was like something out of American Graffiti, I swear. Once they tore down that Big Bull from the corner of Chelsea Street, it became just another busy intersection without any character.

Okay. Let's bang a U-ey and head North. What do you see? Well, for one thing, we're going to pass right by Robert Halls along the way. Remember the joke? "Jordan Marsh throws it out and Robert Halls it in."

Okay, who remembers Robert Hall's radio ad? I do, I do! It goes like this, "The value goes up, up, up, and the prices go down, down, down. Low over head - low over head!" The reason I remember that so well is because all the kids used to sing, "The dresses go up, up, up, and the pants go down, down, down!" Leave it to an Everett kid to massacre your mass-media advertising budget - right?

Now, what's next? Nah, after the stadium - we've been there already. If we're on the Parkway anyway, we may as well stop at the "C & C" and get some gas. At the "C & C" gas station you could get a couple of gallons of gas for a quarter. Remember that? I bought my first VW Bug in 1969. It cost me 75 cents to fill the tank at the "C & C."

We're getting closer to Santilli Circle. I once overheard my big brother and his friends reminisce about a place called Richard's Drive-in. I'm really not old enough to know anything about that one. Hopefully, someone from that era can fill us in on that.

The place I do recall is the Adventure CarHop on Route #1. I only remember that one because my big sister got stuck baby sitting me once while she was out on a date. I'm sure her boyfriend really appreciated that. The Adventure CarHop on Route 1 was where you got a free record if you yelled, "Arnie Woo Woo Gensburg" into the order-speaker. How did their radio ad go? "The Adventure Car Hop is the place to go for food that's always right (honk-honk)!"

Anyway, once you're up and over the hill on the Parkway, you gotta drive around Santilli Circle. Yeah, now there's a challenge for ya! Santilli Circle is unlike anything else on the face of this planet. Trust me. There is nothing in New York, Montreal, Albany, Buffalo, Toronto, Cleveland, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Chicago, Nashville, or St Louis that even comes close.

At Santilli Circle, each lane is barely wide enough for one car, not including door handles and mirrors. Upon entering this montage of confusion you must hold the pedal to the metal, maintain a speed beyond human comprehension, and make a multitude of decisions in a fraction of a second. With only an inch between you and every other car in the rotary, you must change lanes and know exactly where it is you want to go, intuitively, without any signs to help you navigate this maze.

One blink of an eye and you'll either wind up at a Mall you never knew existed, or just continue driving around in an endless circle for the remainder of your natural life. That is, provided you get there either before or after rush hour. During rush hour, you're lucky to move 3 inches per minute.

I have the deepest admiration for those who have mastered the art of navigating Santilli Circle without blowing a left ventricle. Having become accustomed to the more laid-back mid-western life style, I couldn't wait to get back to my hotel to take a nap after driving through Santilli Circle. I was exhausted!

After Santilli Circle, on the other side of the bridge, there's a hidden, poorly lit, dirt-road under-pass. Well now it's a big, paved, well-lit, entrance way to a monster MBTA station. What I'm refering to is back in the old days of the "Big S."

Remember the "Big S" take-out? We'd stop there to grab some soggy fries before hopping into the trunk on our way to the Drive-in. Hey, if the Wellington Circle Drive-in is sold out, we'll head on over to the Meadow Glen for some serious open-air theater fun. That's all.

Hop into the trunk? Yeah, before they wised up to that old trick, they used to charge by the head count. So, everybody piled into the trunk, and only two people stayed up front to pay.

After parking next to one of those two-ton, iron speakers that broke more windows in their day than a slingshot, we all crawled out of the trunk and into the car to watch the movie. If there's a way around paying for anything, the kids from Everett will figure it out first - trust me!

Intermission at the Drive-in was a real treat wasn't it? The spot lights came on and everybody scrambled to get dressed. Isn't it funny how tangled up your clothes can get when you're on a date at the Drive-in?

After all that whoopy, it's time for a trip to the concession stand. After standing in line for 15 minutes, you'd get a soggy hot dog in a foil wrap, some over-salted soggy fries in a paper cup, and a gingerale to mix with your - oops! Well, you a got a gingerale - right?

To say that the Drive-in theaters were the hot spots of the day is an understatement. Let me put it this way. If you were born at the Whidden Memorial Hospital any time in the late 50's or early 60's, there's a good chance you were concieved at the Drive-in. Now do you understand?

What is the first thing you should do when the movie gets over? "You should roll down your window and hang that two-ton speaker back on the post." How many of you forgot that rule of thumb in your life time? It never seemed to fail that somebody in the crowd overlooked that one at every movie. Must have been the gingerale.

As soon as we heard the glass breaking, we'd all look towards the sound of a heavy metal container banging around at the end of that dangling cable to see who the dummy was this time - right? Didn't you hate it when the dummy was you?

Okay, so where do you go for a late night cup of coffee after the Drive-in? Nah, not Vargis - Vargis was closed by then. Right - Howard Johnsons! Please don't tell me that you've never pulled a "chew-and-screw" at Howard Johnsons. Everybody did that at least once in their life time. Well, everyone I hung around with did anyway. And if I have to explain what a "chew-and-screw" is - then you're not from Everett!

Every time I got stuck in traffic on Wellington Circle, I just figured it was God's way of punishing me for all the commandments I broke over the years along the Parkway. I guess he just wants me to think about it so I'll know where all those check marks next to my name came from when I reach those pearly gates. One thing's for certain. I'll have plenty of company - won't I?

There's Hippies in Glendale Park?

Society, as a whole, experienced a paradigm shift towards the cynical following the assassination of President Kennedy. The shock wave of that assassination sent a ripple effect throughout the basic fabric of the common citizenry. We really didn't understand it back then, but after November 22nd, in 1963, everything changed.

America's youth was hardest hit. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a homeboy. He was one of us. He was from Massachusetts. JFK, himself, was a beacon light cutting through the dense fog of old backroom politics. For the first time since World War Two, a president had captured the admiration and imagination of America's youth.

President Kennedy boldly faced the injustices that were so firmly rooted in American politics. He attacked labor union corruption, racial bigotry, and the out-of-control power base of the FBI and the CIA. His words were inspiring, and his actions were admirable.

For a youth that was beginning to murmur rebellion against strict dress codes, racial inequality, and redundant social mores, JFK gave us reason to believe we could all work within the system to make a positive change. He gave us reason to believe and trust in America's political system. We absolutely loved that man.

On that fateful day in Dallas, they not only killed a president, but they lost the support of an entire generation of Americans. In every instance where JFK had earned the trust of America's youth, his successor, Lyndon Johnson, betrayed it. Lyndon Johnson's landslide political victory for re-election was solely based on his promise that he would "never send American boys to die in a war in Southeast Asia that did not concern us."

One year after his re-election, our neighbors were dropping like flies in Vietnam. Our boys were shipping overseas in the thousands to fight in a war that this president had openly said, "did not concern us." When America's youth asked why, their elders told them that they had no right to question why, but just to do or die!

Excuse me? In a nation forged on the principle of questioning authority, we were told that to question the government was treason. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

America's youth "TUNED IN" to a newer philosophy echoing amongst our own generation. Barry McGuire started it all with his song, "The Eve of Destruction." Soon Joan Biez, Bob Dylan, Buffy St Marie, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Crosby, Stills & Nash, and a whole new era in protest music echoed the sentiments of America's disillusioned youth.

America's youth "TURNED ON" to a new way of life. A new mind set that was free of bigotry, hatred, and narrow-mindedness. We became more open minded to other schools of thought, and alternative perspectives of awareness. And we "DROPPED OUT" of the old standards of living as set forth by our elders.

As the hippie movement got into full swing, those of us who did "tune in, turn on, and drop out," began to drift apart from our separate little neighborhoods all over the city, and congregate up in the back hills of Glendale Park. And man oh man, we sure did have some seriously wild parties up in them thar hills - did we not?

The mass media was always on the look out for stories that grabbed the consumer's attention to rake in the advertising dollars. They began to focus on this new phenomenon sweeping America's youth. It was funny how our parents would shake their heads in disbelief while watching newsreels of hippies congregate on the corner of Haite and Ashbury in San Francisco, and yet didn't realize it was happening right under their own noses. They thought we were all growing our hair long just because the Beatles had long hair.

By the year 1969, I was indeed, a full-fledged, longhaired, guitar pickin' hippie. My sister had graduated from Everett High School a few years earlier. She had already saddled into married life with a toddler running around the house. That Thanksgiving was hard on my mother because my big brother was away from home fighting in Vietnam. We all pitched in to try to make it an especially happy occasion to help get her mind off of worrying about her first born son.

When we gathered around the kitchen table, we said an extra special prayer for my brother. We then attacked that turkey like a pack of hungry wolves. I was preoccupied with throwing bits of turkey back and forth with my adorable two-year old nephew seated in the high chair beside me, while everyone else was engaged in festive small talk.

All of a sudden my sister piped up and asked, "Hey ma, guess what?"

"What?"

"There's hippies in Glendale Park!"

I choked on my mouthful of turkey.

"There is?" Ma mother responded in total surprise.

"Yeah," she said. "They all look like Paul. They've got long hair and they dress sloppy." I never really realized we were making such a dramatic fashion statement amongst the un-cool.

"Can you go look at them?" My mother asked.

"Gee, I'm not sure," my sister responded.

Now honestly, when did you ever have to get a permit to look at somebody? Seizing the opportunity, I said, "I wouldn't go down there if I were you. They might be communists." I said it as a joke.

"That's true," my mother said. "Barry Goldwater thinks they're all communists." Now why on earth anybody would listen to anything Barry Goldwater had to say is beyond me, but apparently, my mother did. I conjured up this scenario in my mind of sitting up on the hills with all my friends on the night my sister and parents drive by, pointing out the car window yelling, "Hey, look at all the hippies."

That night when we all congregated up on the hills, I told my friends that story. It made everybody laugh. One of the girls in the crowd said that her parents keep driving by to get a look at the hippies. She said, "That's why I duck and hide every time a blue Chevy stationwagon goes by."

Not everyone joined the Cultural Revolution. Many stayed behind. A distinct division emerged between the loyalists and the rebellious youths. Those who remained loyal to the older generational school of thought were labeled "straight" by the rebellious. And those who had "dropped out" were the "hippies." If you remember, we called ourselves, "freaks." We (hippies) had a little joke amongst ourselves whenever a "straight" walked by. We'd turn to each other and say, "sniffle - sniffle - I smell a wiffle."

As the loyalists approached graduation, they focused on getting married, finding a full time job, and starting a family. The hippies were focusing on getting out to travel the world, avoiding one-to-one relationships, and trying to figure out how to make money without getting nailed down to a traditional nine-to-five commitment.

Our senior class picnic took place in the beautiful State Park in Canton. The two groups were mingling well that day. The hippies provided the music because they all played guitar. The loyalists provided great conversation because they seemed so narrow-minded to us that they provided good material to write protest songs about.

At one point during that picnic, one of those shorthaired loyalists turned to me and said, "I hate hippies." Now honestly, to say that to a hippie means only one thing - you're looking for a fight. So naturally, since I came from Arlington Street, I was preparing to unleash a barrage of verbal insults that would give this individual no other alternative but to fight, or look foolish amongst his peers.

What stopped me was a fellow hippie that held his hand up to my chest and said, "Let it go, dude. Look at him. You gotta feel sorry for the guy. He looks and dresses like his father. A year from now he'll have a fat belly and he'll be working in a department store trying to cheat an old lady out of a nickel. And you'll be off in Europe somewhere sweeping a cute little French chick off her feet with one of your romantic love songs."

That made me laugh. I wasn't mad any more. What he was saying was true. "And besides," he added, "You could accidentally break a finger during the fight and not be able to play guitar." I never thought of that. I'd lose out on the little French chick if that happened. So, I swallowed my pride and let it go.

Looking back, the hippie movement made a dramatic statement on American society. And even though we all did eventually cut our hair and shave off our beards, American society never really went back to what it was before the day they shot President Kennedy. The hippies were a rude awakening for the old guard. We were far-out, dudes!