No School - Snow Days

The above picture is a winter scene scanned from a 1908 postcard depicting Linden Street as seen from the intersection of Hancock. Looking at that image inspired me to compose a guitar instrumental entitled, "No School Snow Days." Go ahead - click on the link to the "Growing Up Everett" web site and you can download the MP3 recording of that guitar instrumental on the music page.

Who amongst us does not fondly recall those blinding Nor Easters that knock the habit and routine out of our daily lives? Aren't they great? They force us to lift our noses up off the grindstone, and step back, if only for a moment, to see the world through the eyes of a child. Back to a time when our hearts ruled over our heads, and foolishness was when you took everything serious.

It happened one night during the WBZ channel 4 news at six o' clock. Meteorologist, Bob Copeland, pointed to a cluster of dark clouds he had placed on his magnetic weather map. "Storms currently pounding Buffalo, and Toronto, are pushing off to our North. That cold air mass up in Newfoundland will push that storm front back down towards the coast of New England in a North Easterly direction."

That's all I had to hear. That's happened so many times before that I already knew what he was going to say next. "That storm front should be hitting the Boston shore line sometime after ten o' clock tonight."

I could feel the excitement begin to resonate throughout my entire body already. And then he said, "We can expect a foot or more snow here in the Boston area by morning. Stay tuned to WBZ for your up to the minute no school announcements."

"Ma, can we stay up late tonight? There's no school tomorrow," I cried out.

"We don't know that yet. There may be school tomorrow. You'll go to bed early just in case."

"Aww, Ma!"

"You never mind. They say that all the time. You'll have school tomorrow," she said.

I know she's wrong. Heck, even she knows she's wrong. It's just wishful thinking on her part. It may be unpredictable if Bob Copeland says, "We may see a flurry or two," but as soon as he says, "North Easterly direction," it's all in my favor - and she knows it.

From that moment on, you couldn't drag me away from the window with a team of Clydesdales. This is my night. And even if there was any question at all - I'm gonna wish so hard that I'm going to make it happen.

Take a look out the window and tell me what you think. Look at that sky. It has that deep powdery blue color to it. And the clouds are so dark and heavy that they're almost green. Who is she kidding? It even smells like a Nor Easter. This is going to happen. I can feel it in my bones.

All the tell tale signs start to add up. First, the phone rings. They want my Dad to go back to work. He's the heavy equipment mechanic at Tufts University. He's the one that gets all the heavy snow removal equipment ready for work. Then, when the city trucks roll down the street you can hear the familiar chinking of the tire chains as they go by. And finally, it starts to snow.

Few things are as beautiful as watching big giant snowflakes flutter down through the beam of a street light's aura. If you stare directly into the snowflakes as they fall towards the windowpane, you'll lose your equilibrium. You'll feel like you're actually moving into the snow towards the sky. It's magic - I tell ya - pure magic!

It is very hard to fall asleep when you know a Nor Easter is raging outside. Listening to the sound of the snow tap against the window, driven by the force of that North Easterly wind, is like music to my ears. On nights like this, I love to lie in bed with the blinds wide open so I can watch the world fill up with snow. The more times I hear the snow plows come barreling down the street, scraping that blade along the pavement, the more likely it is that there won't be any school in the morning. I like that a lot.

What is it about mornings like this that makes it impossible to sleep late? For one thing, first light comes so much earlier because that blanket of snow illuminates the night with a mellow blue light. Not only that, but clicking on the radio to listen to all those "No School" announcements makes for a really exciting way to start your day.

It's almost poetic, in a sense, listening to the radio announcer rattle off all of the Massachusetts communities that have surrendered to the night. My favorite one is the one that goes like this, "No school, all schools in Everett." That's my cue to leap up out of bed and dance around the house in mindless ecstasy.

My older brothers start waxing up their shovels for their trek down to Everett Station. To them, this is a golden opportunity to rake in some cash by signing up with the "T" to shovel out the subway stations. Me? I'm way too excited to eat breakfast. All I want to do is get out there and start sledding.

Is it my imagination, or did we really get more snow when we were little kids than we do today? I've got old photographs of snow drifts up over the roofs of the cars parked along the curb on Arlington Street. I remember when the snow was so deep that we jumped off the rail of our second-story back porch down into the snow banks. But of course, nothing beats that storm of 78. By that time, I was married with kids of my own.

No School, Snow Days, are a blast - even if we do have to make them up at the end of the school year. After all, who can think about consequences at a time like this?

On days like this, we all congregate at the local sled spots for some warm up runs before heading out to join the SuperBowl of all sledding experiences - the double hills down Glendale Park. There was once a day that we never made it down to Glendale Park because of what happened to my brother up at the Horace Mann playground.

The Horace Mann playground was a completely tarred steep hill. It used to freeze over with a thick sheet of ice that was absolutely treacherous. At the bottom of the playground hill were three obstacles you simply must avoid if you expect to survive a day of sledding on this dangerous patch of ice.

First, was the small cement stairway leading out onto Foster Street. Second, was the monkey bars (yes monkey bars - the term "jungle gym" is NOT an Everett word). Last, but not least, are those 10-foot high - 3 inch pipes that support the chain link fence that separates the playground from that grouchy hairdresser's house. She always calls the cops whenever the kids play ball in the playground.

Sledding on that patch of ice was a blast - even if it was dangerous. We'd start running at the top of the hill, leaped into the air, swung that sled into position under our bellies, and flopped on top of it laying face down. We'd zoom down that hill at unbelievable speeds - way too fast to have any real control.

The reason we never made it down to Glendale Park one day was because my brother executed one of the most catastrophic sled runs in the history of the Horace Mann school. Seconds after taking off from the top of the hill, he lost control on his sled and couldn't steer.

First, he whacked his forehead against one of the pipe rails to the swing set. He then spun out of control straight down the hill before any of us could catch up to him. Seconds later, he smacked his head again on the bottom rungs of the monkey bars. And again, his sled spun out of control. He wound up lodged under the chain link fence at the end of the playground.

He was trapped under the fence, on his sled, hanging out over the high cement wall bordering that grouchy hairdresser's back yard. We had to work both sides of the chain link fence to pull him out from under it.

To stop the profuse bleeding from his forehead, his friend, Peter, put his dirty, wet glove over the wound. We then walked him home. By the time we got home, Peter's glove was stuck fast to the blood clot over Carl's wound. When my mother opened the door and saw Carl covered with blood - she lost it. She rushed him up to the Whidden Hospital, where he received several stitches to close the opened wound on his forehead.

We're talking about a kid who has suffered with Grande Mal Epilepsy most of his life. He's had several brain operations since he was a baby. As a result, he has metal clips in his skull. An injury of this magnitude could have killed him, but it didn't. When he got home from the hospital, he was upset with my mother because she wouldn't let him go back out sledding.

Another fond memory I have of a no-school day was the day that the kids from our neighborhood challenged the Hill Project kids to a snowball fight. We built a fort along the garage wall that bordered the left rear lot of the Parlin Junior High. There was about a dozen of us on our team.

For about an hour or so, we organized ourselves into an efficient work force to fortify the fort, and stockpile what looked like an endless supply of snowballs. Being the smallest of the bunch, they sent me out to scout the area in search of the approaching enemy. As soon as I spotted an unidentifiable group of kids rounding the corner of Dern from Prospect Street, I darted back to the fort.

"How many of them are there?" they asked.

"Just a handful, not more than us, we'll cream them."

All of a sudden, we heard this faint rumble of voices and running footsteps. "Get Ready!" Somebody shouted. We took our positions. And then, it happened.

First, a crowd of screaming attackers entered the lot from Dern Street. It looked like hundreds of them. In the distance, we could see another crowd charging down the hill on Lexington Place. Now they looked like they numbered in the thousands. Man, I had seriously under estimated the enemy.

But wait, there's more. Another crowd now entered from behind the school. And yet another crowd came into the lot from the left side slope off of Broadway. We were not only badly out numbered, but we were surrounded and trapped like rats.

The assault was unmerciful. It literally rained snowballs at us. They had breached our fortifications in only minutes and punished us with our own stockpile of ammunition. And it did not stop until every last one of our snowballs were gone. We were soaking wet from head to toe.

When the onslaught had ceased, we all sat around together and laughed. Of course, they had bragging rights. They had more than defeated us. They had humiliated us. It was all in good fun. Oh man, those were the days.

On the days we did make it down to Glendale Park, we wouldn't go home until long after dark. It's a trip and a half when you start your sled run all the way up at the top of the highest point near Gledhill Ave. You'll bump and fly all the way down towards the fence that partitions off the bleachers. Well, sometimes you stalled out on the terrace before the lower hills and that kind of took the steam out of your run.

When the hills really crowded up, the sledders would unavoidably plow down the walkers on each run. You couldn't help it. We've all had our turn at playing both the plower and the plowee. It's just par for the coarse. And I've seen some injuries over the years on those hills that really made me cringe - believe you me.

Even going home at the end of a no school day is an adventure in itself. I really didn't realize how soaking wet I was until I got home and peeled off every layer of winter clothes. I'd find snow all the way down to the bottom of my socks.

A steaming hot bath always soothes your aches and pains away. Man, I could just lay back in that warm water and fall asleep. It felt so comforting that it gave me the chills. I'd stay in the bathtub until my fingers wrinkled up like a prune.

As they say, "All good things must end," but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the ending, too. It's times like these that a hot cup of cocoa becomes the nectar of the gods. I fondly remember sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, sharing the day’s adventures with my brothers and sister. Tomorrow we'll all be back at school with our noses to the grindstone. But it was all well worth that one good day in Heaven - wasn't it?

A Most Peculiar Day

For as long as I live, I will never forget this day. It was a Friday in Miss Blake's sixth grade classroom at the Horace Mann School. Looking at the front of the school, you'll see a row of windows to the upper left-hand side on the top floor of the school. Those are the windows to Miss Blake's classroom.

Our backs were to these windows when we sat at our desks. Miss Blake's desk faced these windows, but situated at the opposite end of the room - directly in front of the blackboard. I sat at the third desk in the first row, which lined up with that last window on the left.

At this point in time, the school day ended at 1:30 P.M. This particular day was an unusually calm and mild November day. Before this day would end, three very peculiar things would take place. The first of these three peculiar incidences happened at about 10 o' clock.

While the students took turns reading a paragraph each out loud, an ungodly crash that shook the whole room startled us all. The student sitting in the last seat in the second row fell backwards, and crashed to the floor. Apparently, the cast iron support to his seat inexplicably snapped.

This student was a very large and heavy boy, so naturally, we all assumed the cast iron gave out under all the stress. In reality, he could not have possibly weighed so much as to weaken a three-inch thick piece of cast iron. At any rate, when I turned around and saw him lying on his back, with his big arms and legs flapping in mid air, while still seated on the upper portion of the chair, I burst out laughing. It was funny.

To say that Miss Blake was infuriated at me for laughing is an understatement. "We'll see how funny you think it is on a Friday afternoon when everyone else has gone home for the weekend and you're still sitting here by yourself," she said somewhat sternly. "Now you apologize to Joseph for laughing."

I did apologize. And he politely accepted the apology. "Don't you feel better for apologizing?" She asked. "Yes, I do, Miss Blake. I feel terrible for having laughed at someone else's misfortune," I answered. As you can see, I was really learning how to play the game at this stage in life.

The last thing I wanted to do on a Friday afternoon was stay after school. You know there's gonna be a big game of tackle down the park on an afternoon like this. I'd have agreed to anything to avoid staying after school. It worked, too. She said because my apology was sincere, I didn't have to stay after - whew!

There was no cafeteria at the Horace Mann school. At lunchtime, the boys lined up along the left wall, the girls along the right, and we marched down to the lavatories on the bottom floor to do our duties and wash our hands before lunch. We sat at our desks to eat our brown-bagged lunches that we brought from home.

On this day, as a very rare treat, my mother packed a chocolate Hershey bar in my lunch bag for a surprise desert. That was such a rare treat, that I cannot recall it ever happening before. Usually, my snacks were a couple of saltines smeared with peanut butter.

Here comes the second peculiar thing to happen that day. As I was about to sink my teeth into this prized treasure; a kid named Eddie reached over, snapped off more than half of my candy bar and threw it in his mouth. I lost it.

Jumping up out of my seat, I chased him half way across the room. I grabbed hold of his collar, and cocked back my fist to deliver a full payload. And just as Miss Blake stood up and shouted, "Paul Huffman!" "Wacko!" He kissed my fist.

"Now, you apologize," she shouted. Eddie was still standing in the middle of the classroom holding onto his mouth. He had chocolate all over his face. I turned towards him and said, "I'm sorry, Eddie. I meant to sock you in the eye." Needless to say, I did win detention that day after all.

Before the end of the day, both Eddie and I were laughing over the entire incident. I could never stay mad at Eddie. After all, he was as nutty as I was. Years later, we would become hippies together in the back hills of Glendale Park. Eddie no longer walks amongst us. And he is sadly missed.

When the school day ended, Miss Blake instructed all the kids, except Paul Huffman, to go out in the hallway to get their jackets off the coat racks. Minutes later, the bell rang, and I was all alone.

I was just sitting there with my hands folded on top of my desk straining to hear what all the teachers were talking about out in the hallway. Whatever it was, it sounded very serious. And then the unthinkable happened.

Miss Blake stepped into the classroom, carrying my jacket. I could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't angry with me any more. Instead of yelling a me, she said, "Paul, I want you to go directly home. Don't dilly-dally along the way. Just go straight home. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Blake." Like I said, I'd agree to anything at his stage. The last thing I was going to do was fudge up a golden opportunity like this. This was great. I could join up with all the kids playing punch ball out on the school grounds and we could start getting a game of "Rough - N - Tumble" together down Glendale Park.

Now here's where the third really peculiar incident takes place. When I stepped outside the school, the whole world looked deserted. It was so quiet outside that you could hear a pin drop. On a Friday afternoon? In Everett? How very strange, indeed.

When I left the classroom, the clock on the classroom wall said 1:45. It is very unusual for the playground to be empty of any activity until around 2:30. We always played a few innings of punchball before going home, especially on a nice sunny day like this. You don't get too many of these this late in November in Everett - that's for sure.

There wasn't a car in sight. I felt like I was living in one of those episodes of the Twilight Zone where the actors discover they're the last people left on Earth. That's how quiet it was. I didn't see a soul.

That's the way it was on Prospect Street, on Foster Street, and even on Arlington Street. I had such an eerie feeling that I quickened my pace down the hill on Arlington Street to get home. When I reached about three-quarters of the way down the hill, I stepped off the curb to cross the street. That's when I heard a noise behind me. I turned to see my friend Steve opening his front door to get the Mail out of his mailbox.

"Hey, Steve, Where is everybody?"

"Where do you think?"

"I dunno. I thought we were all going down the park for a game of Rough-N-Tumble."

"Not today," he said.

"Why not?"

"Don't you know what's going on?"

"No, what?"

For as long as I live, I will never forget the words he said next. I'll never forget the sound of his voice, or the very way he said those words. They will echo in my mind for the rest of my life.

He said, "President Kennedy's Dead."

I don't even remember if we exchanged any more words after he told me that or not. All I remember is running up the hallway steps to our apartment on the second floor. For some strange reason, my life changed forever the moment I opened that door to step inside.

As soon as I opened the door and stepped into our apartment, everybody turned around and said, "Shusssssssh!" Everyone was watching television. The news was on in the middle of the afternoon. Can you imagine that?

Setting my schoolbooks down on the little telephone table we kept in the living room, I began to peel off my jacket. Halfway through the process, I heard Walter Kronkite say, "From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official, President Kennedy died at One P M Central Standard Time, Two o' clock Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago."

None of us spoke. The events as they continually unfolded on the television held us spell-bound. My dad came home early from work. He picked up subs at Angelina's on his way home so my mother wouldn't have to cook. We ate supper in the living room that night. We never took our eyes off the television.

In the course of that evening, bits and pieces of what had transpired in Dallas that day, unfolded with each updated news flash. We were all beginning to paste the puzzle together in our mind's eye as to how the event actually occurred.

"This is not good," My Dad said shaking his head in disbelief when the news flashed on about the Dallas police officer who was shot dead in the line of duty just a few blocks away from Dealy Plaza. Shortly afterwards, we heard about the arrest of a murder suspect in a local Dallas theater. The guy had a gun, and the police had to fist fight the guy to take him down. We had this guy convicted before we even knew the facts.

At this stage in life, I was already an accomplished amateur recording engineer, but I never though once to get the tape rolling to record any of this. I was in too much of a shock. For the very first time in visual communications history, we watched the news unfold from the other side of the continental United States - as it happened.

Sometime around 7 o' clock, the guy they arrested at the Dallas Theater was formally charged with the murder of that police officer. A few hours after that, he was officially charged with the murder of President Kennedy. You didn't dare take your eyes off the TV. You never knew what could happen next. It all seemed to transpire so quickly.

That night was the first time I can remember in my life when my parents didn't tell me it was time to go to bed. They just forgot in all the excitement. I remember getting so tired from watching the news all night that I just walked into my room and passed out on top of the covers - clothes and all.

We were all in so much of a state of shock that the entire weekend. One day just seemed to blur into the next. It was almost as if we had all lost our best friend. None of us were on a normal schedule. We'd nap, and wake up, grab a bite to eat, and just mull around the house without any focus or direction.

I do remember waking up late on Sunday morning. Everyone was still glued to the television. My mother hurriedly threw a bowl of Cheerios together for my breakfast so she could get back to the television. Everybody was talking to the TV, but nobody was really talking to each other. They were all anxiously waiting for the upcoming press conference with the alleged assassin.

Sometime around 11 o' clock, the reporters gathered around the Dallas police station to film the suspect as they transported him to the local prison. Everyone sat waiting and watching to get a glimpse of the scoundrel who killed our president.

My parents were out in the kitchen mixing up some chicken salad for sandwiches. My dad called out, "Paul, I need you to run down to Anna's Variety for a loaf of bread." What am I, the only one in the house with a pair of legs? No use kicking - right? No one will listen any way.

Actually, it felt good to get up and get out of the house for a few minutes. There was more activity out on the streets today - more than yesterday any way. Only one topic of conversation dominated everyone's interaction. All the adults gasped and shook their heads in disbelief. And the excitement of the previous days unfolding news events excited every kid in the neighborhood.

When I got back home and stepped into the door, again they greeted me with, "Shusssssssss!" It was then that I found out that somebody shot Lee Harvey Oswald dead - on live television while I was down at Anna's Variety buying bread. Do you believe that? The first actual murder to happen on live TV in the history of mass communications, and I missed it because they sent me down to the store for a loaf of bread.

That seems to be my lot in life - always one step behind the rest of the world. I became one of the very few who lived through the moment without seeing it first hand. Yes, I did see it a million and one times on the replay. What I never felt was the shock and excitement that every one else experienced by seeing it live as it happened.

Over the years, we have all have come to realize the significance of that assassination. The common citizen lost all representation in government on that day. The mass media news lost all credibility on that day. They stripped the rights of the common citizenry from our constitution on that day. And nothing was ever the same again.

Wha Dittee Zay?

Wha dittee zay? He zed, "Iz arnt mirreez all set ta cook tha pahdaydahs. An she cooks wickid good."

If you can understand that - then you're from Everett. If not, then the translation in English is ... He said, "His aunt mary is ready to cook the potatoes. And she cooks very good."

On ar way theah weel bang ah Uey - go da Dunkies - and get a reglah cawfee fah tha ride.

It was a riot when we first landed in Indiana. They had no idea what in the world we were talking about. But don't let that throw you off. They're just as screwy in their own right - believe you me.

When they want a tawnic and a lollypop - they ask for a pop and a sucker. Well, they bettah not be callin me no suckah. An if they really wanna few pops they better go down tha bah - right?

So tell me, how do we tell these knuckleheads in the mid-west that "We doan keep tha keez to ar cah down tha sellah - we keep em in ar dressah drawz." Iffi tole em that thayed look at me like umma frickin forenah. Wazza mattah wit these peepull? Yood think I'm talkin gahbidge to em. Well frig them anywaze cuz um goin downa pizza parlah to chow down wit out em.

Theah missin out awn so much not growin up in Evritt. We all got eggz on Eeztah, we ate turkey on Thanxgivin, an we got a shit-load on Chrissmuss. We go downah stoah for a packah butts and thay cahnt unnerstan wut um sayin. It makes me wanna say, "Wad ar ya - retahdid?"

You know what else they missed out awn? Goin down ta skeez for a hoodsie wit jimmies on it. Or goin down ta Anjelleenahz for a sub. They nevah had that - no suh! Thay gut nuthin like that ovah heah.

They never bin to Meffid or down tha Cape. And they didn't grow up hangin on tha cawnah, all decked out to impress tha chicks eethah. I've nevah seen em ordah a party plattah wit a kegga beer and they nevah hadda poopoo platah at tha Kowloon. They doo keep theah rawreggs in tha fridge tho - just like us.

You can be showah thade scoop a sangwich on theah way down the pahkway cuz thade be late fuh suppah aftah gettin bogged down in rush ourwah. Man, that id skeeve them out - huh?

And if thay looked at us tha wrong way - we'd tell em, "Hey, wadda yoo lookin at? Ya wanna staht sumptin?" But that's a whole nuthah ball game - ain it?

Speekin ah ball games - I keep tellin these Hooshahs that tha Pats beat tha Colts cuz tha Pats ar wickid pissah. And thatz boredid no erayseez! They lissen to me cuz arm from Bahstun where Larry Bird played for tha Selltix. Larry Bird gradjeeated frum ISU - witch iz right downa street from where I live now in Indee annah.

I know these hoosiers. They may be ah a tough breed, but thade get bullshit if thay got forced ovah inta tha breakdown lane in tha Sundee aftah noon traffick on 93 tryin to get up ta Cow Hampshire. And can ya just imajin em taykin tha Tee in that crowd? They'd nevah make it past Nawth Stayshun.

We gut frenz frum Indee annah whoov been ta Vahmont. Thay think it's tiny, ovah crowdid, and unfrennley. You can just imagine what thayed think if thay evah made it all the way to Evritt.

Um wicked proud of my Evritt heritage. And um notta shaymed of tha way we talk neethah. And um gonna make dam shore I nevah looz mah Evritt wayah talkin cuz that's what be in frum Evritts all about - right?

Everett's Biggest Loser

Everett is rich in sports history. Names like Leo, Hughes, and Ross, are recognizable names not only in the history of Everett High School football, but all the way up into the National Football League. Heck, Danny Ross set a record for pass receptions in the SuperBowl. And Pat Hughes enjoyed a very long and successful professional career in the NFL spanning more than a decade.

Madeline English put Everett on the map for her excellent performance in the historically acclaimed Women's Baseball League. And let us not forget what an outstanding contribution she made to our community as a history teacher at the Parlin Junior High School. She will live on immortalized in the hearts of every one of us who were fortunate enough to have been one of her students.

The names of notable sports figures, who have honored our community as players, coaches, and assistants, are far too extensive to list here. Because of their unselfish contributions, Everett enjoys a notable reputation as a very successful sports oriented community in all sports. I will beg the forgiveness of all those I have not mentioned here, even though, many more names do come to mind.

During my visit back home to Everett in 2005, I took a nostalgic visit to Glendale Park. I saw the Everett Huskies practicing out on the field. Standing amongst them, stood a giant of a man, who is only a few years younger than I. I vaguely remember him from my childhood days. And although I did not know him well, I did know him. His last name is the same as one of those players listed on that historic Everett High School photograph that was displayed for decades in the front window of the Everett Sports Shop on Broadway.

He caught my attention because I remember one day, many years ago, a whole bunch of us organized a game of tackle down at Glendale Park. No one could tackle this kid. He moved so gracefully that no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't get a good enough grab on him to take him down. He could slip through anything. All you had to do is give this kid the football, and he'd wind up in the end zone.

Here he is thirty some odd years later, unselfishly donating his time to teach his gifted artistry to a younger generation. This person truly is a credit to our community who is worthy of notable recognition. For every generation, throughout the historic timeline of the city of Everett, there are names of notable recognition in sports.

There comes a time in almost every little kid's life when he or she seriously considers taking part in organized sports - especially growing up in a sports oriented community like Everett. It happened to me in 1962 when all of my friends decided to sign up for Little League tryouts. If nothing else, the pride of wearing a Little League baseball uniform is enough to set any little kid's heart on fire.

My only drawback was that I stink at baseball. No - really - I'm not trying to be modest here. I'm terrible to a point of no denial. All my friends knew this, but they encouraged me to sign up for tryouts anyway. They told me that every one makes it into Little League no matter how bad they are at baseball.

Little League is where you learn how to play baseball. "The most important thing about Little League," they all said, "Was that you learn good sportsmanship." After hearing that over and over again, and on the reassurances from all of my friends, I signed up to try out for Everett Little League Baseball in 1962 at the ripe old age of ten years old.

Tryouts were held on a Saturday morning down at Glendale Park. It looked like just about Everett Kid who lived in Everett showed up for tryouts. "You know what's really cool?" my friend, Tommy, said, "We get to wear our uniforms to school to show off our team pride on opening day." No - kidding? Man, won't I look snazzy stepping into the classroom dressed in an official Little League Red Sox uniform. Who could possibly want for anything more?

They separated us into four giant groups, and each group headed off to the four corners of Glendale Park. My group took the diamond on the corner of Ferry and Elm - right there at the front gate of Glendale Park. We took turns rotating at the different positions in the outfield. A pop-up fly ball came right to me. I missed it.

After switching to the infield, a grounder came my way. It sailed right between my legs and rolled on into the outfield. They tried me out at third base. The kid up at bat hit a grounder towards the pitcher. He scooped it and fired it at me to tag out the runner coming into third. I missed it. The runner made it all the way home while I fumbled with the darn thing.

Eventually, I got my turn up at bat. I had a little more success on the plate than I did in the outfield. Yes, I whiffed the first two pitches even though they came in right over the plate. But man o' man, I caught a piece of that third pitch. And I've got to admit; it was probably the best whack I ever gave a baseball in my entire life. It was such a good hit that I just stood there watching it sail off into the outfield.

"Run the bases!" somebody shouted. Oh yeah, the bases, I almost forgot. By the time I got to first base, that kid was already holding onto the ball. That's how long it took me to get there. In the end, even I had to admit, not so much as one other kid did as poorly as I did that day at Glendale Park.

Walking home later that afternoon, while my friends were bragging about how well they did that day, all I could think about was what a complete fool I made of myself. I knew I wasn't cut out for baseball in the first place. You know what I am? I'm an artist. I've known that since I could wrap my fingers around a pencil. You know what I'm not? I'm not a baseball player. I've known that since the day I could walk.

Again, they all reassured me that I would get called to join Little League. "The reason they have tryouts is so they can balance out all the teams to make sure there's good players and people who still need to learn on every team," Bobby said. "You're gonna make it. Don't worry."

That night at the supper table, my Dad asked, "So, how did it go at tryouts?" My Dad was both a baseball and football star in school growing up in Terre Haute, Indiana. I'm sure it filled his heart with pride to know that maybe his little boy might follow in his footsteps. What I hated more than anything was to let him down. But there was no use in lying - it'll all come out in the wash any way.

"It didn't go so good," I admitted. "I was the worse player on the field today. I stink at baseball," I said so shamefully that I didn't dare look up from my supper plate.

"Look at me," he said. "That doesn't matter. You tried. That's what counts. Maybe you'll never be a great sportsman, but I do know what you already are."

"And what's that?" I asked with eyes edged in tears.

"At your young age, you may well be the greatest artist to ever come out of Everett, Massachusetts. I'm not only proud of your artistic ability; I'm amazed by it. That's why I always bring samples of your art to work. I show them off to the professors at the Museum School of Fine Arts," he said.

I knew he did that. I just didn't realize that he was so impressed by it all. "I just want you to be proud of me," I said.

He reached over and messed up my hair with the most sympathetic smile and said, "I'm already proud of you. Someday you'll see your artwork published in the media. And then you'll know your true calling in life. You've got nothing to feel sorry about. You've already got more talent in those clumsy little fingers than most people will ever achieve in their lifetime. I'd rather you draw than to break one of those precious little fingers in a silly game like baseball."

The telephone rang during supper the following Wednesday night. My mother held the phone out towards me and said, "It's for you." I jumped down off my kitchen chair and ran to the phone. You know what I was hoping for. What a let down when I heard my friend, Tommy's voice.

"Hey Paul, what team are you on?" He asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you get called yet? Bobby's on the Tigers. Donny's on the Cubs. I'm on the Red Sox. Don't tell me you didn't get called yet."

"No, nobody called yet."

"Let me know what team you're on as soon as you get the call. Maybe we'll be on the same team."

"And maybe I won't get called," I answered.

"Oh yeah, you'll get called. They're calling everybody tonight. They probably didn't get to your name yet because they've got so many kids to call. Let me know what team you're on as soon as you get the call. Okay?"

"Okay."

I didn't even go outside to play after supper that night. I sat at the kitchen table drawing so I would be right there when the phone rang. The phone never rang again that night.

On Thursday morning at school, all of the kids were excitingly talking about what team they were on and what position they were going to play. They were already talking about going to get fitted for their uniforms. Everybody asked, "What team are you on, Paul?" "Nobody called me," I'd answer. "Oh, you'll probably get called tonight. They had a lot of kids to call. You're not the only one who didn't get called yet."

Well, maybe there's a little hope after all. Nobody called on Thursday night. And nobody called on Friday. They had a Little League drill down at Glendale Park on Saturday morning. I went down with my friends because they convinced me that I'll probably find out what team I'm on then.

I sat there on the benches and watched them call out names and hand out uniforms to all the kids. My friend Tommy said to his coach, "My friend, Paul, didn't get called yet." "Well, he's not on my team. That's all I know," his coach said. Tommy suggested I go around and ask all the coaches if I'm supposed to be on their team. He was convinced the whole thing was a minor oversight. I knew better. The last thing I was going to do was humiliate myself any further.

The following Monday at school, all the kids wore their Little League baseball uniforms. Man, they looked snazzy, I gotta admit.

"How come you didn't wear you're uniform?" Nicky asked.

"I didn't get one. I didn't make tryouts," I admitted.

"Everybody makes Little League," he said. "If you didn't make Little League you'd be famous as the worse baseball player in the history of Everett." Thanks Nick, that really boosted my spirits now.

What Nicky said was true. That summed it up in a nutshell right there. If nothing else, that is the closest I ever came to playing organized baseball. At least I left a mark for the Huffman family name in the history of Everett sports. I was the only kid that didn't make Little League in 1962. I was the one nobody wanted.

So the next time the conversation migrates towards Everett sports, you've got a tidbit of trivia that no one can deny. You know who the "Biggest Loser" is in the history of Everett Sports. I am - Everett's Biggest Loser.

Radio Daze

Listening to the radio played an important role in my growing up in Everett. Whether drawing, writing, tinkering with broken tape recorders, or actually doing homework, the radio was on in the background keeping me company.

I cannot honestly remember the dozens of radios I've owned in my lifetime. Certain ones do stick out in my mind. The one depicted above was my favorite because it was my first very own radio. I got it for Christmas when I was 7 years old. Just looking at it triggers a flood of memories.

My first memorable interaction with a radio happened during the school year before I entered kindergarten. I remember it well. On school mornings, while my older siblings scurried around the house in a frantic pace to get ready for school, I sat on the couch and watched the morning news on television. For some reason, my mother always turned the TV morning news on while she was getting everybody off to school.

Habit and routine helps people organize their daily lives. I guess that's why my mother always turned on the TV to help her cope with the hectic pace of school mornings. The news always ended just when my older siblings headed off to school. I always looked forward to hearing Jack Chase on the WBZ channel 4 news say, "So long, and make it a good day." Funny as it may seem, that made my day.

Once everyone else had gone off to school, my mother relaxed by turning off the TV and switching on the radio. She then went about her morning routine of cleaning up the breakfast dishes and tidying up the place. And I sat at the kitchen table and drew funny pictures.

It's funny as I look back on it now, but when I was 4 years old, I thought the radio announcer was inside the radio. And I thought the people on TV could see me. That's why I wouldn't get dressed in front of the TV. Isn't that cute?

On this one particular morning, as I sat drawing at the kitchen table, my favorite song came on the radio. It was the cutest little number entitled, "The little Blue Man," performed by a one-hit wonder named, "Betty Johnson."

The song was both adorable and a little bazaar as well. It told the story of a girl who was being followed by an imaginary little blue man who kept singing "I wove you, I wove you," in an Elmer Fudd type of voice. At the end of the song, the girl throws the little blue man over the edge of a rooftop. The song ends with the little blue man saying, "I don't wove you anymore."

Believe it or not, in my extensive archive of vintage recordings, I still have a copy of that song. Oh, and by the way, I do have a recording of the sounds of people eating at Vargis. What I'm still looking for is the recordings I made at the Park Theater. If I ever find them - all hell is going to break loose.

Well anyway, just as the song ended, I noticed a nickel on top of the kitchen radio. I figured it would be nice if I gave the lady a nickel to thank her for the song. So, as the DJ started talking, I took the nickel and slid it into the speaker slots at the front of the radio. All of a sudden, the sound stopped, then a trickle of static, and then the DJ came on and said, "Bad boy!"

It scared the daylights out of me. I immediately shut off the radio and hid under the kitchen table. I was frightened. I honestly thought the little man in the radio was mad at me. My mother still laughs about this story.

It was days before I let her turn the radio back on. The only way she could calm me down was by picking up the radio, and turning it upside down to make the nickel fall out. She then assured me that the man in the radio wasn't angry anymore. Now you know why my big brother always called me a banana head - right?

Listening to the radio in the background always brightened my day. I fondly remember many of the old songs they played, and associate them with specific moments in my childhood. Not only do they remind me of the major events, but also the many insignificant moments lodged in my memory banks along the way.

Remember that song, "I Told Every Little Star," by Linda Scott? Whenever I hear that song it reminds me of when I used to hide under my covers late at night, with a transistor radio plugged into my ear, drawing by flashlight so not to get caught by my mother. And every once in a while, I got caught, and she pulled a nutty.

"Love Letters in the Sand," by Pat Boone, reminds me of the time my Dad came home late from work and woke me up out of bed because he had a surprise for me. Guess what it was. He brought me home a small 3" open-reel tape recorder. I was so excited that I slept with that thing next to my head on my pillow. That song was on the recorded reel that came with the tape recorder.

Nat King Cole's "Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer," reminds me of the summer night that I snuck out of bed while everyone else was asleep. I got dressed, quietly slipped out the back door, and went all the way up to the Horace Mann School playground. There I was, at 3 o' clock in the morning having a grand old time, singing and swinging, when all of a sudden I heard this man's gruff voice cry out, "What in the world do you think you're doing?" It was my Dad. Boy, was he pissed. He grounded me for a week.

"Wolverton Mountain," by Johnny Horton reminds me of a trip I took up to the white Mountains with my family during a school day when I was in the second grade. Every once in a great while, my father acted like an artist, threw caution to the wind, and let go.

And "Chapel of Love," by the Dixie Cups reminds me of a special friend I had in Miss Blake's sixth grade class at the Horace Mann school. I said something really stupid one day while standing in her kitchen. It hurt her feelings. I learned a valuable lesson by my own stupidity that day, but I lost a good friend forever in the process. That song was playing on the radio when it happened.

Who amongst us could ever forget Arnie Woo Woo Ginsberg? If you went through the drive through at the Adventure Car Hop on Route One and yelled his name into the order mic, you got a free record. I loved the Arnie Ginsberg show. He was noisy, and fun, and took phoned in requests. I always got excited when I heard someone from Everett call up.

Does any one remember those "make it or break it" surveys? Those were a lot of fun. The DJ would play a newly released hit single, and listeners would call in to vote as to whether or not the record should make the regular play list. If not, the DJ broke the record and threw it away.

We used to call up to vote against the record whether we liked it or not just to hear the DJ break it over the radio. Truth is, the radio station couldn't care less how you voted. What they were really counting was phone calls to measure the popularity of their radio show.

As I got older, like Junior High School age, I began to migrate towards some of the talk shows to keep me company while I drew. My favorite was Dick Summers on late night WBZ. Some of you may recall the thing he had going on about trying to rename the "sandwich" to the "shrewsbury."

As the story supposedly goes, "The Earl of Shrewsbury" actually invented the delicacy, but on his way to present it to the king, he was ambushed and murdered by the jealous "Duke of Sandwich." The Duke then stole the delicacy and presented it to the king as his own invention. In his honor, the king official named this delicacy, the "sandwich." Dick Summers was out to set the record straight. It was all in fun, but a very interesting story just the same.

Dick summers was a unique radio personality because he had a soft mellow voice that was unlike anything else on the radio at that time. He often read his own poetry on air to the backdrop of romantically mellow instrumentals. A friend, and I, won a chartered-bus day-trip along the Freedom Trail by participating in a call-in contest on his show. We met a couple of girls from Wellesley that day and had a really good time.

Okay, raise your hand if you're one of the original "Glick-Niks." Come on - there's gotta be a lot of Glick-Niks out there. The late-night "Larry Glick Show" was a lot of fun. He even had Rosie Lecours on his show one night. She was a regular call-in to the Larry Glick show.

Rosie Lecours deserves admirable recognition for her life-long contribution to the city of Everett. Not only was she the first, independent, female, taxicab owner-operator in Massachusetts, but she also served for many years on the city council. Whether you agreed with her politically or not, you've got to admit, she was a dedicated citizen whose main interest was to serve her community. It's people like her that made Everett a special place.

I fondly remember the night some kid called in to Larry Glick and said he was from Newton. Larry Glick said, "You don't sound sophisticated like the kids from Newton. You sound more like a roughneck from Everett." Sure enough, the kid finally admitted that he was from Everett. What a riot.

Steve Fredericks and Jerry Willaims had more controversial and political formats to their talk shows. They were very informative and talented talk show hosts, it's just that - that type of format never was my cup of tea. Years later, Steve Fredericks migrated over to sports radio in Philadelphia. He only recently retired from broadcasting last year.

Years later, we would experience the thrill and excitement of the British Invasion. The Beatles, and the Rolling Stones paved the way for a whole new sound in Rock N' Roll musical composition. Television was still way behind radio in keeping up with current trends in the music industry back then. It was an exciting time in musical history and it all came alive on the radio.

Traditional radio stations today offer no real local content, and therefore make virtually no contribution to their local community. Most are owned and operated by large nation-wide networks that broadcasts preformatted content using pre-taped voice-overs. That is the norm in radio today, and that's why radio has lost its influence as a communications media.

Radio today is a reflection of the times. It's a non-personal, mass-produced, one-size-fits-all broadcasting media that is way out of touch with its potential listeners. And that's why we gather together on the internet instead of listening to the radio.

We gather here together to interact with each other, communicate with each other, and to focus on things that are closely personal to our lives. This new media offers us the opportunity to entertain ourselves in ways never before possible in the history of communications. And if nothing else, we're having fun - are we not?

Lets Watch Some TV

Watching television was a major part of our lives back in the good old days while growing up in Everett. After all, what else was there to do on those freezing cold winter nights after you finished your homework? Every night after supper, especially during the winter months, my family gathered around the television in the living room to settle down for a night of entertainment. Didn't yours?

It's funny how we couldn't afford a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, but somehow, we bought a television. Our first television was a big piece of furniture that looked more like a "juke box" than it did a TV. The channel selector only had 13 channels on it (actually only 12 because there was no number one), and only 5 channels had anything on them at all.

I'm talking back before they came out with TV sets that had two channel selector knobs. We didn't get two channel selector knobs until they added the VHF band that brought us channel 38 - and only 38 - until 56 came along a year later. Come to think of it, we didn't actually run right out and buy a new TV set when they added the VHF band. What we bought was an add-on box with a VHF dial on it that hooked up to the antenna connectors. Do you remember those things?

That marvelous TV set sported a beautiful rock maple cabinet, which housed a small black & white screen and one 3-inch tweeter. The audio was so shrill and tinny that it sounded like it was coming from the telephone. It also had one knob for volume, and another for tone. The tone knob was supposed to adjust the balance between bass and treble, but all it really did was balance between muffled and scratchy. And yet it held us spellbound.

My father was the very first person on the planet to have a voice activated remote control. When a commercial came on, he didn't have to lift a finger. All he had to do was speak a command. He would say, "Paul, get up and change the channel," or "Paul, get up and turn down the volume," and I'd get up and do it. I was his voice-activated remote control.

When color television first came out they cost over three hundred bucks. We couldn't afford one so my mother went out and bought this Red-Green-Blue strip of acetate to put over the TV screen. What you saw was just that. You saw a stripe of red across the upper third of the screen, a stripe of blue across the middle, and a stripe of green across the bottom.

She bought that ridiculous thing at Grants down in Glendale Square. And because she paid a whopping three-dollars for the darn thing she refused to admit she wasted her money. We had to suffer through this technical oddity for three whole days until even she got fed up with it. She finally took it back off the TV set. Thank gawd for that. I was really getting tired of drooling over Annette Funicello with a red head and a blue chest - I'll tell ya.

I never could just sit and watch television - even to this day. I'd rather sit at the kitchen table and draw. For some unknown reason, my parents thought that making us all sit together in the living room to watch television was something a family should do. Watching television makes me stir crazy. So, I would become obnoxious until they sent me out of the room to punish me. Only then could I sit down at the kitchen table and draw - which was what I wanted to do in the first place.

It was not so much what we watched, as it was how we bonded as a family while watching television. Since my Dad was the king of his court, he controlled what we watched. You've got to experience my Dad's choices for television viewing through the eyes of a child to really appreciate the senseless rhetoric of it all.

My Dad loved westerns. What turned me off to westerns was that you knew how it was going to end before the show even started. By the end of the show some bad guy was going to wind up dead in the middle of the street, and the good guy always rode off into the sunset with the only girl in town clinging to his back.

I did, however, love the fight scenes in these shows. They were amazing. People crashed into mirrors, got thrown out through the windows, got hit over the head with heavy oak chairs, and fell down entire winding staircases, and still came back for more. What a tough bunch - huh?

Another notable scene typical of this genre was the unavoidable shoot out. For at least a quarter of the show, people ducked behind things and shot at each other. Before the shooting started you heard the typical, "Come out with your hands up." Next thing you know, it sounded like a hundred carpenters hammering nails on the roof next door.

Finally, you heard one last, isolated "Bang!" The bad guy caught one in the chest. He danced and talked half way down the street before stumbling to his knees. Holding his heart with one hand while his gun hung limp in the other, he confessed all of his sins. And then finally, he fell face down in the dirt - dead as a door nail - without spilling so much as one drop of blood.

Another thing about cowboy shows that really ticked me off is that there were never any girls in them. Call me old-fashioned but, I've always liked girls. Trust me - I find Miss Kitty in a tight dress far more appealing than a bunch of guys hiding behind a rock. I know we all have different tastes, but once I find out there's no girls on any given show - I'm outta here.

Another show my father made us watch was, "Sing Along with Mitch." Man, now there's a challenge for ya. Try sitting through a whole hour of nothing but old men singing nostalgic tunes without any musical accompaniment. None of these singers moved an inch during the whole show. They just stood at attention and sang - for a whole hour. After watching just ten minutes of that - I felt like going out and banging my head against the sidewalk.

Being the old romantic that he was, my dad would sometimes let my mother pick what we watched. My mother was a sucker for tear-jerkers. Getting kicked out of the living room so I could go draw in the kitchen was a synch when my mother watched a tear-jerker.

I just waited until she got all teary eyed over some dramatic episode on the "Loretta Young Theater." I'd say, "Don't take it so serious, Ma. It's not really happening. When this story ends all these people get a paycheck and go home." To which she would fly off the handle and shout, "Why do you always have to spoil everything? Stay away from me when I'm watching television."

Okay, I know what you're thinking. You're sitting there thinking I'm the screwball because I'm the one who doesn't like to watch television - right? Well, there was once a time when I thought maybe you were right - but that was before the day I saw my sister crying over the "Pillsbury Bake Off." I mean, really - that is a little bit over the edge. Don't you think?

The most pathetic TV show I ever saw in my life was, "Queen For A Day." They would drag three pitiful losers up on stage to bare their souls before an entire audience of strangers. The audience applauded to vote for which one had the most miserable life. They even had an applause meter that measured the decibels of the applause.

So, in theory, the winner was actually the biggest loser. The winner chosen to be "Queen for a Day," got an armload of roses, a royal cape, and a crown, to wear as they walked up and down the center aisle crying, while the whole audience clapped.

I came home from playing stickball one afternoon and caught my big, tough, brother, Billy, getting all emotional over some loser on "Queen for a Day." I lost it. "And you call me a banana head," I laughed in his face.

He jumped up, chased me down the back stairs, around all the parked cars in the driveway, all the way up Arlington Street, and finally caught up to me at the Horace Mann school ground. When all the neighborhood kids came running to see why Billy was kicking the tar out of his little brother, he held his hand over my mouth so I couldn't yell out, "Billy was crying over the Queen for a day."

My mother was also a game show freak. She loved, "To Tell The Truth," "What's My Line," and "I've Got A Secret." Every one of these shows were a carbon copy of the other if you ask me. On all of these shows, a panel of celebrities tried to guess the contestant's secret by asking a series of questions. The contest won so much money per wrong question asked.

Believe me, we were not allowed to speak if my mother was watching a game show. She actually thought game shows were educational. Many times she said she was amazed at what she's learned from these shows. She found out who really invented the whistle, and who was responsible for making Ivory soap float. Now there's some information you just can't live without.

Another obnoxious show they made us sit through was, "The Lawrence Welk Show." Now that was punishment. My father really got ticked off at me one day while he was sitting there mellowing out to the sound of Guy and Raldna. He turned to us and said, "They couldn't make music like that nower days." To which I replied, "It's not so much that they couldn't - as it is that - they shouldn't."

Which also reminds me of the night he made us watch Kate Smith sing. Do you people remember her? Now, that's gotta be a serious case of nepotism to get an act like that on the mass media - no? Just in case you're fortunate enough to never have heard this lady sing, let me tell you about Kate Smith.

Kate Smith was wider than a Mack truck, and uglier than a barnyard dog. She didn't sing, she yelled. Her voice was as shrill as a fire engine siren. I swear, Willie Whistle could sing better than Kate Smith. All I ever heard her sing was, "God Bless America," and I heard her sing it at least ninety-two times. My Dad was deeply moved when Kate Smith died. And all I could think of was that hopefully someone would destroy all of her recordings so that dreadful noise could be permanently erased from the historic recording archives forever.

Television was hard on us football fans back then, also. The only team they ever televised was the New York Giants. That's why every guy who is over 50 from Everett knows who Y.A. Tittle is. No, we didn't watch the New England Patriots because they didn't exist yet. All we got back then was 14 weeks of football. And if a certain team wasn't scheduled to play the Giants that season, then we didn't get to see that team play at all. Now that was torture.

The irony here is that twenty some odd years later, Pat Hughes, got drafted by the New York Giants. He was one of the kids that grew up on Arlingtom Street. By this time we had the pick of the litter, but we all watched the New York Giants so we could see number 55. What a thrill it was to watch someone you grew up with play football on nation-wide television. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

Other shows my parents forced us to sit through were those situation comedies complete with second rate one-liners and poorly recorded laugh tracks. Being a recording buff, it was easy to identify when they were looping a fourteen-second clip of laughter over and over again. The "I Love Lucy" show was notorious for that.

I must admit, I did enjoy the "Honeymooners." Art Carney was a talented character actor. Audrey Meadows and Jackie Gleason reminded me of my own parents in so many ways that it was actually scary. Trust me, that is a story for another time.

Because the "Life of Riley" was recorded before a live audience, I didn't get distracted by a poorly recorded laugh track. Even still, the story lines were weak, and the acting was totally second rate. We watched it because our choices were so limited with only four or five channels to choose from. And TV didn't begin its broadcast day until sometime around 7 A.M. and it went back off the air by 10 P.M.

Does any one remember the big controversy when the "Jack Paar Show" debuted? It stayed on the air until 11 o' clock. I remember the newspapers criticizing how scandalous it was that TV was now encouraging Americans to stay up late. Imagine that?

One of the nice things about sitting around to watch television on a summer night was when my father got all hot and sweaty (air conditioning? what's that?) he'd send us down to Ski's on Ferry Street to buy a round of hot fudge sundaes. I'd gladly sit through a mindless episode of "My Mother The Car," for one of Ski's hot fudge sundaes. Hey, you gotta take the good with the bad - right?

And of course, if you're going down to Ski's anyway, he may as well send you across the street to Anna's Variety to pick him up a pack of Lucky Strikes. On those hot summer nights, Anna and Maxie sat out front on the sidewalk in those little folding chairs watching the traffic go by on Ferry Street. She wouldn't even follow you into the store. She'd just yell out, "Get what want and leave the money on the counter!" Imagine if she did that today?

What did I like to watch? I thought you'd never ask. My favorite TV show for all time is "The Twilight Zone." On Saturday mornings I liked to watch the "Little Rascals" and the "Three Stooges." Not exactly brain food, I know, but hey, I was a little kid. I also liked the Mickey Mouse Club for no other reason than to watch Annette Funicello (sigh).

Times have sure changed. And as they say, "The more things change - the more they stay the same." We now have hundreds of channels to surf and there's still very little worth watching. I'll take the Internet any day over TV. After all, where else can you go to find anything nostalgic about growing up in Everett?

A Very Special Lady

There stands a church down on Norwood Street that was once the First Methodist Church. Not only was I baptized there, but also I attended Sunday school from kindergarten to the sixth grade at that church.

Reverend Staples was our minister. He was a popular and loving clergyman that held our separate families together in a bond of friendship and worship. During his tenure at that church, there were so many activities to get involved with that you had to keep a schedule as to what night was set aside for what activity. Being a member of that church was a lot of fun.

This story, however, is not about Reverend Staples. It's about a special lady who made a remarkable contribution to each and every one of us children that attended Sunday school at that church. Allow me to introduce you to that special lady.

A few doors down from Kreskie’s, and diagonally across the street from the Everett Music Shop on Norwood Street, was a sewing shop. The actual name of that shop totally eludes me. Those of you who frequented Everett Square throughout the 1960's will have an image of this shop imbedded in your photographic memory.

Picture that band of stores across the street as seen from the doorstep of the Everett Music Shop. For some reason, everyone seems to remember Wiener's Shoes - don't ask me why. To the immediate left of Wiener's shoes, stood the very shop I am talking about. And even though none of us guys had any reason to venture there, we can still draw the image out from the back of our minds. Let me explain why.

The large plate glass window was elegantly decorated with linens, and lady's hats. Stuck in those hats were those old-fashioned hatpins with the big pearl balls on the ends. So, why would a guy remember that? Because they were awesome for making deadly darts to shoot from a homemade crossbow. The big drawback with this sewing shop was - the proprietor would not sell those hatpins to little boys.

I did eventually concoct a work around to that dilemma. It was so deviously simple that I was proud of myself for having come up with the idea. All I had to do was send my big sister in there to buy some thread, and a dozen hat pins - yes!

Homemade crossbows became somewhat of a hobby of mine. They eventually achieved a sophisticated level of complexity that offered both distance and accuracy. How accurate? Consider this. Using one of those hat pins embedded in a homemade projectile carved out of a small tree limb, I once successfully nailed a pigeon who was standing on a telephone wire from the sidewalk across the street. Not bad - huh?

Okay, let's get back to that sewing shop. The proprietor of that sewing shop was a heavyset woman who always dressed very nicely, wore a pearl necklace, dangling earrings, and heavy lipstick. Her name was Winnie Thompson. Now, why on earth would I know that? Let me tell you why.

Winnie Thompson was a contributing active member of the First Methodist Church on Norwood Street. Everybody that knew her - loved her. She never had an unkind word to say about anybody. At the end of services on every Sunday morning, my mother stopped to talk to Winnie Thompson out on the sidewalk - as did just about everybody else. That's how popular she was.

During my first grade class at Sunday school, the church organized a play in the form of a mock wedding that would include the students from all grades. At first, they asked for volunteers. Naturally, none of the boys volunteered. So then the mothers stepped in and it became a demand. We had to do it.

One Saturday morning, my mother took me to a house on a little dead end Street off of Main called, K K Terrace. This was Winnie Thompson's house. When we stepped inside, several other students from Sunday school greeted us. I had a funny feeling about this trip all along. Winnie provided milk and cookies for all the kids, and coffee and cinnamon rolls for all the mothers.

One by one, Winnie took each of the boys into her living room. She measured our arms, bellies, and legs, and then sent us back to join the other kids in the den. After that, she escorted each of the girls into the living room and did the same thing to them.

At the end of what turned out to be a pleasant afternoon at Winnie's house, my mother and I took a ride in Rosie's cab to get home. I never thought once to ask my mother what this was all about. I just enjoyed myself and left it at that.

A few weeks later, I was summoned back to Winnie Thompson's house. This time, she had me stand up on a kitchen chair while she fitted me with a brand spanking new tuxedo. It was then I discovered that Winnie Thompson had made this entire tuxedo herself. If that isn't enough to amaze you - then this will.

If you look at the photograph of our mock wedding party, you will be amazed to know that Winnie Thompson made each and every stitch of clothing on every one of the children in that photograph - by hand. And she did not charge so much as one cent for either the material, or the labor. She donated it all out of the goodness of her heart.

Okay, so now you're wondering which one is me - right? Well, look at the little boy in the grey suit at the far right of the photo. No, that's not me. You see those 3 little guys in tuxedoes stand to his left? I'm the one on the far left - the one who is not looking into the camera - typical huh? Behind me - and a little to my left is another little boy. Directly behind him, and a little to his left - is my big sister.

Our play was a huge success. A few weeks later, we all got to take a day off from regular school to appear on Big Brother Bob Emery's television show. That was an exciting adventure in itself. Actually, our wedding party sat off to the side of the stage for most of the show, and was not called up onto the stage until sometime near the end of the show.

That's how we all found out that the scenery you saw at the beginning of his TV show was no bigger than the size of a milk crate. Remember that little cottage in a grassy field they showed as he sang "The grass is always greener in the other fellow's yard," while plucking away on his ukulele? Yeah, that's the one I'm talking about.

Keep in mind that this happened when I was only six years old. It just so happens that this became one of those incidences that deeply imbedded itself into my memory banks. I remember almost every detail about this incident. If I were to tell you the entire story, we would be here for days.

Anyway, here comes the sensitive tear jerking part. In the year 1989, when I was 37 years old, I was living in Exeter, New Hampshire. One morning, after visiting with my father and mother in Everett, I decided to stop at the Dunkin Donouts across the Street from the Pope John High School to grab a coffee for the ride home.

As I walked into the shop, a group of older women caught my attention because they were really having a grand old time enjoying each other's company. I did a double take because one of the ladies was the spitting image of Winnie Thompson, who I had not seen in over 30 years - I'm sure. You know me - mister extrovert himself - I just had to ask.

"Excuse me," I said. They all looked up inquisitively. "Are you Winnie Thompson?" "Yes," she answered quite politely, "Who wants to know?"

"My name is Paul Huffman. I was an usher in the mock wedding we held at Sunday School at the First Methodist Church. You donated all of the costumes for that play. I want to thank you for that."

Well, needless to say, she got all sniffly and mushy and took hold of my hand. With tears running down her cheeks she told me how much it meant to her that I should remember her after all these years. "You were just a little kid," she cried. "I love you dearly for saying this to me."

Next thing you know, I'm bawling my eyes out and all the old ladies are crying into their handkerchiefs. And that's when Beaver walked in - took one look at me and said, "For Crying out loud, Huff, what the "F$@#" are you mixed up in now?"

What a Banana Head!

It happened in 1957, during the summer before I began my career as a student in kindergarten. I had reached a crossroad in life when my tricycle could no longer cut it as my main mode of transportation. It had lost the thrill and excitement it once had. I needed something more.

Scooters are fun, but constantly having to kick one foot along the ground was physically punishing - especially when trying to go uphill. And in Everett, if you can't go uphill, you may as well just hang it up.

It was around this time when I really started noticing the bigger kids zooming by on bikes with only two wheels. They moved so gracefully and so effortlessly. I really admired how they rolled to a gradual stop, and ended up hanging onto a chain link fence with one hand while staying balanced on their bike.

The other thing I began to notice was the things they were saying when they hopped onto their bikes. Like when somebody said, "I'll be back in a few minutes, I'm going down to Glendale Park." And sure enough, they were back in only a few minutes.

They went all the way down to Glendale Park and back in only a few minutes. Can you imagine that? I once went all the way down to the Hamilton School on my tricycle. It took about 15 minutes. And you could actually see the Hamilton school from my front steps. At this stage in my life, Glendale Park seemed like it was on another planet.

Well, I had an idea. I figured if I could knock the pedals off of my tricycle to get them out of the way, then I could at least zoom down Arlington Street from the top of the hill a lot faster. So, I went down into the cellar, grabbed hold of my father's five-pound mallet, and started banging away at the pedals on my tricycle.

"What in the world are you doing?" shouted the oldest of my siblings. My big brother, Billy, was a funny kid. He had a funny perspective on life. I really looked up to him even though he always called me a "banana head" whenever I did something stupid - which was becoming more frequent with age.

That reminds me of the time I found this big, heavy, cast-iron kettle in the trash one day. For some inexplicable reason, I came up with the notion that it would be a great idea to throw it up onto the roof of the Storm Shield building at the end of our street. After having seen David slay Goliath by swinging a rock in a sling-shot on a Sunday morning cartoon, I figured that would be a good way to throw this kettle up onto that roof.

There was a short length of clothesline down in the cellar I've been saving for a rainy day. This was the perfect day for it. So, I tied that clothesline onto the kettle handle and walked out onto the sidewalk to take on this challenge.

Just to make sure I could build up enough momentum, I took a couple of practice swings. I had that sucker spinning like a propeller. I was ready now.

On first swing, that kettle arched beautifully into a perfect 360. On second swing, it had reached maximum velocity. On third swing, it smacked me square in the face, knocked me out into the middle of the street, and broke my nose.

I vividly remember Dr. Corkery saying to my mother, "He did it this time. He broke his nose." My brother had a field day with that one. "You know, Ma," he said, "maybe we oughtta have this banana head institutionalized for his own good."

So now he's standing over me here in the cellar watching me try to bang the foot pedals off of my tricycle, waiting for an answer to his original question, "What are you doing?" And I'm sure he's expecting a really bazaar response.

After explaining what I was doing, I expected him to call me a banana head, but instead, he surprised me when he said, "I think its time you learned how to ride a two-wheeler. Come on, you can have my bike. I don't use it anymore anyway."

I couldn't believe my ears. He said, "I think its time you learned how to ride a two-wheeler." On top of all that, he was giving me his bike. Do you know what that means? That means I'm going to own a two-wheeler - all of it - the handle bars, all the spokes, the fenders, and everything else - all mine! Will wonders ever cease?

We stood out on the sidewalk in front our house. He sat me up onto the bike while still holding onto it to steady me. "It's no different than steering a scooter," he said. "Just watch where you're going. If you think you're gonna hit something, just turn it like you turn a scooter. Okay?" "Okay."

With a gentle push, I was on my way. First try, I wobbled for about five yards and fell. "That's okay," he said. "You'll get the hang of it." We did this about three or four more times.

I refused to surrender. I wanted this so badly I could taste it. Besides, I was really getting a feel for this. On each try, I was going further and further without falling. Eventually, my confidence level had reached fever pitch.

This time, I hopped onto the bike. Pushing off with my right foot, I sailed effortlessly straight down Arlington Street. Feeling the wind in my face empowered me. I wanted more. I started peddling faster and faster.

Suddenly, I realized that I was at the end of Arlington Street. In the distance I could hear my brother yelling,"Stop - stop - stop!" He never told me how to stop this crazy contraption. I zoomed right into the traffic on Ferry Street.

By the grace of God, I sailed straight through the traffic without getting hit, and continued right down onto Nichols Street. By this time, a crowd of kids from Arlington Street was chasing after me. The Hamilton school passed by like the blink of an eye.

I never knew there was another playground on the left-hand side of Nichols Street just after the Hamilton school. I know it now. Seconds later, I went up over a little hill and saw a great big cathedral that I never saw before.

After that, I rolled over the hill and down into an adorable little park surrounded with a decorative stone wall. I came to a graceful stop along side of a park bench, and sat there with my right foot resting comfortably on top of that bench.

Seconds later, all the kids from Arlington Street caught up to me. They were all out of breath. My brother, Billy, leaned on my shoulder puffing and panting. Between heavy breaths, he said, "You did it, kid. You can ride a bike now."

I can? I did it? Hey yeah, I did do it. Didn't I? That was it? That's all there is to it? You mean, I can really ride a two-wheeler? Me?

"By the way - where am I?"

"You're in Pratville," my brother answered.

"Where's that?"

"It's part of Chelsea," he explained.

On my first day on a two-wheeler, I went all the way to Chelsea. The world is not so big after all - is it?

From that moment on, I became the Christopher Columbus of Arlington Street. There was a whole world out there I hadn't even begun to explore. The entire expanding universe was now at my disposal. I was ready for this.

Not only did I get to travel to Glendale Park and back in only minutes, but I travelled all over Everett exploring parts unknown. I found the Teddy Peanut Butter factory. Right across the street from that was Sacramone Park. Did you know there is a big beautiful park down on Swan Street? Before this, I didn't even know there was a Swan Street.

The Park Theater was now only three minutes away. Gawd, how I love the Park Theater. Ten seconds after that is Everett Square. Down on Norwood Street is a record shop. A bald guy named Freddie runs the place. What a nice friendly guy.

When I stepped into his shop, he smiled and asked, "You looking for something, son?"

"Nah, it's my first time here. I just want to look around a bit."

"Take a look around," he said. "Need any help - just ask."

Down on the far end of Broadway stood a big old wooden structure that somebody told me was the MBTA car barns. You know what else I discovered? There is a big beautiful park on the far end of Main Street just before you get into Malden. Thirty seconds after that, I'm in downtown Malden Square.

How did I know I was in Malden Square? That's easy. I always recognized Malden Square by that neon sign of a dripping water faucet on Main Street. Just below it was a sign with a large pair of eyeglasses. Signage was really quite elaborate in our day - wasn't it?

And guess what I found when a coasted around the big corner after Malden Square? I found the very same Ferry Street that goes all the way to the end of Arlingtin Street - unbelievable! I never had so much fun in all my life.

You know what else I saw? After I coasted into good old Glendale Square, I saw a huge construction site. They had backhoes, cement trucks, dump trucks, cranes, and all kinds of construction workers wearing hard hats banging away with jack hammers.

There was another kid there on his bike who was probably a couple of years older than me. So, I asked, "What they building?" "That's gonna be a new Stop & Shop," he said. "What's a Stop & Shop?" I asked. "I dunno," he shrugged. "That's what somebody told me."

Up until now, my whole world evolved around that little apartment building at the bottom of the hill on Arlington Street - not any more. Gazing across to the far side of Ferry Street once felt like trying to peek over the Berlin wall. Never again would I ever allow myself to get bogged down in any one place.

You know what else I discovered? There really is no such thing as getting lost when you have a faster mode of transportation. Oh sure, you might get a little disoriented from time to time, but all you have to do is keep moving and follow your hunches. You'll find your way.

Many years later, a friend and I would actually undertake the challenge to ride our bikes all the way up to his family's summer cottage in Londonderry, New Hampshire. Yes, we succeeded. It took two whole days. We camped out on the side of the road over night.

The next time I would experience such an exhilarated feeling of freedom was when I learned how to drive a car. Man, the world really got small when that happened. By the time I graduated High School, I had already driven to the West Coast, burned out an engine, and broke a rear axle.

And yes, my big brother was still calling me a banana head. I'm beginning to think he's right. I'm bound to be a little bit crazy. After all, "I'm from Everett!"

Mister Machine

Nothing equals the touch of magic that enlightens the heart of every child on Christmas Morning. Even in a crowded city like Everett, Christmas softens the hardest heart. If you're one of those who emphatically insist that, "You hate Christmas," then I dare you to allow me to challenge that conviction. Take a nostalgic journey with the Spirit of Christmas Past on the Everett Time Machine.

Let's go back in time to one of our childhood Christmas seasons while growing up in Everett. Back to when the Christmas lights swung back and forth across the sky from streetlight to streetlight all the way up and down Broadway. I remember hearing the church bells chime, "O' Little Town of Bethlehem," as the shoppers criss-crossed through the traffic in the blinding snow to go from Kreskie's to Gorins.

I can see a couple huddling closer together to shelter themselves from the gusts of wind blowing through the hollows of Norwood street on their way to the Everett Music Shop. And just look at that nut over there running in an out of all the traffic to cross Broadway for a "one-day-only" sale at the Everett Sports Shop.

Squint your eyes a little bit and you can see through the wintery fog all the way over to the doorway of Noyes Stationary. You can even see the weary shoppers sitting at the tables along the window at the Waldorf gazing out at the towering Christmas tree in front of the Parlin Library over a hot cup of coffee.

These images are deeply imbedded in my mind's eye from a Christmas shopping trip I once took with my mother when I was eight years-old. Because I waited so patiently while she picked out a pair of shoes for my sister at Wiener's Shoe Store on Norwood Street, she rewarded me with a trip to the snack bar at Kreskie's.

Yes, of course, I remember what I ordered that day. I had a grilled BLT with chips, a pickle, and a hot cocoa. My mother ordered a cup of black coffee and sat there smoking a cigarette right there in the store, along with all the other adults.

Even in the dead of winter, those huge ceiling fans slowly turned to suck up all the cigarette smoke rising from the snack bar. A huge cloud of white smoke gathered around those ornate hanging ceiling lights against the backdrop of tinkering piano holiday melodies that harmonized with the echo of the shopper's murmuring voices.

Just as I was polishing off the last of my potato chips, a friend of my mother's happened by. She sat down and asked my mother if she was going down to Glendale Square to shop at Grants. "No," my mother answered, "Paul and I are going over to Gorins to see Santa Clause."

Did you hear that? I'm going to see Santa Clause! What a golden opportunity to let him know what I want for Christmas. Oh man, I am so ready for this. I know exactly what I want. I want Mister Machine! Anything else besides that will just be icing on the cake.

The line to see Santa Clause stretched all the way from the back wall to the front door on School Street. Inching our way to the front of the line seemed like it took forever. When I was finally next in line, I got a really good look at Santa Clause. There was no doubt in my mind - this was the real deal.

I can see it so vividly in my mind's eye as if I am right there - right now. After that last little girl hopped down off of Santa's lap, he handed her a lollipop and wished her a very merry Christmas. He then turned and looked right at me - right at me! With a great big smile buried within his snow-white beard, he gestured me over with a wave of his white glove.

Not wanting to jeopardize my chances on getting exactly what I wanted for Christmas, when he asked, I said, "All I want for Christmas is Mister Machine." Anything else?" he asked. "No, all I want is Mister Machine."

Mister Machine was the most incredible toy robot in the entire world. He even came with his own wrench so you could take him apart and put him back together again. Who could possibly want anything more?

"Have you been a good boy?" he asked. "Gee, I hope so," I answered nervously. I honestly couldn't remember. The stress was too much.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little slow sometimes, but when I walked towards my mother proudly licking that lollipop, I remember her bending down to ask, "Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?" I said, "Yeah." "What did you tell him?" "I just told him what I wanted," I answered. "Oh, okay," she said.

Why should I tell her? She doesn't need to worry about that. She's got three other kids to worry about. I just figured I'd let her concentrate on everybody else now because Santa Clause and me were tight. No worries - right?

Well, guess what happened on Christmas morning? Yep, you guessed it. Santa Clause brought me a Mister Machine. See! What did I tell ya? I knew he'd take care of everything. He always does.

Over the years, Santa Clause has showered me with some of the most exciting gifts you could ever imagine. If it weren't for Santa Clause, I'd hardly get anything at all for Christmas. My parents couldn't afford to buy all the things Santa Clause delivered. Thank God for Santa Clause.

Just thinking about all those toys he dropped off at my house over years makes my heart go pitter pat. And I'm sure you got many of the same toys also. It always surprised me how so many kids in my class got some of the exact same toys as I did for Christmas.

Sleds were a popular item for Christmas. You know, those heavy wooden, double steel runner sleds with the steering cross bar up front to hold onto when laying down, and to place your feet against when sitting upright.

Flying down the Glendale Park hills on one of those suckers was a blast and a half. All you had to master was getting that spin down pat so you could crash sideways into the chain link fence on your side instead of head on.

Eventually they came out with those aluminum discs that you couldn't control for beans. They zoomed downhill at the speed of light. Without a doubt, they caused more black eyes, forehead lumps, fat lips, and bloody noses than those double runner sleds ever did.

While we're on the subject of riding toys, how many different kinds of riding toys did you get over the years from Santa? We got bikes of all kinds - right? Oh yeah, and scooters, and little red wagons, and I rather doubt if there is so much as one little girl in Everett who didn't get a pair of those roller skates you tightened onto your shoes with a skate key.

There were a lot of interesting things for little girls back then. I remember my sister's Easy Bake Oven. I loved the little cakes she made with it. Funny how once everyone used up all the supplies that came with their Easy Bake Oven they never bothered with it again. They didn't even care to replenish the cooking supplies. Everyone's Easy Bake Oven wound up in either the garage or the attic about a week or two after Christmas. And there they stayed.

Another toy my sister once got was that Zoom Loom. She knitted herself a scarf with it. And as funny as it may seem, she went crazy over Pop Beads. We also had a lot of fun with her Quija Board. You can only imagine how disappointed I was when I found out she was pushing it along the whole time. That's how gullible I was.

My sister also got a Chinese Jump Rope once. She could play with that even by herself by wrapping each end of it around the legs of kitchen chairs. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention her Hula-Hoop? She had one of those, too. I still can't get those things to work.

She also got a Slinky. Didn't everybody? And by the way - am I the only person in the whole world who could never get that thing to walk downstairs like they showed on the TV commercial?

Aside from all the many different kinds of dolls, doll houses, and doll accessories, it always seemed like there were far more toys geared towards boys than there were for girls. Don't ask me why.

Creative toys always set my heart on fire. Like that Aurora "Chamber of Horrors" Guillotine Model. You assembled an actual working model of a guillotine complete with dropping blade, victim, and even a basket to catch the severed head. It does make you wonder what kind of market research went on in that company to come up with a child's toy like that - doesn't it?

Then there was that "Vac-U-Form" where you could build your own molds to make toy cars, airplanes, and animals. I loved that thing. The Shop King was another great toy. It was a miniature simulated table saw for cutting thin sheets of Styrofoam to build all kinds of things. I actually built a shelf for my 45's with that thing.

For the creative genius within us all, there was always Spirograph and Etch-A-Sketch. Speaking about creativity sets - didn't everybody get a wood burning set for Christmas? I know I did. Your imagination could run wild with one of those things. I even contemplated opening my own sign shop in the third grade when I got my wood burning kit. I've always been an entrepreneur at heart - I guess.

If we're going to talk about toys to build things with, then we better talk about, Tinker Toys, Erector Sets, Legos, and Lincoln Logs - right? We all got at least a set of one of those, I'm sure.

What about games - huh? You know what was a lot of fun? Those hockey games with the little men you pushed and twirled to shoot the marble into your opponent's goal. Well actually, it came with a little wooden puck, but that always got lost on Christmas day, so you had to use a marble. The marble was more fun anyway. Air Hockey was a lot of fun as well, but I never got one of those.

Those electric vibrating tabletop Football games looked so appealing on the TV commercials, but they were really very frustrating. You couldn't control the direction of the football players. They just spun around in circles. After each play, it took fifteen minutes to set all the men back up again. And the board was so noisy it gave you a migraine.

I don't know anybody that actually played a full football game with that thing. The only real fun part about it was the kicker with those little felt footballs. We wound up only playing with that out of the whole set.

Tabletop Tennis (Ping-Pong) was a blast - wasn't it? You didn't even need an opponent if you could move the table up against the wall.

Since we're talking about games, let me tell you about my "Bop-The-Beetle" game. They gave you this huge plastic frog that locked wide open. With these little plastic bats that looked like a policeman's nightstick, you bopped these flat football shaped plastic beetles all over the floor until you got it into the frog's mouth. When the beetle popped into his mouth, he slammed shut. After awhile, we just threw the beetles at the frog from across the room.

Games? Oh man, we could go on and on forever. Chinese Checkers, Monopoly, and who remembers that electronic maze game by Renco called, "Fascination?" Okay, I just have to let the game section go because when you start talking board games, you could write an entire set of encyclopedias on that subject.

Let's wrap it up with all those little odds and ends we all got for Christmas. Like the Gyroscope that could balance on the end of your finger. Wasn't that amazing? Okay, who got a View-Master? Raise your hand. Anybody get a Gumball Machine that was supposed to act as a bank to reward you with a gumball for saving money?

And another thing, we are the first generation of artificial Christmas trees. Did you know that? They really manufactured some strange looking artificial trees back then - didn't they? We once had a shiny silver aluminum tree that came with a spotlight to reflect color onto the tree. It was totally devoid of any Christmas character what-so-ever.

We could go on and on forever about toys. Bottom line is - when you really think about it, we had some wonderful times - did we not? Santa Clause was really good to us - wasn't he? And do you know why? "Because We're From Everett!"

The Fairfield Whitney - 1965

There stands a gothic brick building on the right hand side at the Broadway end of Summer Street. It is arguably possible that this architectural structure houses more history than any other building in the city of Everett. Today it serves as a residential apartment building, but it began its timeline in the early 1900's as the original Everett High School.

Nothing seems to change in the city of Everett more rapidly than its public schools. Believe it or not, that's a good sign. It proves that the political atmosphere of the community is flexible enough to re-inventive itself to keep pace with the changing times to better serve its citizenry. Whew - that was a long sentence. I need to catch my breath.

Community changes vividly represent the current social needs of its surrounding neighborhoods. What gets lost in the mix is the countless human interest stories that breath life into that community along the way. It's nobody's fault. It's just the way the ball bounces along the historic timeline of the human race.

Being that as it may, I cordially invite you to take a trip back on the Everett Time Machine to visit a brief passage in the history of that architectural wonder on Summer Street. Come; let me take you on a journey through my year in the 7th grade at the Fierfield Whitney Junior High School during the 1964 - 65 school session.

Junior High School was a very strange experience for me. After completing the sixth grade at the Horace Mann Elementary School, I attended 7th grade at the Fairfield Whitney. What was so odd about that is - only a handful of us from the Horace Mann went to the Fairfield Whitney. Everyone else went directly onto the Parlin Junior High School.

Most of the other students at the Fairfield Whitney came from the Hamilton Elementary school. The good thing about that was, I had the opportunity to make a whole new group of friends. I did feel a little out of sorts at first, but that did quickly change for the better.

The kids from the Hamilton School were a lot of fun. And I must admit, the girls were really cute. Especially that Carol King - what a knock out!

The interior of the Fairfield Whitney was every bit as gothic as its exterior. It had the usual high ceilings, and long narrow corridors. And of course, it had those heavy wide-board oak floors that gave off a hollow echo from the sound of marching school children changing classrooms.

There were plenty of windows, but the teachers back then solemnly believed that to enjoy the wonders of the natural landscape outside was an abomination to the public school curriculum. They often kept those heavy dark-green shades pulled down to block out the pleasantries of the fair weather sunlight. Gazing out the window could land you smack dab in the middle of detention for a week. So, whatever you do - don't do that.

During this era in time, the 7th grade classrooms of the Fairfield Whitney occupied only the first floor of the building. All the other floors were occupied by the Everett Vocational High School - commonly referred to as, "The Trade School."

They did organize the class day scheduling so that the 7th graders were not mingling with the High Schoolers. That was disappointing because many of the Vocational High School kids came from Arlington Street - my home turf.

Mr. Dakin was my homeroom teacher. My older brother Carl had Mr. Dakin for homeroom only two years earlier. He really liked my brother. My brother suffered with Grande Mal Epilepsy his entire life. As a result, he has undergone many brain operations in his lifetime. Not only did his disability force him to leave school at an early age, but his ability to enjoy life to its fullest was severely limited.

On my first day at the Fairfield Whitney Junior High School, Mr. Dakin asked if I was Carl's brother. He then expressed his fondness for Carl, and how he hoped I was at least something like my brother.

He then went on to explain that the teachers from the Horace Mann told him that I was a bit of a disciplinary problem. "I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt," he said. "I'm giving you a clean slate to work with." Well, you can't argue with that, now can you? Sounds like a fair deal to me.

Not only was this my first day at Junior High school, but it was also the first time, for me, that the boys and girls were allowed to mingle at recess. I liked that. I liked that a lot.

During that first recess, many kids had expressed the sentiment that they did not like Mr. Dakin at all. Before I continue, let me ask you this. Have you ever gone out on a limb and expressed an opinion that was contrary to the status quo, only to have it blow up in your face and embarrass the dickens out of you? Well, that's what happened to me on my first day at the Fairfield Whitney Junior High School.

After everyone else had finished bad mouthing Mr. Dakin, I piped up in his de