There's Nothing To Do

How many times have your kids said that to you in your lifetime? So, how do you respond to that? We always respond with, "When we were kids we didn't have any where near all the modern digital gadgetry that you kids have today. We made are own fun. We didn't need computers and DVD's and picture cell phones to have a good time."

Stop and think for a moment. Who's right - us or the kids? Survey says…"Bing"…we're both right. They've got nothing to do - and - we had lots to do. Think about it.

Have you ever run out of ideas for things to explore while surfing the internet? Have you ever got so bored with watching the same movie over and over again on your VCR that you gave the movie away? Yes, it's great to have a cell phone. It's a convenience, but it's certainly not a good source for entertainment. And we all know far too well by now how easy it is to get bored playing video games.

Okay, so far we've only talked about the gadgetry. Now, let's talk about the reality. What is there for kids to do in Everett today? And please don't try to tell me that a kid can enjoy all the fun and adventure of childhood in a foam rubber surfaced playground that only has one jungle gym and three swings.

Just in Everett alone, when we were growing up, there were three movie theatres, two bowling alleys, a pool hall, three toy stores, two ice cream shops, an awesome music shop on Norwood street, and more restaurants than you could shake a stick at.

On the Fourth of July they gave out free ice cream cones at every neighborhood playground. Down at Glendale Park they held a bicycle decorating competition, and a baby doll carriage promenade. Behind the Recreational Center the Fireman held a water shooting competition and the kids got to play on the fire engines. Live bands played on the old gazebo and we all sat around on the lawns listening to some of the most talented musicians in the industry.

We enjoyed a parade with decorated floats, candy throwing clowns, and watched spectacular displays of artistry by some of the most talented drum and bugle corps in the country. The evening concluded with a magnificent display of fire works that took your breath away. And throughout the summer they held competitions for the drum & bugle corps down at the stadium.

On Memorial Day, the city of Everett held another sensational parade that led us down to the Glenwood cemetery to witness an impressive memorial dedication to our fallen heroes that concluded with a twenty-one gun salute. At the end of those ceremonies, we followed the Yankee Division of the National Guard all the way back to the Armory on Chelsea Street for free sandwiches, ice cream, potato chips, and soft drinks.

So far, we've only talked about what there was to do in and around Everett on specific holidays. Before anybody even begins to say we had nothing to do on other days, let me tell you what we did do on summer days. I'm not even going to mention the Everett Pool, even though, it was an option.

Back in our day, we gathered at the local playground to play together all day long under the supervision of a school ground teacher. The city supplied board games and there were enough swings to keep us busy. At the end of the summer, each playground organized a day trip to Canobie Lake in New Hampshire. All the kids from every neighborhood met up at Canobie Lake Park for a whole day of fun and adventure. So tell me. What are they doing for the kids at the playgrounds today?

On other days, we could all hop on our bikes and ride all over the city. We didn't have to worry about strangers bothering us because if one did, the neighbors would come running out of their houses to string the guy up on the nearest streetlight. Because of that, we could all play "stick ball, "one-foot-off-the-mud guard," "tag," and "hide-and-go-seek" safely in the middle of the street. And we did.

We're not finished yet - believe you me. We had another option above and beyond your wildest imagination. On any given day, we could get together, hop on the 110 Wonderland bus, and take a trip to Revere Beach.

That does it. Come on. Let's hop onto the Everett time machine and journey back to a time when Revere Beach could hold you spellbound at any age. You ready? Here we go. "B-z-z-z-z-z-z-zap!"

Now open your eyes. Picture yourself standing on the sidewalk right in front of that covered gazebo at the center of the strip on Revere Beach. Wow - that's a lot of prepositional phrases, I know. Let's not use this paragraph as a reference for good writing - okay?

Look straight out towards the beach. You'll see miles of soft sand stretching out for as far as the eye can see in both directions. You'll also see hundreds, no thousands of people laying on their beach blankets basking in the hot summer sun.

Take a closer look at all these people. Besides the ones who are burning to a crisp because they haven't got the common sense to get out from beneath the intense ultra violet rays, you'll see people buried beneath mounds of sand, kids building sandcastles, someone playing frisbie with a dog, pretty girls in wowie bikinis gingerly sticking their toes in the water, and people playfully bobbing up and down on top of the bouncing waves.

Looking out over the ocean we see Nahant to our left and Winthrop to our right as if they were reaching out to embrace Revere Beach within their loving arms. There's always a faint cargo ship way out there near the edge of the horizon. Look hard enough into the sun spots and you'll see that lighthouse over there. And let us not forget that flock of sidewalk seagulls that flutter at the drop of a scrap of pizza.

Not only can you see the image in your mind's eye, but also hear the sounds of life in the back of your subconscious intellect harmonizing with the ocean waves as they crash along the shoreline. Listen to it for a moment. You'll hear kids running and laughing, somebody's radio belting out a tune, and the sound of carrousel music all happening at once.

Listen to those familiar screams of mindless ecstasy as the roller coaster roars down that terrifying drop. Hear the crack of the guns at the shooting gallery. Did I mention all the bells and whistles going off simultaneously at the penny arcades? That's what it sounds like whenever somebody wins a big teddy bear to wow their date.

There's so much to see and do along the Revere Beach Boulevard that it staggers the imagination. You hungry? Let's get a pizza, a foot long hotdog, an ice cream, cotton candy, or a plate of fried clams. The choice is yours. We can wash it down with a soda or a milkshake. Mom and dad can grab a coffee or an ice-cold beer right from the tap.

When we're all wore out from swimming against the tide, we'll head on over and enjoy the rides. If you've got the nerve, we'll take a turn on the infamous Cyclone. The most exciting part about that ninety-second joyride is the melodramatic clackitty lift to the top of that sky high intimidating drop.

You'll know you've made a life challenging decision once you see that sign at the top that says, "Do Not Stand Up." And isn't there always a daredevil in the crowd that's got to show off by standing up and waving their hands into the air just before the deep plunge? I was never one of those - believe me.

If you don't have the guts to face the terror of the Cyclone, there was always the Mouse. That was a cute little roller coaster ride that gave a somewhat smaller thrill for the mild mannered adventure seeker.

After that, we'll hop a ride on the double Ferris Wheel. Just wait until you get to look down over the tiny crowd below when it stops at the top. If you ask me, that's where they got the title for that song, "A Whiter Shade of Pale." I never knew how white my knuckles could get before that day I froze in fear, clinging for dear life, at the top of that double Ferris Wheel - I'll tell ya.

If you've got any money left (which we did back then), we'll hop a ride on the Virginia Reel to spin through the caves and jerk up over the hills until we get sick. Then we'll stand up with our hands at our sides in the cage on the Round Up. We'll get so dizzy our eyes will keep spinning long after we've wobbled off of that crazy thing.

Don't quit on me now. We still haven't banged the daylights out of each other yet on the Dodge em bumper cars. And I'm not going anywhere until I've taken a ride on my favorite wooden horse on that giant carousel at the Hippodrome. You simply cannot take your favorite girl on a date down at the beach without at least one romantic spin on the carousel at the Hippodrome.

After we've worn ourselves out on the rides, it's time for a little fun at the penny arcades. One game that really sticks out in my mind is that one where you compete with everybody else to shoot water with an air powered squirt gun at a tube to get the ball to rise to the top. The first one to get that ball up and over the top of the tube wins yet another stuffed animal.

The shooting gallery was an absolute riot. Nothing appeals to your natural animalistic instincts quite like taking aim and blasting the star out of that dangling paper target, or hitting the piano playing mannequin in the back of the head to make him belt out a tune. Did you ever stop to think how amazing it is that nobody ever shot anybody else at the shooting gallery after all those years? Contrary to popular belief, we must have been sane.

At the penny arcades are those tables with the Indian rubber balls you rolled under the glass to score a tic-tac-toe by getting them into the holes at the other end of the table. My favorite was bowling a few rounds of Ski Ball. It takes me a pocketful nickels to get the hang of rolling that ball just right to hit that 100 point mark in the center of those concentric circles.

By then I should have a long enough strip of winning ticket points to get one of those little plastic rockets you throw up into the air so the cap inside explodes when it hits the sidewalk. I loved those things.

Another thing I liked to do was make my own dog tag just like the ones the soldiers wear. You drop your quarter into the slot, turn the dial to the desired number or letter, and then pull down the big lever to stamp the dog chain. When you're finished - it drops out of the chute and you've got yourself a memorable keepsake.

Might as well compliment that piece of nostalgic memorabilia with a session in the photo booth. How many silly faces can you make in thirty seconds? Now all you've gotta do is wait the fifteen minutes for that strip of photos to drop out into the slot. I hated when everybody said, "Hey, look how stupid Paul looks in this picture."

Another amazing thing about all this is that it's not just fun entertainment for little kids. The teenagers and adults from all walks of life mingled right along there with us sporting big wide carefree grins on their faces - didn't they?

Once we got old enough to drive, we all cruised the Revere Beach Boulevard at night. Where else could you go to show off your wheels? And what could be more impressive than a beat up Volkswagen Beetle with a piece symbol on the hood and a feathered alligator clip dangling from the rear view mirror?

That portion of the Boulevard across the street from the Nautical belonged to Everett. That was our turf. We owned that for many generations. Everyone met up there before dispersing to the dances and concerts in all the different bars and clubs along the beach. After a night of wild social entertainment, we parked along the sea wall with our favorite girl to gaze at the stars beneath the pale moonlight.

In case you didn't know, I've been a sound recording nut since I was knee high to a grasshopper. That was one of the many reasons I chose to study multimedia technology in college. I have an extensive collection of recordings that I made all over the city of Everett when I was a kid. I'm still in the process of digitizing many of those original recordings.

One of my favorite things to do at Revere Beach was to sit in that recording booth and cut a record. I made dozens of them. Many times, I brought my tape recorder along to record the sounds of Revere Beach. Clicking HERE will take you to a page where you can download an MP3 sound recording of the crowd enjoying a day at the beach. It was recorded during the July 4th holiday in the summer of 1965.

Have you had enough yet? Have I made my point? Our kids are right. They have nothing to do. All this modern digital technology is great, but virtual reality will never take the place of actual reality. Think about that. What's missing from their lives is all the richly rewarding social interaction that was available in ours.

So the next time your kids, or your grandchildren, say they've got nothing to do, sit them down, and tell them what it was like to grow up in Everett. Story telling and conversation are not only effective means of communication, they are a great way to share quality time with someone you love. We have a wealth of life experiences to draw from to entertain them with. After all - We're From Everett!

Everett Family Etiquette

During our elementary school days, you may remember watching those instructional videos produced by Coronet Films back in the 1950's. You knew it was coming as soon as the teacher told the class "goody-two-shoes" to start pulling down all the shades. That meant we were going to take an hour out of our daily lessons to watch a sometimes-hilarious unrealistic portrayal of American family values.

These films portrayed the typical American family that said please and thank you to each other over every little interaction they had. The father wore a suit and tie at the supper table, and the mother always wore a stylish housedress. Everyone's hair was combed to perfection and they all had a napkin on their lap when they ate.

When the film ended, the teacher asked the class a series of questions about how we observe proper manners at our homes. "How many of you always say please when you ask for something at the supper table?" Everyone raised their hand - even me.

Then, she'd ask, "How many of you say "thank you" when you get what you asked for?" Again, everyone raised their hand. Yes, I did too. And finally she asked, "How many of you wash your hands before and after supper without being told?" Naturally, everyone raised their hand - including me.

Isn't it comforting to know that growing up in Everett meant we all had families like the ones we saw portrayed on TV? When we sat down at the supper table, we were all neatly dressed. We had all washed our hands, combed our hair, followed all of the proper table manner rules, and always asked politely if we may be excused before leaving the supper table - right?

What's wrong with this picture?

Okay, let's rewind that film. This time, let's watch it as if it portrayed the real typical Everett family. Shall we?

First of all, if we're all going to sit down at the supper table together - then this must be Sunday. If it isn't Sunday, then the moment I step into the door, my mother is not going to say, "Welcome home, dear. You're just in time for supper."

What she's going to say is "Where in the hell have you been? I've been calling you for over an hour. You know we always eat supper when you're father gets home from work. Now our supper's cold and it's all your fault."

To which I reply, "Why didn't you just eat without me?"

"Who in the hell do you think you're talking to? You're not talking to one of your friends now, buddy. Just sit down and shut up before I knock you down."

So I take my seat at the kitchen table while my mother continues to rant and rave over my coming home late as she dishes out the food. She's wound so tight that she's slamming the food down onto our plates. It just so happens that she plops three scoops of French fries onto my plate and only two onto my brother Carl's.

I smirk at him and say, "I got more French fries than you."

"Hey Ma, you gave Paul more French fries than me and I'm always home on time."

"Oh, I did not," she shouts.

"Yes, she did," I whisper to him because I'm sitting right next to him.

"You did, too," he shouts. "And it isn't fair."

"Oh for cry sakes," she shouts as she plops two more scoops of fries down onto his plate.

"Now, I got more than you," he taunts.

"No you don't," I say as I reach over and grab a handful of his French fries and jam them into my mouth.

"He took my French fries," he screams at the top of his lungs. "And he didn't even wash his hands before he sat down!"

"Why you son of a beach," my mother yells as she jumps up and grabs hold of that belt that seems to magically appear out of thin air whenever she wants it. Next thing you know, I'm crawling under the table to escape the inevitable wrath while my mother's swinging wildly trying to get a piece of me.

In all the chaos, she accidentally knocks over a glass of water, breaking the glass, and spilling water all over the table cloth. I'm a dead man now, and I know it.

"Look what you made me do," she shouts. "I can't have a gawd dam decent thing in this house. All I ask is just once to get to sit down to a peaceful meal like a normal family. Now get in there and wash those filthy hands. Then sit down and eat your supper. And don't let me hear another peep out of you."

I cautiously take my seat next to Carl, and we finally settle down to enjoy our stone cold supper. It's just as well. We're eating liver tonight. Did you ever have to eat liver? Neither did I. You heard that right. I don't eat liver - never did - never will.

When we have liver, I pretend to eat it, but as soon as nobody's looking, I drop it onto my lap. Then I open my legs so it falls through down onto the front of my chair. When I close my legs they hide the liver on my chair. I've got it down to an exact science.

As soon as all the liver was off of my plate and onto my chair, I'd reach down with my napkin and ball it all up. Instead of asking, "May I please be excused?" I'd jump up and shout, "I gotta pee my brains out," and make a beeline to the bathroom. And even if I don't have to pee, I've got that all figured out, too.

Before we ever had a normal shower hook up, my mother had this hand-held shower thingy that fitted over the tub faucet so she could rinse her hair. The shower end easily pulled out of the tube it was attached to. If I turned the water on slowly enough, you wouldn't hear the water traveling through the pipes.

All you could hear from outside the bathroom was the water dribbling out of the end of that skinny hose and falling down into the toilet. It sounded just like somebody peeing. All I had to do now was quietly place the liver in the toilet and flush.

Minutes later, after finishing my French fries, I'd let out an ungawdly burp and say, "That was good. I'm outta here." Carl, however, will sit at that kitchen table, until bedtime if he has to, until he eats every last bit of that liver. And no, I'm not telling him the secret to my success. You know what they say? Loose lips sink ships.

While this entire hullabaloo is going on, Julie and Billy are having their own battle just across the table.

"Ma, Billy's elbow is sticking in my face."

"Billy, put your elbow down!"

"I can't reach my mouth with my fork if I don't bend my arm," he shouts back.

"Get that gawd dam elboy at your side before I rip it off," she shouts.

So now Billy goes into malicious compliance mode and crouches over the table with his elbows tucked so tightly to his side that he looks like he's picking his teeth with a needle.

"Straighten up!" My mother yells giving him a cuff across the back of the head.

As soon as my mother's eyes look back down at her supper plate, Billy shows Julie all the chewed up food in his mouth.

"Ma, Billy's making me sick by showing me all the food in his mouth!"

"Gawd dammit," my mother yells as she again draws that belt out of thin air and starts chasing Billy all around the supper table.

"For cry sake, Grace, simmer down and eat your supper. Never mind about them two. Boys will be boys. Now settle down," my father snaps.

"Whose side are you on?" she screams at him. "A lot of help you are just sitting there stuffing your fat face without giving me any support to discipline these hooligans."

By the time we finish eating everyone's mad at each other and nobody's on speaking terms. At this stage of the game, if you asked to be excused - you'd be told to shut up. That's what supper's like at my house. Why don't they show that in the film? They'd probably get their point across more effectively, I'm sure.

They even had a segment on proper bathroom etiquette. This one was hysterical if you asked me. In the film they showed a girl going to use the bathroom, but the door was locked.

She knocked quietly and asked, "Is anyone in there?"

"Yes, sis, I'm in here. Would you like to use the bathroom?"

"Yes, I would. Thank you."

The door opens and her brother steps out and says, "Be my guest."

Whoa - let's rewind that segment also. That never happened in my house. In the first place, nobody asks, "Is any one in there?" They ask, "Whose in there?" And naturally, the only logical reply to that question is "What does it matter?" The conversation in my house would go something like this.

"What are you doing in there?"

"It's none of your business. That's why there's a door on the bathroom."

"Ma! Paul's been in the bathroom for over a half-hour and I need to go."

"Paul, get out of the bathroom!"

"No."

"What are you doing in there?"

"What do you think?"

"You come out of there this instant!"

"If I do my pants are gonna be down around my ankles."

I don't know about your family, but when two or more people in my family headed for the bathroom at the same time, we didn't step aside and say, "Be my guest." We booked it to the bathroom, slammed the door shut, locked it, and then taunted everybody else because we got there first.

We'd yell out something like, "I'm gonna be in here for an hour. So you may as well go on out in the backyard." To which the above conversation would then ensue.

In all honesty, they didn't show us these ridiculous films in school because they expected us to actually learn from them. They showed them so they could get a break from dealing with us kids for an hour. There's no way on earth these teachers could possibly think that our family lives were anything close to the ones portrayed in these silly films.

You probably figured this one out already, but I'm not always tuned into the same channel as everyone else around me. I say that because there were times in school when I completely did not understand the assignment at all, even though I had listened to the instructions attentively.

I thought I understood it. But when I turned in my paper, the teacher looked at me and asked, "What planet were you on when I explained this assignment?"

Which reminds me of a film they showed us in the third grade about proper etiquette at the public pool. In the film, nobody did a cannonball in the middle of a group of nerds to get them soaking wet. Nobody snapped a girl's butt with a rolled up wet towel. And nobody made fart bubbles in the water. Obviously, they did not shoot this film at the Everett pool - right?

At the end of the film, the teacher started asking questions. I watched the entire film attentively and felt confident that I could answer any question she asked. That's why I wasn't nervous at all when she called on me.

"Paul, what did you notice about the kids standing around the pool?" she asked.

From my frame of reference, this was an easy question because I did notice something very peculiar about the kids standing around the pool. I told her exactly what I observed.

I told her, "All the boys had the exact same bathing suit on, and only one of the girls had a two-piece bathing suit. The girl with the two-piece bathing suit did not have a belly button, and none of the boys had nipples."

That class roared with laughter. The teacher went absolutely ballistic on me. Not only did my classmate's laughter surprise me, but also the teacher's reaction to my answer. After all, she did ask what it was that I noticed. That's what I noticed.

My logic behind that answer was - it's not only the unrealistic manners portrayed in these films that made them totally irrelevant as realistic guidelines for proper behavior, but also the fact that the actors were not anatomically correct that made these productions an obvious farce.

Had I been a little more on the ball, I would have realized the teacher wanted a response that would have justified her wasting an hour of our school day that could have been better spent actually teaching us something.

Let's face it. If you grew up in Everett, you're family was nothing like the ones portrayed in those silly educational films. We didn't gladly share our ice cream cone with our sister. We didn't politely step aside when somebody else needed to use the bathroom. And we certainly didn't wear our school clothes to the supper table.

Why didn't we do that? Because we're from Everett. That's why!

Let's Eat

Every once in a great while, my mother took advantage of the rare opportunity to take a time out from her hectic responsibilities. That's when she'd get all dressed up in her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and hop on the bus to enjoy an afternoon of leisurely shopping.

My mother never drove a car in her life. My father did try to teach her how to drive several times, but she always said that she was way too nervous to drive. Speeding through a crowd of people just didn't feel natural to her.

Sometimes she'd take the bus all the way to Everett Station, hop on the T, and go into downtown Boston. At other times, she'd take a trip over to Malden Square because she loved browsing through the bins at Sparks. Most of the time, she just went down to Everett Square for a few hours to get away from it all. Well actually, she was getting away from us.

She did, however, like to take one of us kids along for the day. I think it was her way to spend a little quality time with each of us, individually. That was something she didn't get a chance to do at home because we were always fussing and fighting over something, and she was always stressed to the max trying to keep the peace.

Through the natural process of trial & error, I became her favorite to take shopping. Eventually, I became the only one she would take shopping with her if she brought anyone along at all. It's not that I was her favorite, mind you. She loved us all equally. It's just that each one of my siblings had eliminated themselves as contenders because of the way they acted when my mother took them out shopping.

My oldest brother, Billy, was the worst of the bunch. The final straw was the day he laid down on the floor in Gorins and threw a temper tantrum because she wouldn't buy him some expensive toy that caught his eye. She had to literally drag him out of the store. When they got to the bus stop, he spread out on the sidewalk, kicking and crying, until the bus came.

It didn't end there. A stranger had to help her get him up on the bus. Then, he ran up and down the middle of the bus, screaming violently, because he didn't get that toy. When she tried to get off the bus at the bottom of Arlington Street, the bus driver had to help her pry Billy's fingers off the back of the seat so she could pull him off the bus.

She had to drag him all the way up the street and into the house. He was still throwing that uncontrollable temper tantrum. The only thing she could do to make him stop was throw a glass of ice water in his face. That stopped him. She never took him shopping ever again.

After similar experiences with my other brother and sister, my mother resigned herself to the fact that the only way she could possibly enjoy her rare moments of freedom was to follow the path of least resistance. That left me. I won the honor by default.

The funny thing about me is, I never asked for anything. If my mother allowed me to pick out something special to bring home from shopping, I always picked out the same thing. It was a five-cent bag of Malted Milk Balls. That's all I ever wanted.

I wish that I could say it was because I was considerate of my mother, which I was. But the real reason was because when a Malted Milk Ball melts in my mouth, it sends me into mindless ecstasy - even to this day.

The entire shopping experience in itself felt like a gift to me. You must remember - I am an artist with a photographic memory. That ability allows me to take snapshots of everything that catches my eye so I can project it down onto the canvas with my mind's eye when I'm drawing. Everett Square offered a wealth of opportunity to take snapshots with my mind's eye.

If you were ever in Everett Square at the same time I was, then there is an image of you imbedded somewhere in the back of my mind. I studied you. That's how I learned to draw.

Drawing realistic people is a difficult challenge. The best place to study people is at the local eateries. And there were many of them in Everett - especially back in the days of my early childhood.

Whenever my mother took me shopping, we always stopped somewhere for a bite to eat. Back in the late 1950's, you could literally stop at almost any street corner for a mid-day snack. Many of the pharmacies and variety stores had soda counters back then. And people did stop there to socialize and grab a quick refreshment.

Whitehill Pharmacy on the corner of Nichols and Ferry, Chestnut Hill Pharmacy on the corner of Chestnut and Broadway, and even Hoffman's Pharmacy up past Mckinnons in the square all sported soda fountains - just to name a few.

The little variety store in Henry Gray's Auctioneer building between High Street and Arlington on Ferry had a soda fountain. Cassie began the tradition when she owned the store in the early fifties. Manny continued the tradition in the late fifties. And before Tommy Gear turned it into a sub shop in the sixties, he had quiet a little ice cream business going with that snack bar.

One of the best places to study people eating was at Kreskie's snack bar. That back wall behind the lunch counter was lined with mirrors. I could sit and study people shopping without being so obvious that I was staring.

Kreskie's snack bar was a complete Art Deco experience in itself. The counter stretched for almost the full length of the store along the right-hand wall as viewed from the Broadway entrance. It sported those aluminum trimmed swiveling stools with the high curved backrests. They were bolted so close together to the floor that you had to spin them to sit down.

Under the counter was a small shelf that ran the length of the snack bar to store your purchases while you ate. Along the wall behind the snack bar were several of those inset shadow box type cutaways with glass shelves where they stored those heavy soda glasses. To one side of those shelves you'd see a Coca Cola sign. On the other side you'd see a glossy photo ad for their grilled cheese sandwich with french fries.

What I also liked about dining at Kreskie's was the atmosphere. You can listen to the sound of the shoppers mingling behind you. They echoed harmoniously with the soft music playing in the background. They never blared the music. They played it at such a low level that it really did enhance the shopping experience. That was where I first heard, "Wonderland By Night," by Bert Kaempfert & His Orchestra. I sincerely love that instrumental. I always did.

Next door to Kreskie's on Broadway was Fanny Farmers Chocolates. My mother bought many a bag of Malted Milk Balls for me in there. Next door to that was the Donut Shop. That's all we've ever known it by. The Donut Shop was all that sign said in the front window.

My mother stopped in there a few times when she wanted to get away from the maddening crowd. It was quiet in there. The place was always dark and you had a little more privacy because you sat in your own booth. She loved their coffee. I do remember that much.

Across the street from the donut shop, next door to Whelen's Drug store, was the Piece O' Pizza shop. Their pizza was a little bit spicy, but the crust was thin and crunchy. That's the way I like my pizza. I'm not a thick crust pizza guy at all. What I liked best was standing outside on the sidewalk watching those guys toss the pizza dough high up into the air. Do you remember that?

Gracie from the EHS class of 1955 told me that before it was the Piece O' Pizza, it was a restaurant called, "Mellons." She and her friends hung out at Mellons back in the early 1950's. And in my day, many of us hung out at the Piece O' Pizza - especially after the dances on Saturday night. See - the more things change - the more they stay the same.

On the opposite corner of Broadway and Chelsea was the Waldorf. The Waldorf was that big rounded building on the corner that I do believe is now a bank. When it was a restaurant, that whole wall wasn't solid like it is today. It had huge plate glass windows so you could watch everyone eating while you shopped, or everyone shop while you ate.

This was a restaurant for more formal dining. We only went there once because my mother hated their coffee with a passion. I did enjoy sitting at a more formal restaurant for a change.

The kids used to go into the Waldorf to get a free glass of water out of the water dispenser all the time. We'd walk through all the nicely dressed diners in our dirty play clothes, grab a glass, and press it up against the dispenser to watch it fill the glass. They eventually put a stop to that because it really got out of hand.

When it was time to go home from our shopping trip, my mother and I hopped onto the 110 bus that turned down Chelsea to take us to the corner of Ferry and Arlington Street. Every once in a while, we'd go by our stop and get off at the corner of Ferry and Cherry. Whenever we did that, it meant an extra special treat at Ski's Ice Cream Shop across the street at the corner of Ferry and Chestnut Hill.

Instead of sitting at the soda counter, we always sat at one of the little tables so we could look out the window and watch the traffic go by. Right across the street on the corner of Ferry and Cherry was Anna's Variety. Anna and Maxie always sat out on the sidewalk in front of the store in their little folding chairs.

The ice cream at Ski's was awesome. My mother always got a butterscotch Sundae. That was her favorite. Mine was the famous banana split. The only down side to chowing down at Ski's was that sudden attack of brain freeze. I know the secret now. All you need to do is take a quick sip of warm water and it disappears instantly. Remember that the next time you experience a sudden attack of brain freeze.

Sometimes we didn't take the 110 to go home. We took the 111 that went straight up Broadway. When we took the 111, it was for one of two reasons. The first, was when my mother decided to stop at Vargis. I loved Vargis. Kreskie's was the ultimate Deco Art experience, but Vargis was the Art Deco SuperBowl.

Vargis was the diner of all diners up on Broadway. It used to be where the Dunkin Donut's shop is now - just a few doors down from the High School. Vargis had everything you'd expect to find in a classic diner including the Coca Cola classic glasses, those heavy coffee cups, table top juke boxes, and smooth rounded silverware.

For a mere forty-nine cents, I got a ham & cheese omelet, with 3 sausage links, home fries, wheat toast, and a glass of orange juice. My mother always got the grilled cheese sandwich with the side of fries. For some reason, my mother and I had our best conversations at Vargis.

My mother was an interesting person to carry on a conversation with. She really knew how to talk with a kid without talking down to a kid. She knew how to be a friend without jeopardizing her authority as a parent. We'd spend over an hour talking whenever we dined at Vargis.

When I attended Everett High, all the kids stopped at Vargis after school. It was always filled with that nostalgic spirit that diners seem to have the knack to invoke. By the way, would you like to actually hear what it sounded like to dine at Vargis? Okay then - click HERE!

The other reason we took the 111 bus was when my mother decided to bring home subs for supper. You want to talk about subs? Let me tell you about the ultimate submarine sandwich experience that happened right here in Everett, Massachusetts.

Back in 1954, a young man named Ali, opened a submarine sandwich shop on Broadway in between the intersections with Glendale and Reed Ave. He called his shop, "Angelina's."

It was the tiniest little sub shop you've ever seen. There was barely enough standing room for two or three customers at a time. The floor was always covered with sawdust to keep the dirt down from people's shoes. Trust me, this little shop got more traffic than the Mystic River Bridge.

The line to get into Angelina's sometimes stretched along the sidewalk from the front door of his shop all the way up and around the corner of Chestnut Street. Ali was more than just a gifted sandwich maker. He was the master of the trade. Believe me - Ali was to submarine sandwich like Beethoven was to music.

My mouth waters just thinking about an Angelina's sub. His bread had that crispy outer crust that was baked to perfection. It was soft and delicious. The oil he used on his sandwiches had a unique flavor unlike any other submarine sandwich I had ever tasted. He knew how to blend all the different flavors of the ingredients in his sandwiches so that every bite complimented the next.

And that's not just my opinion either. In 1966, he had to move his shop to a much larger location across the street to accommodate his customers - which were growing in numbers by leaps and bounds as his reputation spread. People came for miles around for an Angelina's sub.

Here it is 52 years later, and I still run into people who ask me if I've ever had an Angelina's sub once they find out I grew up in Everett. Every time I visit Everett, even to this day, I chow down on an Angelina's sub. When I do, I always reminisce about that little shop he first started out in with that first dollar bill he ever earned, proudly framed up on the wall behind him.

I so fondly remember many nights during my childhood that my family sat around the TV in the living room enjoying an Angelina's sub while watching the Mousketeers. On July 26, Ali will celebrate his eightieth birthday. He has become somewhat of an icon in the history of the city of Everett. If you grew up in Everett, then you know this man.

One last notable mention I'd like to make is Mary's Kitchen on Broadway - just a few doors up from Chestnut Hill Pharmacy. Many times I stopped in there for a bag a chips and a coke when I finished my paper route. She had a nice little homey restaurant there. Her menu included quite an extensive list of delicious Italian dishes.

Late one night, during my High School days, a handful of friends, and I, got into quite a brawl with another group of kids out in the middle of Broadway as a result of an incident that took place in Mary's Kitchen. It was one of those brawls that looked like something you'd see on a western cowboy show. Maybe that's one of the reasons that Mary's Kitchen sticks out in my mind to this day.

My apologies to any establishment that deserves notable recognition as a nostalgic eatery in Everett that I may not have named here. I'm sure there were many. If you think of one - just click on the comment button below and share the experience with the rest of us.

What I've come to realize as I reminisce about my many childhood experiences is that Everett was actually a bustling community with much to do and enjoy while we were growing up. We tend to forget that sometimes. When you really think about it -you will agree - it was great to grow up in Everett, Massachusetts.

The Big Bandaid

Today, I switched on the old Everett Time Machine and journeyed back to the summer of 1963 when I was eleven years old. As I recall, it was one of those typically hot August mornings. It must have been a Saturday because my Dad was home from work. My father was one of those people who got up before dawn. Well actually, my Dad got up before first light. Now that's a morning person for ya.

If that isn't bad enough, he didn't just quietly slip out of bed and tiptoe around the house so the rest of us could get a little morning shut-eye. This guy growled like a bear when he woke up. Then you could hear him clanging and banging the dishes around in the kitchen while singing, "Beautiful dreamer, dream unto me."

My father refused to let anyone sleep late on a beautiful summer morning. Late to him was like eight o' clock in the morning. As soon as all the racket quieted down in the kitchen, he'd come into the bedroom and yank the covers off me. "Get up you sleepy head," he'd yell out. He wasn't angry, mind you. I've never seen a person so cheery as my father in the morning. Happy morning people irk the living daylights out of me.

Aside from my brother, Carl, the rest of us were not morning people what so ever. My Mom stayed up late at night listening to Larry Glick. That was her way to unwind after a hectic day of motherhood. My sister stayed up all hours of the night in her bedroom listening to Arnie Woo Woo Ginsberg on the Night Train radio show while painting her toenails. It always amazed me how someone could sit and paint their toenails for hours at a time.

Although my mother sent me to bed hours ago, I'd hide under my blanket and draw with a flashlight. My mother went ballistic whenever she caught me. I've lost count on how many flashlights she threw into the trash on me. It never dawned on her that since I was the one who took out the trash, I retrieved every flashlight she ever threw away.

My big brother, Billy, never came home when he was supposed to. The general rule of thumb was that when the streetlights came on - it's time to come home. No matter how many times he was told, he never once obeyed.

Even though my Dad fell asleep hours ago, my mother could not settle down until all her younguns were home to nest. Sometime around midnight, Billy would come walking in the door and my mother would jump all over him. The conversation would go something like this.

"Where were you?"

"Nowhere."

"Who were you with?"

"Nobody"

"What were you doing out at this hour of the night?"

"Nothing."

"You mean to tell me that you didn't go anywhere, you weren't with anybody, and you didn't do anything?"

"Yeah."

"So, how come you couldn't get home at a decent hour?"

"I dunno."

At this stage, I'd burst out laughing, so she'd turn and start yelling at me because it's not funny. She'd stand over me with one hand on her hip, waiving her finger in my face, and yelling, "You think everything's a big joke. Don't you?"

In the meantime, Billy stood behind her mocking her every motion to make me laugh so she'd snap and start chasing me all over the house with the belt. The whole house would erupt into total chaos and my Dad would snore through the entire ordeal.

That sort of thing happened almost every night of the week. You'd think she'd just swallow her pride and loosen up on the apron string a little. After all, Billy was 17 years old now, and believe me, this kid could take care of himself. And as far as the streetlight rule was concerned, it just wasn't going to happen.

By the time the dust settled down in my house on a summer night it was well after one o' clock in the morning. We're still not asleep yet. We've just settled down from all the ranting and raving. It was around this time that I'd pull the covers over my head and snap on the flashlight. I'd draw until I literally passed out.

So now it's about four and half-hours later and my father thinks we've all had plenty of sleep. That's easy for him to say because he always fell asleep before nine o' clock. Now he thinks it's time for everybody else to get up and go outside to let the fresh air blow the stink off of us, as he so aptly put it.

We'd all drag ourselves out of bed against the backdrop of my mother's psychotic reaction to the mess my father made in the kitchen. This guy didn't just have breakfast when he got up in the morning. He had a feast. You'd find everything from eggshells and chicken bones to apple cores and celery stems in the kitchen sink after he ate breakfast.

"What do you want for breakfast?" He'd ask my mother.

"I'll just have a cup of coffee," she'd answer.

"How about a chicken sandwich?"

"In the morning?"

"Sure, that's what we had for breakfast growing up on the farm."

"Well, I'm not on a farm, Bill. I'm on Arlington Street."

"You're on the Funny Farm," he'd laugh.

After finishing off my usual bowl of Cheerios, I'm finally on my way out the door for the day. My father would ask, "So, where are you off to today?"

"Nowhere."

"Who you going out with?"

"Nobody."

"What are going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Well, why don't you take Billy along with you? That's his favorite pastime, too," he'd laugh.

The truth is, I didn't know where I was going, who I was going to be with, or what I was going to do. I was a kid. Kids don't plan things. They just do them. Our days just seem to happen all by themselves. It's as if they have a mind of their own.

If we get enough kids together, we'll have a game of stickball in the middle of the street. If not, maybe a handful of us will go rustling through the trash barrels for fun things to do. We'll look for soda cans to stomp onto the bottom of our shoes so we can stamp up and down the sidewalk making an awful racket for the first half-hour of the day.

After that, we might get our hands on enough Popsicle sticks to make those little web looking thing-a-ma-bobs that break apart when we throw them at each other. Maybe we'll climb up on the roof of the Storm Shield building to retrieve all the pimple balls we've lost up there. And every so often, if we have enough money, we might head on down to the Everett pool.

What we finally decided to do today was have a good old-fashioned water balloon fight. Up at the Horace Mann school playground was a dozen or so of the neighborhood girls. They were just sitting duck. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.

For a mere twenty-nine cents, you could buy a bag of 100 party balloons down at Liggett's in Glendale Square. That's what we did. We went back to my house and filled them with water before heading up to the school ground.

The girls were sitting quietly having a nice little chitchat for themselves on the Foster Street playground steps when we showed up. "What are you guys up to?" We called out.

"Nothing much," they answered.

"Well, we've got a great idea," I said as we approached the steps with our hands behind our backs.

"They're up to something," Betty Ann said as she stood up to get out of harm's way. The others caught on and jumped up to follow her. That's when we charged. They didn't make it. We clobbered them with water balloons. They were soaked from head to toe - what a blast!

We all gathered on the playground steps and high-fived over our victorious assault as the girls walked home to change into dry clothes. For some funny reason, girls just didn't sit and dry in the sun like boys do. They just don't seem to appreciate the finer things in life - I guess.

They all came back in good cheer about a half-hour later. We were all still sitting there bragging over who got who the best with our water balloons. "What are you guys up to?" Mary Ellen called out.

Now, you'd think we'd know better - right? You'd think we would have seen it coming, but we didn't. We were so full of ourselves that we couldn't see the forest from the trees.

When they got right up to us, they open fired. We were the sitting ducks now. And I hate to admit it, but they got us far better than we got them. At least they were smart enough to take off running. We weren't.

In all the confusion, I tripped and fell, hammering my shin flat down onto the cement steps. Of course you know - this means war! After doing the one legged "ooh-eeh-aah" ceremonial pain dance, I discovered a lump about the size of an egg on my shin that was bleeding profusely. And although the girls were very sympathetic towards my injury, I refused to be coddled by the enemy. I wanted revenge.

I hobbled home with the rest of the gang, utterly defeated. This was not the end, believe you me. We had a plan. While I went inside to nurse my wound, the other kids ran back down to Liggett's for a new supply of balloons. By the time I got home, I was seriously limping from the pain, but refused to surrender.

You can only imagine how disappointed I was when I got in the door to find a note taped to the fridge that read, "Gone to Stop & Shop. Be right back, love Mom & Dad." That meant it was up to me to nurse this wound on my own if I was going back into battle.

I searched high and low for bandaging and found nothing. On the floor in the back of my mother's closet was a brown paper bag. In that bag was a box. I know this because I went down to Whitehill Pharmacy with a note from my mother to get it.

She never told me what was in that box, and I forgot to ask. This was an excellent opportunity to find out what this thing was. So I pulled the bag out from behind all of her shoes, and opened the box.

Inside were the biggest bandages I had ever seen in my life. These bandages were large enough to cover a shot gun wound. Not only that, but they had ribbons attached to each end of them. I guess it was so you could tie them around your wound like a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

Well anyway, I took one of these huge bandages and tied it around my leg. I was now ready to get back into battle. After filling up the water balloons, we headed back up to the playground.

Our new plan went like this. Because of my leg injury, I couldn't run very fast. So I went alone to go talk to the girls, while the other guys crept up behind them for the sneak attack.

When I approached the girls on the steps, I asked, "Hey girls, wasn't that a lot of fun?" They didn't speak, at first. They just stared at me as if they had seen a ghost. Finally, one of them asked, "What have you got on your leg?"

"It's a bandage," I replied innocently enough.

The girls all screamed with laughter. "Paul, go home and get that thing off your leg," they laughed.

"What's the big deal? So, it's a big awkward bandaid. So what?"

The plan worked like a charm. The sneak attack went flawlessly as planned. But this time, they really didn't make as much fuss about getting soaked by water balloons as they did the bandage on my leg.

They couldn't get over my bandage. They were still making a big deal over it. Do you believe that? Girls really are weird - aren't they?

When I got back home, my mother and father were just pulling into the driveway from their shopping trip to the Stop & Shop. I ran towards them to see if they bought any unexpected goodies for after dinner snacks.

My mother took one look at me and asked, "What in the world have you got on your leg?"

"Oh, I cut my leg and found those giant bandaids in your closet."

"Get up stairs this very minute before anyone sees you," she shouted. Jeez, people are really getting a bit over excited about my bandage today. Don't you think?

When we got upstairs, my mother yanked that giant bandaid off my leg faster than you could blink. I think she was more worried over that stupid bandage than she was my injury.

"Don't you ever take another one of those bandages ever again. Do you hear me?"

All I could think of was "How selfish can you get?" I mean, really. She's all hot and bothered about one giant bandaid and she has a whole box full of them. What a cheapskate - no?

When she told my father what I had done, he doubled over laughing. My mother was afraid he was going to have a heart attack because he was laughing so hard that no sound was coming out. She was afraid he couldn't breathe. Every person my mother told that story to, doubled over in a fit of laughter.

Did you ever get the feeling like the whole world knows something that you don't? Well, I do know one thing. If you do ever get a serious injury, your mother has a box of giant bandaids hidden in the back of her closet. You'll know the box when you see it. It has big white letters on it that say, "Kotex."

Time Travel

I've often wondered what the first journey will be like once CERN completes their first time machine. Now that Professor Hawking has pin pointed the predicted error in the space-time continuum in relationship to black holes (as pointed out by John Titor), I'm really looking forward to getting my hands on one of those stationary mass temporal displacement units manufactured by General Electric in the not so distant future.

As I understand it, two, top spin, dual-positive singularities that produce a standard, offset tipler sinusoid will power the unit. Perhaps an Electrical Engineer could explain it in far more simpler terms than I. If all this sounds a bit confusing to you, go to your favorite search engine and enter "tipler sinusoid" into the search field. I'll still be here when you get back.

These first units will supposedly maintain a fairly accurate time range within sixty years. That's all I'm going to need. If you're one of those people who firmly believes that if you had your life to live all over again you wouldn't change a thing, then I do envy you. I, however, would change a lot of things.

What if it happens? What if CERN does succeed? I've got some lost time to make up for. And I know exactly where it is I want to go. I want to go to Foster Street during the summer of 1966. There's a very minor, but significant, moment in my life I'd like to change.

During that summer, a whole new slew of kids took over hanging around the Horace Mann school ground area. No, there was no turf war or anything like that. It's just that many of the old crowd had dispersed. I, for one, had made new friends in other neighborhoods and wasn't hanging around my home turf anymore.

Besides that, I now had a daily paper route that was eating up a lot of my free time. It was my only way to finance my artistic endeavors. Art supplies have always cost a fortune. They still do.

This new crowd congregated on the schoolground steps on Foster Street, but because it was such a large crowd, they spanned the area from the Horace Mann playground to the Summer Street Market. They were all nice kids. I did vaguely know a couple of them.

Whenever I crossed their path, never a word of acknowledgement passed between us. Because I had to walk through them often, we did become familiar by sight, nothing more.

What I feel compelled to explain is that these kids were far more docile in nature than the crowd I hung around with. In no way do I mean that in any condescending manner. But because of that difference between us, we simply ignored each other.

One day, during the summer of 1966, one of the girls in that crowd seriously caught my eye. I mean - really caught my eye. And I caught hers. We had a moment, so to speak.

I do believe it was on a Sunday because I did not deliver newspapers on Sunday. On that day, I was working diligently on an acrylic painting. Just as I was about to get deeply involved in a very detailed part of the work, I realized I had no Q-tips. Q-tips are awesome for feathering the sharp edges of an object in a painting without blurring the object's definition.

They did sell Q-tips at the Summer Street Market. You paid more for them, but I just wanted to nip down to the store, grab the Q-tips, and get back to my work in progress. It was aggravating enough to have to break my concentration just to run down to the store in the first place.

Artists must constantly deal with insignificant mundane trivia while trying to keenly focus on their creative pursuits. It never fails. Just when you're tapping into your photographic memory to recreate the minute details of an object so you can vividly project it onto the canvas with your mind's eye, somebody will come along and ask you if you like Miracle Whip better than mayonnaise. It's enough to make you scream. Now you know why artists are temperamental.

On this day, however, the Summer Street Market did not have any Q-tips. So, on my way back home, I was concentrating on a work around to this new dilemma. Because I was so keenly focused, I did not realize that Foster Street was entirely cluttered with these kids. I just passed through them without even seeing them.

A little ways up the street, a small group of girls from that crowd came walking towards me. Having vaguely recognized them, I gave them only a brief casual glance as they passed by. On second thought, I looked again because I was certain I had seen something out of the ordinary. I did.

There walked amongst them a girl that I had never seen before. I would have remembered this girl, I'm sure. She had these big, sharply defined eyes that shimmered in the light. They were the prettiest eyes I had ever seen. Her smile radiated. She wasn't smiling at me, mind you. She was having a fun conversation with her friends. She didn't even notice me.

She had this adorable over-bite that made her look as cute as a bunny. And her hair was a mixture of light brown and blonde that seemed to change color in the sunlight. Gawd, she was beautiful. She absolutely stole my heart away.

After they passed by, I turned to steal another glance. When I did, our eyes met. She was looking right at me. I felt so unworthy that I did not believe she had actually turned to look back at me - but she did.

That was it. That's all that happened. I never saw her again that summer, but I did think about her often.

We'll jump ahead now about a year or so. On our first day of school, in Mr. Barbati's ninth grade homeroom at the Parlin Junior High, all of us guys were giving each other a nod every time a pretty girl entered the room. We had a class full of pretty girls that year - let me tell you.

All of a sudden, in walks that girl from Foster Street. Yes, we all gave each other a nod on this one - that's for sure. During that year, I made it a point to make friends with this girl. It just so happens that she turned out to be the sister of a good friend of mine. By the end of that school year, we had become very good friends.

I helped her out big time in Mr. Cecere's Civics class. She forgot to cover her textbook on the day he walked around the classroom checking books. I pulled the cover off mine and gave it to her. What a golden opportunity to play the knight in shining armour - right?

When Mr. Cecere saw her book covered with NFL insignias, he looked over at me, shook his head, and smiled. "Get a cover on that book by tomorrow," he said to me with that smirk still on his face. He knew what I was up to.

Every time I looked back at that girl in class, she would squint her nose up at me and smile. I'd squint back and laugh. Gawd, she was so pretty. No, I never did ask her out. Why? To put it bluntly, I did not feel worthy. And even though other people in class said they thought she really liked me, I could not believe that it could possibly be true. After all, she was so pretty and I was so plain.

Throughout the remainder of our school years, all the way up until our High School graduation, we remained friends. We spoke in the hallways whenever we ran into each other. And once, while she was walking away, I pulled a lose hair from her head and kept it in my Beatle's "Rubber Soul" album cover for years. She never knew that.

Aside from random dates with different girls, throughout my junior and Senior years, I dated a college girl on a somewhat off and on basis. Being a hippie, I was committed to nobody. With all the opportunities I had, I never once had the nerve to ask that girl from Foster Street out.

Well actually, she wasn't from Foster Street. She lived down on Road B in the Cherry Street Projects. We lost track of each other after we graduated from Everett High school.

That's why I want to go back to Foster Street during the summer of 1966. I want to make up for all this lost time. I finally figured out that she really does like me. And I know she still feels that way. I know she does.

As soon as I get my hands on one of those General Electric stationary mass temporal displacement units - I'm going back to do it all over again. I've got it all planned out right down to the most intricate detail. Typical artist - right?

Once I get there, I'm going to have to re-adjust to the way life used to be. For one thing, I'll need to bring along a pocketful of nickels so I can get in touch with everybody. I'll look you all up when I get there and give you a call.

How will I find you? That's easy. Back then, there were two phone booths not too far from my neighborhood on Ferry Street. There was one near the Flying A gas station diagonally across from the intersection of High Street and Ferry. The other one was across from the intersection of Pleasant View Ave and Ferry at Spencer's Sunoco gas station.

It does not matter if it's raining out when I get there. These telephone booths are totally encased in glass. The entire ceiling lights up when you firmly close that folding door. You can stay bone dry in there during a torrential downpour.

Don't worry, I'll find out what your phone number was back then, It starts with "DUnkirk 7" anyway. I know that much. All I have to do is drop a nickel in the telephone, dial zero, and in seconds I'll be talking to a real live operator who will look up the number for me. Neat huh? See, we didn't grow up in the dark ages like our kids tend to believe. We got hold of a live operator on a dial telephone faster than they can get live-tech help on AOL today.

Once I get you on the phone, I'll tell you who I am. I'll explain how we communicated by email through my blog on the internet 40 years from now. You'll probably slam down the receiver and tell your mother that one of those nutty Huffman kids from Arlington Street has really gone off the deep end this time.

Okay, so maybe I better skip the phone call idea so you don't blow my cover. After all, I'll need to blend in with my surrounding environment so I don't stick out like sore thumb. If I can't get hold of a car, I'll bring along a bike with butterfly handlebars and a banana seat so I won't look so conspicuous.

I better wear a pair of P.F. Flyers with that circular rubber patch on the ankles to fit in with everybody else. Bill Cosby once said that he always wore sneakers with a rubber patch on the ankles so when he ran down the street, his ankles wouldn't knock together and make a spark that could set his pants on fire - what a riot.

Another thing I better remember to do is knock off the chain guard, and then roll up my pant cuff so it doesn't get caught in the chain. Any boy riding a bike with a chain guard back then was a sissy - remember that? Man, we had a lot of silly hang-ups back in those days - did we not?

It will be fun to relive the golden age of many of the common every day items we take for granted. The ice cube trays in the freezer will be made out of metal and have a lever to pull back to break the ice free. At least I wont have to break any more cheap plastic ice cube trays by bending them in half to get the ice cubes out. It's funny how we always thought the future would be better, instead of cheaper with far less quality.

If I do get the chance to drive a car, I'll have to remember there's no such thing as spray cans of "fix-a-flat" back in 1966 - if I do get a flat. Tire plugs won't work either because, back then, car tires had inner tubes.

What I won't forget to do is grab a bottle of milk out of the fridge, pull out the cardboard stopper, and skim the cream off the top to make a homemade chocolate milkshake - yum!

Oh yeah, and if I decide to write a letter to my cousins up in Newfoundland while I'm there, I better buy a couple of airmail stamps. We needed those back then - remember? I'll go down to Grants in Glendale Square to buy them so I can get the S&H Green Stamps.

It's not like I'm going to stay back there in 1966 for any real length of time anyway. I just want to get back to Foster Street to that very moment I saw that girl. This time, I'm walking right over there and saying, "Excuse me, but before either one of us starts making any wrongful life decisions we're going to regret, why don't you grab hold of my hand and we'll make up for lost time."

When you think about it though, won't it be great when General Electric starts making those stationary mass temporal displacement units? I am definitely getting one of those. I don't care how much they cost.

So, what ever became of that girl anyway? Well, here's the irony of the whole situation. I did accidentally run into her again some twenty years later - in Everett - of all places. We had both suffered through short term first marriages. Is that a coincidence or what?

Well, as they say, if I make one mistake in life, then that is a shame. But if I make the same mistake twice, then it's shame on me. This second time around, I did it right. I married her. That's how I know that she still likes me.

The only thing I do regret in life is not realizing that I had found the right one all along back in the summer of 1966 on Foster Street when I was only fourteen years old. That time machine is going to help us recapture all that time we lost that we could have been together. I think it's a great idea. Don't you?

Gone Fishin

All through my Eighth grade class at the Parlin Junior High School, there was something troubling me that I really didn't care to share with the whole world. It's not that I was trying to hide anything, as it was that I was trying not to think about it. As you can probably tell, I was always an extremely outgoing person - sometimes to the point of being obnoxious - I'm sure.

Because I was always one of the class clowns, no one suspected that behind that mask, the waters ran deep. What I never wanted anyone to know was how sensitive I really was. Funny how so many people knew I was a poet, and an artist, and yet, did not realize I was so sensitive. How could you possibly be that creative without a deep sense of compassion?

Although we may think so sometimes, we are not the center of everyone else's universe. At that young age, we are accustomed to the attentions of our parents, our aunts and uncles, and an occasional girlfriend from time to time, but other than that, we are all focused on ourselves. Few people outside our little circle are the least bit interested in what's going on in our lives.

There are special people who do care about us. And it always seems to be the people we least suspect. I found that out in Mr. Athenasia's woodworking class. He and Mr. Chocorelli got a boot out of me. They used to chase me around the classroom. When they caught me, they punched me out. It was all in good fun, believe me.

It was about three or four weeks before the Christmas holiday that year. On this one particular day, Mr. Athenasia asked if I would come to see him after school. There was something he wanted to talk to me about. When I asked if I was in any kind of trouble, he said, "No, not at all, I was hoping we could talk as friends. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

I couldn't imagine what it was he wanted to see me about. Yes, it was on the back of my mind that entire school day. I couldn't remember if I had done anything wrong or not. To say I was a little bit worried about what he wanted to talk to me about is an understatement.

After school that day, I nervously stepped into Mr. Athenasia's classroom. He was preoccupied with paperwork, so I offered to come back at another time. "Oh no, this can wait," he said. "Grab a chair, let's talk." We sat at his desk and engaged in a small casual conversation. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Tell me what's troubling you. You can talk to me." I told him everything.

It all started a little more than a year ago when my big brother, Billy, came home from boot camp. Not only was he fit as a fiddle, but they had also cured him of his stuttering which dogged him throughout his entire childhood. I used to tease him about it all the time.

When he came home from boot camp, he had made a new friend in the army from Texas who had nobody to go home to, so he brought him home to our house. For the next thirty days they hooped and hollered all over Boston to celebrate graduating from boot camp. They even took me along fishing one day. We had a blast.

It wasn't until his thirty-day leave was up that he told us he had his orders already. He and his friend were going to Vietnam. My mother cried her eyes out. I'm sure my dad did too, but he never let us see it.

The very next morning, I rode in the front seat with my dad when he drove my brother and his friend to Logan Airport. My mother didn't have the strength to see him off to war. It was a tearful good-bye at the airport - trust me.

After slinging that duffel bag over his shoulder, he looked back at me and said, "No matter what happens, you be strong for Ma. Don't ever let her catch you crying. And don't be afraid. I'll be back, you banana head." We stood and watched him walk out onto the loading dock. Then we raced over to the observatory to wave good-bye.

Neither my Dad, nor me, said a word on the way home. We were just too choked up to talk. You know what we were afraid of. We didn't dare say it.

During the Vietnam War, the soldiers couldn't call home like they can today. Once they went off to war, you were lucky if you got one phone call during the entire year they were away. I wrote at least two letters to my brother every week while he was off to war. My heart danced every time I got one back. It was how I knew he was all right.

We hadn't heard from him now since before Thanksgiving. It's been more than four weeks - no letters, no phone call, nothing. I couldn't help but imagine the worst. We all did everything in our power to keep my mother's spirits up. She was a mess. So were we, but we refused to let it show.

The whole time he was away, I started a scrapbook of all the news items in the local papers about the Vietnam War so he could see how we saw the war when he got home. After telling Mr Athenasia all that, I broke down in tears.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "You have every right to worry, but remember this. There really is something to that old saying that no news is good news. If anything was wrong, your family would have been notified by the military."

"Your brother may be on a secret mission and is unable to make contact with his family. You're forgetting that his tour of duty is almost up. He'll be coming home soon. Try focusing more on that than on the negative."

"So, how are you doing on the scrapbook?" he asked.

"I really don't have enough. We only get the Record American at our house," I said.

"Well, why don't you pop over to my place on Saturday. I've got tons of old Boston Globes. You're welcome to them. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm always here, okay?"

"Okay."

I did pop over to his house on Saturday. He lived right behind the Immaculate Conception school on Clinton Street back then. He gave me enough newspapers to build a scrapbook the size of an encyclopedia. I often wondered if he ever knew how much he strengthened my faith in the human race that day. He certainly did that.

The Christmas school vacation finally arrived, and still no word from my brother. The only thing that gave us the strength to face life was that my sister now had a little toddler that we could all fuss over for Christmas. Having a little kid in your life helps you relive the childhood magic in Christmas all over again.

My nephew's name is Richie. He couldn't say Paul, so he called me, Ba. The name stuck forever with all my nieces and nephews. What was really cute about him is that he hated it whenever I went out at night with my friends. I used to bribe him so he wouldn't cry when I left the house.

I'd tell him, "Ba's going to get meemees for Dittie." That meant, "Paul was going to get candy for Richie. Instead of saying "good-bye" when I went out the door, we'd say, "Ditnah." The kid was just too cute for words.

It was now only three days before Christmas, and still no word from my brother. We dreadfully feared we were about to face the inevitable. On this particular night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I was lying on the couch watching another rerun of "It's A Wonderful Life." Halfway into the movie, I noticed the front door knob begin to jiggle. No doubt about it, someone was trying to break into my house.

Leaping up, I grabbed the baseball bat I kept underneath the couch for emergencies - just in case. You never know when you're going to need a close-range fanatic stopper. That baseball bat was mine.

Walking quietly over to the door, I slowly unlatched the bolt. Then, I jerked the door open.

"Wow man, you grew up while I was away," Billy said.

I just stood there with my mouth hung wide open, staring at him in total disbelief.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. Stupid question - no?

"I live here, you banana head."

He looked so small compared to the way I remembered him last.

"So, can I come in, or are you gonna whack me with that baseball bat?"

"Yeah dude, come in. I'll hit ya with the bat later. Let me go wake everybody up," I said.

"Don't do that. Let everybody sleep. We got any coffee?"

"Yeah, I just brewed a pot."

We sat at the kitchen table and laughed. My life felt so complete. I never realized before how good it felt to have a big brother. We talked until we were blue in the face.

About an hour later, I heard my mother coming towards the kitchen. "Paul, what in the hell is all the noise about?" she asked.

"Come into the kitchen and see."

"What in the hell have you got going on now?" She thought I had friends over in the middle of the night.

You should have seen the look on her face when she stepped into the kitchen. She could not believe her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands and she actually said, "Am I dreaming?"

Billy stood up and reached out for her. "Do I get a hug or what?" She broke down in tears. At least this time they were happy tears.

I could now hear my Dad coming out towards the kitchen saying, "What in the hell is all the racket about?" The same thing happened to him when he stepped into the kitchen. Minutes later, my other brother, my sister, and my little nephew were all out in the kitchen. We had a nice little family reunion going on at four o' clock in the morning.

We talked and laughed, and cooked, and ate, until almost noon. Then, we all went back to bed. We were never so happy in all our lives. The bond that runs so true through a family's veins showed its true colors that day.

Christmas had a very special meaning to all of us that year. For Christmas, Billy went out and bought this big electric robot for his little nephew that walked, talked, the eyes lit up, and it beeped whenever it changed direction. It scared the hell out of little Richie.

Billy came home from the war a changed man. Over the years, he and my father grew to become the best of friends. They did everything together. Whenever Billy took his family away on vacation, he took my parents along with them.

He's done his fair share for our family - I'll tell ya. He stood by my Dad and helped him through every phase of kicking his habit with the bottle. That man went through pure hell and back to beat that affliction. You gotta give him credit. He never fell back off the wagon once.

When Billy was sixteen years old, a full-grown man threatened my family. I don't know the whole situation, but this guy told my sister that he was going to beat up every boy in our family - starting with my father and working his way down the line to the baby - meaning me. I think it was the fact that he had mouthed off to a fourteen-year-old girl that really ruffled my brother's feathers.

A few days later, I was sitting out on the front steps and Billy was leaning up against the post smoking a cigarette. This guy came walking by. I honestly believe he was going to just pass by and ignore us, until Billy called out to him.

"Hey mister, you got something you wanna say to me?"

"I don't talk to punks." He said.

Billy stepped down onto the sidewalk and walked right up to the guy. The guy towered him by at least six inches, and probably out weighed him by 60 pounds. He jabbed the guy in the chest with his pointer finger and said, "Well, you're gonna talk to me."

The guy turned to walk away, but Billy grabbed him by the collar.

"If you so much as ever walk down this street again, I swear, I'll hurt you mister. I'll hurt you bad."

Again, the guy turned to walk away, but Billy jerked him back around.

"If you ever so much as look at any of my brothers or sister again, they'll find you dead. I will not stop until you are dead. Do we understand each other?"

My brother was so angry he was shaking. I knew that guy saw the fire in my brother's eyes. I could tell by the expression on his face. Billy released his grip, and the guy just turned and walked away. I never saw that guy again.

Billy was always there for me when I needed him. He came all the way down to Rhode Island in the middle of the night to get me when the Staties impounded my Volkswagen because it didn't have a windshield. It got broken during a brawl outside a nightclub in Providence - and I wasn't even involved in the brawl. I just happened to have parked in the wrong spot at the wrong time.

He drove up to Reading in the middle of the night because while I was out on a date, I embarrassingly locked my keys in the car. And again he came through for me when he had to drive all the way up to Kittery, Maine, because I seized the engine in my other Volkswagen. And yes, he called me a banana head that night too.

What was most important to my brother was his family, his friends, and his motorcycle -in that order. His personality was one in a million. He'd break your neck if you crossed him, but he'd give you the chance to make up for it first. He was slow to anger and quick to forgive.

You couldn't get more down to earth, than this guy was. There was nothing phony about him. He called it as he saw it. He lived by the philosophy, "You gotta do what you gotta do."

Everybody still talks about his hamburgers. When he cooked a hamburger, he used up two pounds of ground beef for each one. They were the size of a pizza. You needed two or more buns to hold just one of them. He'd hand you one of these monstrosities and ask if you wanted another one before you even bit into that one.

He had a bazillion friends. I found that out the last time we said good-bye. In 1991, at the age of forty-six, he lost his battle with cancer. Through the whole ordeal, he remained strong and always put his best face forward. I never once saw him cry. He was the ultimate soldier.

My father lost his best friend when my brother died. A few years later, he joined him beyond the far horizon. You can see their little white military gravestone just to the right inside the front gate of the Glenwood cemetery - together forever.

Their gravestone is there, but they are not. I know these two. They've gone fishing.

Neighbors

We lived on the second floor to the left of a six-family apartment house at the bottom of the hill on Arlington Street. Back in our day, the real estate industry referred to this type of house as an, "Aunt Toby." The logic in that title was that this was the type of home that made a sensible investment for a spinster. It provided rent-free living for the owner as well as ample income from the remaining five apartments.

This house, however, was not owned by a spinster, but by my great uncle Ed, and aunt Grace from Newfoundland. Aunt Grace was my grandmother's sister. They owned several of the houses in our immediate area. They were the original owners of Henry Gray's apartments on Ferry Street, and the small house that the Coolins lived in behind our house, as well as several other homes at the bottom of High Street.

Knowing that, you'd think my family had money - right? Well, here's the irony of the situation. We were dirt poor. My mother came from a very wealthy family on Bell Island off the coast of Newfoundland. Her father (my grandfather) was a millionaire in his day. My mother grew up in a mansion with servants. My grandfather owned the only general store on the entire island.

On the other hand, my father is of Native American roots. He grew up bare-foot poor on the high plateau in the Land of the Indians, commonly referred to as, Terre Haute, Indiana. He met my mother during the war while stationed at the Argentia Air Force base in Newfoundland.

My grandfather did everything in his power to keep his daughter from leaving home and moving to America, including offering my father his business, lock, stock, and barrel. And although the logic may elude you and I, they did move back to the Land of the Indians.

Finding no work after the war in Indiana, they moved to Boston so my Dad could work as a carpenter for Uncle Ed. A few years later, he landed a full time job as a heavy equipment mechanic for Tufts University. He stayed on that job for the next 40 years until his retirement.

So why were we so poor? Well for one thing, in his early years, my Dad suffered with a serious drinking problem. For another, they had a son who suffered serious brain damage as a result of a head injury when he was only six months old. His medical attention cost them a small fortune, and they were too proud to ask for help. It wasn't until his early teenage years that they found out about the Epilepsy Foundation. From that moment on, his medical costs were covered by the foundation.

To say that we grew up poor was an understatement. There were nights we only had lima beans and bread for supper. My Dad spruced it up for us a little bit with a douse of ketchup. And there were winter nights when we ran out of coal for the furnace. My mother warmed the house with the gas-fired stove in the kitchen. If it got too cold, she wrapped us in blankets and warmed our feet in buckets of hot water.

Being poor has nothing to do with being happy - especially when you're a kid. We didn't even know we were poor. We were too busy having a good time. Besides, everybody else in that apartment building was poor, too. If they weren't, they wouldn't have lived there.

Another good thing that really helped us through the hard times was being surrounded with good neighbors. Mrs. Forgione lived in the apartment next door. She had two sons named, "Sonny and Junior." You couldn't have asked for nicer people.

Somehow, Mrs. Forgione always knew when we were in dire need. I say that because, it always seemed like just when my parents started fretting over where our next meal was coming from, Mrs. Forgione showed up with a steaming hot pot of raviolis smothered in home made spaghetti sauce (to which she referred to as gravy).

It was Mrs. Forgione who taught me to appreciate the wonders and beauty of nature. On sunny summer days, she sat out on the back porch in her rocking chair humming a happy melody and looking off into the sky. Every time I stepped out onto the back porch, she pointed out different shapes and pictures in the clouds. She could even find hidden melodies in the leaves that rustled from the touch of a gentle summer breeze.

She had this knack for always seeing the good in everything. Within her gentle ways, and loving smile, she held the power to brighten my darkest days. Her romantically poetic way of seeing the world around her made a charming impact on my life. I sometimes wonder if it wasn't she who influenced my becoming a musician.

Mr. McGlaughlin lived upstairs. So did his mother. I was scared to death of his mother. His mother was elderly and sick. She sat in her rocker all day long, shrouded in a black hooded shawl. All she did was rock and moan.

You could hear her moaning all through the night. To a little kid, it sounded like some kind of supernatural séance going on up there. She died when I was in the first grade. For months afterwards, I was afraid her ghost would come back to haunt me.

It makes me laugh when I think about the time Mr. McGlaughlin locked himself out of his apartment. He asked me to crawl in through his kitchen window from the back porch to unlock his door. His mother was fast asleep in her rocker right there in the kitchen. When I crawled in through the window, she woke up and yelled. It frightened me so much that I ran out the back door and slammed it behind me. He was still locked out. I had to crawl back in through the window all over again.

Mr. McGlaughlin was a mild mannered gentleman with a pleasant smile. He only had one eye. He lost the other one in the war. What's so amazing about that is, I'm not talking about World War II - I'm talking World War I. That was supposed to be the war to end all wars.

He did not have a glass eye. He just went about his business with that sunken eye socket that would normally frighten the dickens out of all the little kids. It didn't because he was such a nice person. A cheerful personality goes a long way.

Knowing how much I loved football, he used to invite me upstairs to sit at the kitchen table with him to watch the New York Giants. I was only in the second grade, but he treated me like an equal. We talked about everything from music to politics.

Just thinking about him brings back so many memories. Like that mild August afternoon I was sitting out on the front steps reading an Archie funny book when Mr. McGlaughlin stepped out onto the front porch. He was a round and jolly sort of guy who always wore suspenders and a Stetson - even in the middle of the summer. He gingerly closed the door behind him and raised his cane into the air as he called out to Mary and Cecil sitting on their front porch across the street.

"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson."

"And what a fine afternoon it is," they smiled and waved back.

"Do you need anything at the store, Mr. McGlaughlin?" I asked.

"That I do, Paul. I also need a breath of fresh air. Care to join me for a milk shake down at Whitehill Pharmacy's soda fountain?" How could I possibly pass up an offer like that?

He greeted everyone cordially as we strolled down the sidewalk.

"Fine afternoon, isn't it Mrs. Lassitor?"

"Yes it is, Mr. McGlaughlin."

Minutes later, he waved to a jeep driving by. "Fine day, isn't it Mr. Coolin?"

"It's a beautiful day, Mr. McGlaughlin," he waved back.

When we stepped into Whitehill Pharmacy, Mr. McGlaughlin greeted everyone. Their faces lit up as soon as they heard his voice. We sat at the soda fountain talking about the Red Sox, the Celtics, and the New York Giants while sipping on a chocolate milk shake.

That was the time he told me one of the most fascinating stories I've ever heard. He was a newspaper boy back in the summer of 1901. All the newspaper boys gathered at several locations early in the morning to get their newspapers. They delivered the newspapers to those drop off points on a horse drawn wagon. Sometimes, fist fights broke out amongst the newspaper boys competing for newspapers.

When he first started hawking newspapers, he worked the intersection of Ferry and Chelsea Streets. Eventually, he worked his way up to the lucrative corner of Broadway and Chelsea. That's where he was hawking newspapers on Saturday morning, September 7th, in 1901.

"We didn't have radios, televisions, or even newsreels at the theatres yet," he explained. "If something big happened in the news, you didn't find out about it right away like you do today. The only way news traveled to the common citizen back then was either by word of mouth, or by the newspaper."

"Well anyway, on that Saturday morning, nobody had to fight over newspapers because they delivered hundreds more than usual. They knew they were going to sell every newspaper they printed on that day," he explained.

"So how did they know that?" I asked in between slurps.

"We sold newspapers by how excited we sounded when yelling out the headlines. We stood in the middle of the street yelling out to every horse carriage, trolley, or pedestrian that passed by. On that morning, we had something exciting to yell about," he said.

"I remember it like it was only yesterday. I stood out in the middle of Broadway shouting, "Read all about it. President McKinley shot and seriously wounded at the Pan American Expo in Buffalo." I sold every one of my newspapers in less than twenty minutes. I made over three dollars that day."

"Sounds like they got that in the newspaper right away," I said.

"Not really - that happened the day before, on Friday afternoon, sometime after four o' clock. They didn't even cover the story in the Friday evening edition. We didn't find out about it until around five o' clock on Saturday morning. To us, that seemed fast at the time. If something like that happened today, you'd know about it right away."

"Did he die?" I asked. Shows you how weak my knowledge of history was back then.

"Well, actually, he lived on for another two weeks or so," he explained. "He eventually died, but not by the assassin's bullet. He died from an infection because the doctor didn't properly clean his wound."

"Did they ever catch the guy who shot him?"

"Oh yes, they caught him right then and there. It was a black fellow who actually leaped on top of the assassin and wrestled him to the ground. I forget his name now, but he was the true hero on that day. As I recall, he was cheated out of the prestigious recognition he truly deserved. A few months later, the assassin was executed in the electric chair," he said. "I sold a lot of newspapers that day, too."

His story held me spell bound. The whole time he was telling it to me, I remember studying his face through the mirror behind the soda fountain. I can't remember why, but I do remember feeling somewhat sorry for him that day. Maybe it was because he never really had a family of his own. On the other hand, he was surrounded with a neighborhood full of good friends. That's for sure.

Whenever Mr. McGlaughlin needed anything, we were always right there for him. Taking out the garbage, bringing down the trash, or going to the store, all he needed to do was ask. There was another side to Mr. McGlaughlin that I never knew. I caught a glimpse of it on the night the Everett police came knocking on our door.

When my brother Billy became a teenager, he used to steal my father's car at night when my father fell asleep. He and his friends would shift the car into neutral, and quietly push it down the street. When they got down to the end of Arlington street, they'd all jump into the car and pop the clutch. Then, they headed out onto the open road for a night on the town. My brother was only about fourteen years old at the time.

The Everett police woke us all up out of a sound sleep that night they came banging on the front door at about 2 o' clock in the morning. My brother totaled my father's car out on the Revere Beach Parkway. My father was distraught - to say the least. Mr. McGlaughlin came downstairs to see what all the commotion was about. He assured my father that he would take care of everything. And he did.

Reminiscing constantly reminds me of how important it is that we recognize the experiences of those from every generation. Mr. McGlaughlin's story about his experiences as a newsboy gave me an honest glimpse into what life was really like growing up in Everett over 100 years ago. Historic photographs are nice, but hearing the story from someone that actually lived the experience adds a whole new depth of understanding for those of us who did not.

In so many ways, Mr. McGlaughlin was like one of the family. Come to think of it, many of our neighbors were like an extension to the family. We were that close. We leaned on each other for support. We helped each other out. We shared whatever we had. We knew each other. We loved each other.

When somebody asks me, "What was so great about growing up in Everett?" I always tell them that it was the people that made Everett so special. Everett wasn't all that pretty by any stretch of the imagination. But in no other place on the face of this planet did I ever find people like the ones I grew up with in Everett. Did you?

Things Change

Growing up in Everett exposed us to every possible fad, style, and school of thought that permeated throughout every subsequent generation. Living through those changes gives us a clearer understanding of how we evolved into what we are today. Reminiscing about the good old days in Everett allows us to look back on those changes to observe what it was we were going through, why we were going through it, and where it would eventually take us.

My observation begins during my pre-school years, when all four of us kids (my brothers, sister, and I) were much too young to stay home unsupervised when my parents got to enjoy a rare night out without being saddled with four unruly kids. Let's say it's 1956. Betty Day was our baby sitter. She is somewhat of a distant cousin, but I really don't remember how all the pieces fall into place.

Betty lived in one of those apartments in Henry Gray's apartment building on Ferry Street. We could plainly see Betty's kitchen window from our back porch on Arlington Street. Even though I have not seen Betty since I was about 12 years old, I have her image imbedded in my mind's eye. The image I'm seeing now is the one I mentally photographed when I was about four years old.

Let me tell you what she looked like. She had blonde hair that was cropped in a cute curly flip type of style. I've never seen her without lipstick, earrings, or bobby socks. For as far back as I can remember, I've never seen her in slacks. I'm sure she wore them. What I do recall is how neatly she always dressed. And because she had such a pretty face, I'm sure she was a knockout in her day.

It was always a good time when Betty came to baby sit. She would bring over her record collection and we would all dance to the music. This is back in the days when you could stack five or six records on the spindle and they would automatically drop down onto the turntable after the previous record played. You did have to put the 45-rpm adapter over the spindle when you played singles. When it came time to play albums, you had to flip that little switch that stuck out from under the turntable from 45 to 33 and a third.

So what did we dance to? Well, Betty's collection was in no way as boring as my mother's records. That's for sure. My mother was a country & western buff. All she ever listened to was things like, "Put Your Sweet Lips A Little Closer to the Phone," and "There's a Muddy Road Ahead - Detour." Betty played things like "Ain't That a Shame," by Fats Domino, "Rock Around The Clock," by Bill Haley, and "Maybellene," by Chuck Berry. At least they had a beat you could dance to.

I distinctly remember a day when my best friend, Stanley, and I, were riding our tricycles along the sidewalk on Ferry Street when we saw a young gentleman who came to call on Betty. Although casually dressed, by today's standards, he looked as if he was going to a sales meeting. His hair was neatly combed with that typical wave in the front. His pants were neatly pressed. His shirt was tucked neatly behind his thin alligator belt and buttoned all the way to the top. And his leather shoes were freshly shined.

We watched Betty's gentleman caller courteously open the passenger door to escort his date into his shiny new Chrysler Imperial with the fancy red interior and wrap around windshield. The whole scenario looked like something right out of the Dobbie Gillis Show. These were the styles, the fashions, and the accepted social norms for 1955. But they were not the only styles, fashions, or schools of thought in this era. In every generation, for every style, fashion, or philosophy, there is always an equal and opposite force to be reckoned with.

Not only was this the age of the whiffle hair cut, but it was also the time of the beatnik generation. The beat generation was represented by poets like Allen Ginsberg, who was the first to publish a poem using the "F" word. And writers like Jack Kerouac, who wrote "On The Road." This book focused on the alternative bohemian lifestyle of the social dropouts who thumbed their noses at conventional mediocrity to head out across the country for nothing more than to just enjoy being alive. The beatniks were the exact opposite of the lifestyle Betty and her gentleman caller lived. To the beatniks, they were the "squares."

We had beatniks in Everett. How do I know that? I saw them once when I went shopping with my mother down to Grants in Glendale Square. My mother was very suspicious of these characters. They were so totally different than anything she was accustomed to, that's for sure.

Two of them were setting on the curb of the walkway in front of Ligget's Rexall Drug Store. The other one was standing off the sidwalk facing them. They looked so much like Maynard G. Crebbs that I just had to get a look at these characters. I stood and listened to them while my mother dropped some envelopes into the mailbox in front of the drug store. They were saying things like, "Oh man," and, "that's too cool," and "dig it my little man."

Time never does stand still. Things change. When Betty's generation grew up to become the young adults, it was my older brother's generation that took over the teenage scene. It's funny how we always laugh at the next generation's lifestyle as if it were something silly in comparison to our own.

I remember one afternoon when Betty was sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee with my mother while I was playing on the kitchen floor with my matchbox cars. She looked up and laughed when my big brother, Billy, came home from school. "Get a load of this one," she smirked. Everything about him was so totally different from her generation.

Instead of combing his hair back into a wave, he sported a greaser curl that dangled in front of his forehead. Instead of a collegian sweater with a red letter E, he wore a white tee shirt under a waist cut leather jacket with the collar always turned up. Instead of a class ring, he wore a large bolt filed down into the shape of a ring. And instead of a Timex watch, he wore a dog chain around his wrist.

Billy's friends were into street dragging. They raced from streetlight to streetlight along the Revere Beach parkway just to prove they had the hottest car on the block. Instead of treating their car's interior as if it were a living room, they tore out the back seat to get rid of the extra weight to gain more speed. Friday night was gang night and Saturday night was date night. When they went dancing the last thing they wanted was a live band. They wanted to party to a stack of 45's.

His music was Elvis, the Everly Brothers, Del Shannon, and the rockin hits played by the Wolfman Jack himself. My brother's generation was the one portrayed in the "American Graffiti" movie.

My brother did not leave home because he got married. He left home to join the army. A year after that, he would serve his tour of duty in Vietnam. When he did, it was my older sister's generation that took over the teenage scene. I saw in her generation a small mixture of Betty's times, with a bit of my brother's lifestyle thrown in for good measure.

They listened to "Venus," by Bobby Vinton, "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do," by Neal Sedaka, "Walk Like A Man," by the Four Seasons, and "It's My Party," by Leslie Gore. It was also a time when people were finally waking up to the gifted talents of the Motown Sound. People like the Supremes, James Brown, and Little Anthony and the Imperials, added a whole new dimension to Rock N Roll appreciation.

My sister's boyfriend wore a shark skin suit and always carried an umbrella. He combed his hair in a greaser style, but was in no way a greaser. The two alternative lifestyles were Fuscoes and Collegians. The Fuscoes were the street-wise toughs that dressed like sharp looking pimps, and the Collegians were the more passive academic crowd that dressed casually conservative. I understand they had a few clashes in that pool hall on School Street across from the Parlin Library. These were the signs of the times for the Everett High School graduates from around 1964 to 1967