It's All Downhill

Today we're going back to school. With all the Memorial Day celebrations behind us, it's all downhill from here. You can feel it in the air. At least I could anyway. Just trying to keep my eyes from wandering out the window during class posed a major challenge. Can you blame me - really?

In my mind's eye, right now, I'm sitting at the third desk in the first row in Miss Blake's sixth grade classroom at the Horace Mann elementary school. For the first time all year, the windows are wide open. It's seventy degrees out there. The sunlight is filtering through the leaves, casting a barrage of shadows that move along the blackboard in unison to the gentle summer breeze.

I recall hearing Miss Blake's voice drone on in the background. In the foreground, I'm listening to that little, twine, shade pull (that looks like a life preserver) knock against the window sill. Mother Nature is blowing it all around in circles for no other reason than to distract me from my schoolwork. Fantasy runs riot. I'm dreaming about playing "punch ball" after school.

Then, all of a sudden, my fantasy shatters into a million tiny fragments when Miss Blake's voice thunders, "Paul Huffman, stand up!"

Have you ever had that experience when you snap right back into reality after being a million miles away? It's like waking up from a dream into a nightmare reality. Because the command was so succinct and terse, I instinctively complied.

"You must be an expert on the subject seeing that you can afford to daydream out the window during the lesson. So why don't you explain to the rest of the class why Sir Frances Drake was such a threat to the Spanish Explorers in Central America?" Miss Blake demanded.

"Wwwwwwwwhat?"

"Who was Sir Francis Drake?" She asked rather sternly.

Okay, trying to wiggle my way out of a situation like this takes a little Everett street logic. The guy's name starts with Sir. So, you know he's got to be some kind of British royalty. And since it's got something to do with explorers in Central America, then we must be talking about people floating around in boats - right? So far - so good.

I take the initiative and reply, "Sir Frances Drake sailed for Britain. He was knighted by the queen for his service to his country."

"What queen?"

"The queen of England?"

"What was her name?"

"Elizabeth," which happens to be the only name of a queen I ever knew.

"So, why was he such a threat to the Spanish explorers?"

"Because he sailed for England, he was a threat to the Spanish ships."

"Well you talked your way out of it this time. Sit down and don't let me catch out you staring out the window again."

"Yes, Miss Blake."

Wow, I got it right and I still had no idea what I was talking about. I winged it. See? Growing up streetwise in Everett is no liability - believe you me. In a victorious celebration, I spun around in my seat and gave Nicky the "field mouse."

Okay, I better explain the "field mouse." Nicky made it up. We'd look at each other, squint up our noses, and mimic a field mouse gnawing with our upper teeth sticking out.

He even made up a whole slang language to go along with it. It really caught on. We talked like this. "Hellozis, how are youzis todayzis?" And he had us all going around saying, "Burrrr, I feel a breeze!"

Nicky was a funny kid. He served many years on the Everett City Council after he grew up. We had a lot of fun in our sixth grade class together. I'm sure it drove Miss Blake out of her mind.

I'll never forget that day I teased Nicky so badly that he snapped while Miss Blake was out of the classroom. He got so angry that he threw his orange at me. I ducked and it splattered all over the blackboard just as Miss Blake was walking back into the classroom. Man, we caught hell that day - I'll tell ya.

So, like I said, after the Memorial Day vacation, we're coasting downhill towards the end of the school year. The teachers tried to maintain control, but we had ants in our pants. All we could think about is summer. Maybe that's why this was always the time of year that they took us out on a field trip.

We all had to get a note from our Moms saying that we could go on this field trip. I've never heard of anybody whose Mom didn't let them go on a field trip. Even still, if you forgot your note - you can forget about the field trip. It's funny how I've forgotten my homework hundreds of times, but I never once forgot my note to go on a field trip. I guess I was just lucky - right?

Field trips were supposed to be both educational and fun. All we really cared about was the fun part. Besides, what is there to learn? We're kids for heaven's sake. We know it all already. Don't we?

The first elementary school field trip that really sticks out in my mind was my third grade trip to Cherry Hill Farm in Miss Martinelli's class. We're going to a farm and our mothers dressed us all up as if we were going to a luncheon for dignitaries. I'm sure the fact that we were city slickers stuck out like a sore thumb to all the farm hands.

Before we lined up to board the bus, Miss Martinelli asked if any one would like her to hold onto their money for them so they wouldn't lose it. Most of the kids chose that option. I didn't because I didn't want to look uncool to my friends.

Eddy and Nicky already said they were going to hold onto their own money. "This way," Eddy reasoned, "If you decide to buy something extra you won't have to answer to the teacher to get your money." That makes sense. "Besides," he added, "I'm sick of being treated like a little kid." He's right. After all, we're rapidly approaching double digits. I'll be ten years old next February. It's time I learned to stand on my own two feet.

If there's a way to put a damper on a good time, trust me, a teacher will find it. Miss Martinelli lined us all up in the traditional "boy-girl-boy-girl" order. That way, we wouldn't get to sit next to our friends and have fun on the bus. God forbid we should have any fun on a field trip.

The bus ride down to Cherry Hill Farm turned out all right after all. We sang songs like "Row, row, row, you're boat," "This Old Man, and "Old Macdonald had a Farm," along the way. Because I was lucky enough to get a window seat, I got to gaze out over the beautiful country landscape during the trip.

Cherry Hill Farm is an old farmstead down on Route 138 in Canton that dates back to colonial times. The first thing we saw when the bus pulled onto the property was a beautiful brick mansion. You can just image how wide with envy my eyes popped open coming from a six-family apartment house on Arlington Street.

A kind looking older gentleman greeted us when we all got off the bus. He took us on a full tour of the farm. Please bear in mind that this field trip happened some 45 years ago. Even still, there are two distinct incidences that really stick out in my mind.

The first, was when we went to look at the cows. Man, I never realized how big a cow was up close. And smell - peee yew!

That older gentleman reached underneath and grabbed a hold of those thingies dangling from that repulsive bag underneath and said, "These are the cow's utters. We squeeze these to get the milk out of the cow."

He then looked right at me and asked, "You want to see what they feel like?"

"No, thank you," I answered stepping to the back of the crowd. There's no way on earth that I'm going to touch one of those things. The moment I smelled that cow I decided farming was not my cup of tea. Somebody did reach under and grab a hold of one. I don't remember now who it was. It wasn't me; I can guarantee you that.

After that, he started telling us something about the cow's nose. If memory serves me well, the whole conversation came about because the cow snorted while we were all standing there gawking at him.

This guy took a hold of Philip's hand and said, "The cow likes it when you rub her nose." You should have seen the look on Phil's face when he touched that cold, wet, leathery looking thing. He said his hand got all wet and sticky. The farmer told him to just wipe it off onto his trousers. I know one thing for sure. My mother would tan my hide if she ever found out I wiped cow snot all over my good Sunday clothes - I'll tell ya.

The other incident about our trip to Cherry Hill Farm that I remember is our gathering at the top of a beautiful rolling hill under a grove of trees. That's when the two third grade teachers (I think the other third grade teacher was Miss McKinnon) had the kids all line up to get their money back so they could buy lunch.

Those of us who held onto our own money didn't have to stand in line. That gave us a little free time to play on those rolling hills in the open fields. All the boys were rolling and laughing down this one steep grassy hill. Some of the kids started finding money at the bottom of the hill.

Tommy found a nickel. Eddy found a whole dime. And Joey found a quarter and a dime. Man, you talk about luck. I didn't find anything.

The teachers then called us all together to file orderly into the shop to buy our lunch. The moment I reached into my pocket I realized why everyone else found money on the hill. All of my money had fallen out of my pocket. I was broke.

I didn't dare say a word to the teacher because I knew I'd get a great big, "I told you so," if I did. There was no sense in even thinking about trying to get my money back from all the kids who found it. They'd think I was just saying that out of jealousy anyway. The only logical thing I could do was take it like a man.

So, while everybody else sat under that spreading oak tree at the top of the hill, eating sandwiches, potato chips, ice cream, and enjoying farm fresh milk, I just sat there pretending not to be hungry. When Miss Martinelli asked, "Don't you want any lunch, Paul?" I just answered, "No, thank you. I'm not hungry." I was starved.

When I got back home that night I ate like a horse. I didn't dare tell my mother that I lost all my money. She just thought I was hungry from playing out in the clean country air all day. Beans and broccoli never tasted so good before in my life.

The other elementary school field trip that I remember so well was our visit to the Science Museum in Charlestown. That was in Miss Blake's sixth grade class. We had a ball on that field trip.

The bus ride only lasted about six or seven minutes. It's only at the other end of Broadway anyway. Those of you who still live there know the route by heart. Those of you who haven't been there in decades, let me describe it for you to refresh your memory.

We boarded the bus right there at the front of the Horace Mann school where Prospect Street rounds the corner onto Lexington. The bus traveled downhill on Lexington, and banged a left onto Broadway. That meant we passed by Brooks, the Parlin, the High School, Vargis' Diner, and McKinnons before stopping at the intersection of Everett Square. On our right was Kreskie's, and to our left was the Piece O' Pizza. I can picture that guy with the baker's hat on in the window throwing that pizza dough up into the air - can't you?

When the lights changed, we passed by the Parlin Library on our right and on the left we passed by the Waldorf, the Sports Shop, Noyes Stationary, the Post Office, and the police station before entering the infamous Parkway Complex. Once we got up and over the Parkway, we passed by Mike's Donuts on our left and Everett Station on our right. After that we crossed over the bridge in front of the Edison Power Plant.

You're almost there already. After the power plant, you don't bear left to go under the tunnel to get to the Science Museum; you go up and around past Hood's Milk and then bang a right past the prison to go over Prison Point Bridge. Then you just keep going straight under the MBTA Bridge. You bang a left after that. If you keep going straight you'd wind up at MIT. That's all there is to it. The Science Museum is right there.

There is so much to see and do at the Science Museum that it staggers the imagination. That giant replica of a dinosaur's skeleton overwhelms you the first time you see it. The Hayden Planetarium is a poet's dream. You talk about letting fantasy run wild under the stars - wow! And I could sit and watch that ball roller coaster that goes on and on endlessly for hours. That thing hypnotizes you.

We had a blast talking to each other on those telephones that change your voice as you speak. I also liked those glassed in wildlife displays where you push the button and the spotlight comes on to highlight the different animals in the display. If you put the headphones on they'll tell you all about each animal.

Don't let me forget to mention the human heart display. You can hear that heart beating louder and louder as walk down the corridor towards it. It sounds like you're walking into a dramatic scene in a horror movie. The tour guide told us that the official medical explanation for the sound our heart makes is "lub-dub, lub-dub." I knew Miss Blake would stick that question in our science quiz a few days later - and I was right.

At the end of our tour, we wound up at the gift shop. Yes, of course, they planned it that way. I didn't have enough money for much, but I did get a set of six dice that had different pieces to a puzzle on each side. When assembled, one of the finished scenes was that of a man, eating supper, at a table in front of a window. That's the only scene I remember out of the six possible puzzles you could assemble.

As you can probably tell, I loved our field trip to the Science Museum. We stayed there the entire school day, but it still wasn't enough time to fully enjoy all of the displays. I liked it so much that I visited the Science Museum several times on my own while growing up in Everett. Heck, I even brought my own kids there many times after I grew up and got married. I'm a sucker for technology. I always was.

And there it is. My interpretation of what it was like coasting downhill for the last month of the school year. That was my favorite part of every school year.

Oh, but wait. There's something I haven't told you. For me, there was always a tinge of melancholy associated with the closing of every school year. In my heart, I always somehow bonded with all the kids I just shared a whole school year of my life with. Knowing that we may never cross each other's paths again saddened me somewhat.

I would never tell anyone that when I was a little kid. The last thing I'd ever do is let my guard down and let everyone know that I was an old softy at heart - but I was. I'm older and wiser now. Well, I'm older anyway :)

You simply cannot be an artist or a creative writer unless you first learn to embrace the world around you with heartfelt compassion. We can moan and complain about many things associated with growing up in Everett - that's true. But there really was a lot to love just as well. After all - there was you!

Memorial Day

Memorial Day always symbolized the onset of summer. After the heavy rains subsided, the city of Everett filled with tell tale signs of natural reincarnation. Those half-dead city planted maple trees out in front of our houses now stood decorated with those little yellow bells. Even the tree trunks transformed from a lifeless gray to a more enriched shade of light brown. Dandelions popped up everywhere scattered among those yellowish green baby blades of grass that stretched for fresh air after a long winter's nap.

Was it my imagination, or did the Everett girls really come to life in May? By Memorial Day, all the girls beamed with a new air of beauty that seemed lacking in winter. Their smiles radiated in the brighter warm sun. Even their skin seemed softer and more colorful against the aromatic background of the Spring-May flowers.

Maybe that's why so many songwriters and poets express how a young man's fancy turns toward the more romantic side with the onset of Spring. It sure had that effect on me, I'll tell ya. If we had anything to be thankful for about growing up in Everett, it was the fact that our fair city was filled with pretty girls.

In many ways, our Memorial Day celebration in Everett signified the rebirth of our good-fellowship amongst neighbors. We all gathered on the sidewalks together to watch the parade. Although it was significantly smaller than on the Fourth of July, it was always a good time. For one thing, it was the first citywide gathering of all the people from Everett for the year.

We always ran down to Elm Street to watch the parade. Standing in front of the old Evens school (where the Everett Police complex now stands), we got to see the parade front on as it rounded the corner from Ferry onto Elm Street. Reliving the memory through the eyes of a child brings back a flood of fond memories.

Before the parade even approached the area, the police came by (sometimes on horseback) to clear the way for the approaching festivity. We all waived excitedly when Vinnie the cop came riding by on his motorcycle - did we not? And as a fellow Everett colleague recently reminded me in an email - we all want to know - who stole Vinnie's motorcycle that night up at Vargis?

Street venders holding onto patriotic balloons, waiving flags, and wheeling a cart full of memorabilia, hawked their wares to the enthusiastic gathering crowd. Even though the cops told us not to dozens of times, the boys all sat together along the curbstone with their feet sticking out into the middle of the street.

As soon as we detected the faint sound of the drum and bugle corps in the distance, we all stood up and looked off into the direction of the approaching festivities. Yeah, I know, we all had that cool relaxed look about us, but in reality the excitement was building up to a fever pitch. You could tell by how many people stretched up onto their tiptoes, cupped their hand across their forehead to shield their eyes from the sunlight hoping to catch a glimpse of the coming parade.

After what seemed like a long, drawn out delay, came the start of something big. Oh, the memories. It's hard to remember what came first. There were banners, cars rolling by filled with smiling people, and somebody said that happy guy in the business suit who was waiving to everybody is our mayor. I'll never forget that pounding bass drum that boomed right down into the center of my heart when the Statesmen Drum and Bugle Corps passed by.

You can only imagine my excitement on the year that my brother, Carl, marched with the Statesman in the Memorial Day parade banging on that bass drum. You'd think I had just seen President Kennedy himself by the way I acted. Jumping up and down, frantically waiving my hands over my head, I shouted out, "Hey everybody, that's my brother!"

I saw his eyes dart over at me. That smile of pride broke across his lips that he so vainly tried to suppress. Damn, he looked some smart all decked out in that uniform. All that drilling practice down at the armory night after night really paid off. We were all so proud of him. This was a major accomplishment for someone who had struggled daily with the debilitating threat of Epileptic seizures hanging over his head. He worked hard for this moment. He deserved to be proud.

There were a lot of great drum and bugle corps and marching bands in our area. Each one had its own unique style. The CYO band always put on a good show, as did the Cavaliers. We always cheered when the Everett High School band passed by.

My mother tried to get me to join one once. She made me go down to the Armory and sign up for Statesman. Her logic was that if it was good enough for my brother - it was good enough for me. When I went down there, they wouldn't let me sign up to play drums. They said they had enough drummers already. Some guy named Bob, handed me a bugle (or reasonable fact simile) and said, "I need more people in brass."

After two practice sessions of marching back and forth all over the Armory for hours on end, I pleaded with my mother not to force me into this thing. I was clearly not drum and bugle corps material. She refused to listen. My last resort was to get down on bended knee and plead with my Dad. It worked.

He had no idea my mother had forced me into this thing. "Take that horn back to that guy tomorrow and tell him you're not interested," he said. My mother argued that I should have some structured extracurricular activity to keep me out of trouble. My father's response was, "Paul's got a paper route. That's good enough." Thank God for Dads - right?

Don't get me wrong. I do admire the people who dedicate themselves to all the hard work that goes into performing the fascinating entertainment they provide for the rest of us. Not only that, but I do enjoy watching their military style maneuvers and listening to them play. It's just not for me. When it comes to drum and bugle entertainment, I make a better spectator than I do a participant.

Following the drum and bugle corps were the Veterans of Foreign Wars proudly marching with their chins held high. Their banner stretched out far and wide before them, boldly displaying and respectfully honoring those colors they risked life and limb to so faithfully serve.

After that, there was always a couple of convertibles with dressed up old people waiving at the crowd. When you're a little kid, you have no idea what that's all about. I can remember my friend Joey saying, "What happen to these people? Did they take a wrong turn and get trapped in the parade?"

"Hey, that's my grandmother," some kid yelled out behind us.

"Well, you better go throw her some peanuts before they put her back into the cage," Joey shouted back.

"Oh yeah!"

Next thing you know we're pulling the two of them apart.

"Cut it out, you two. The National Guard is coming."

That did it. Who's got time for hostilities when the best part of the whole parade is finally converging upon us? This is exactly what we've all been waiting for the whole time. Look out people. Here they come.

The Yankee Division National Guard Unit was the closest we ever got to an armed military battalion when we were little kids. Hearing the sound of those hard combat boots stomp the ground in unison as they drew near, excited a bonfire of anticipation in the hearts and minds of every little boy sitting along the curbstone.

Don't you remember the television commercial for the National Guard back then? It said, "You can sleep soundly tonight. Your National Guard is awake." As comical as it may sound, when I was a little kid, that commercial gave me a sense of security. That's understandable when you take into consideration that I felt better every time I heard Jack Chase say, "So long and make it a good day."

When the National Guard passed by, we all fell in right behind them and followed the procession all the way up Elm Street, rounding the corner onto Washington Ave. We even waived to all the on lookers along the way as if we were a part of the parade.

They paused for but a moment as they approached the front gates of Glenwood Cemetery and marched in place. We all mimicked our National Guard heroes. The commander then gave the command, "Forward march!" In an impressive respectful military manner, they circled the Veteran's Memorial and saluted the flag. We all recited the Pledge of Allegiance with our hands upon our hearts.

For the next hour or so, speakers took to the podium to express their heart-felt sentiments and gratitude for those who laid down their lives to uphold the honor of the Red, White, and Blue. As kids, we didn't fully realize the emotional impact of what these speakers were paying homage to.

Rather than stand still and learn something, we took this opportunity to wander about the cemetery for nothing more than to quench our curiosities. After all, that wide-open field of white military gravestones decorated in heroic colors was truly a remarkable sight. You could hear the excited sentiments expressed amongst the kids reading the epitaphs.

"Hey, this guy won a medal for bravery in Normandy."

"This guy over here won a medal of Distinction in Guam."

"Oh yeah, get a load of this one. Here's a guy from Everett who won the Congressional Medal of Honor."

We all bowed our heads in reverence while the bugalist played Taps to honor our fallen heroes. You could hear the gunfire from the twenty-one gun solute echo all over the cemetery. After that, we scattered to scoop up the discarded shell casings. When it comes to collecting Memorial Day memorabilia, nothing compares to getting your hands on a discharged shell casing from the official twenty-one gun salute.

At the close of the observant ceremonies, we all fell in behind the National Guard to march back to the Armory on Chelsea Street. Once inside, a free-for-all feast ensued. It gave us a chance to mingle with the soldiers on a personal level. They gave us soda, sandwiches, potato chips, hot dogs, hamburgers, and ice cream. We had a blast.

As the years passed, I saw my brother, and many friends from Everett join the ranks of the proud and the brave, to honor each and every one of us by risking life and limb to protect and defend our way of life. Some came home, and some did not.

While I was out partying with friends and wooing the girls with my guitar, there were those who were tramping through the rice fields with hot lead whizzing over their heads in Vietnam. They didn't ask for it. They didn't even question it. Duty called and they answered.

While I sat in Everett Stadium waiting to hear my name called to receive my High School diploma, Joe Hickey was crouched down in a bog somewhere putting his life on the line so that I could enjoy the good times. You want to talk about courage? This guy did three tours of duty in Vietnam. I'd say he's a monument to courage - wouldn't you?

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I feel privileged to have been born and raised in Everett. From the bottom of my heart do I thank every veteran who stepped up to the plate, put their fears behind them, and faced the unthinkable, to protect and preserve my way of life. It is a heartfelt honor, and an emotional comfort, to know that my father, and my brother, rest among the respected Veterans from Everett at the Glenwood Cemetery.

On this Memorial Day, I will take that pause from the habit and routine, look up at Old Glory against the deep blue sky, place my hand over my heart, and pay homage to each and every Veteran that has honored us with their bravery. They are common people who performed heroically when fate threw down its gauntlet and dared them to stand their ground in their moment of truth.

To every Veteran out there, with every fiber of sincerity in my soul do I deeply respect, honor, and thank you - not only on Memorial Day - but every single moment of my life. Because of you we can proudly shout - "We're From Everett!"

God Bless Our Veterans!

and - God Bless America!

Changing Perspectives

One image I so commonly conjure up in my mind when I think about growing up in Everett, is the image of people walking along the sidewalk. Back in the 1950's and 60's, it was rather uncommon to walk down any street at any given time without passing by at least one person. And there were always kids out playing on the sidewalks on most of the side streets.

I can so vividly remember how the shoppers and traffic intertwined like a tapestry at the intersections of Broadway, Chelsea, and Norwood Streets in Everett Square. Once those lights turned red, a crowd of people stepped off the curbs in all directions at a hectic pace. To a somewhat lesser degree, the same thing happened down in Glendale Square at the intersection of Broadway and Ferry.

Observing people is a necessary requirement to cultivate your skills as an artist or writer. People's facial expressions expose their true sense of self awareness when they pass by others on the sidewalk - as does the way they react to others passing by.

If they know the other person, you can tell a lot about their relationship by the way they greet and converse with one another. Whether they're cordial acquaintances or very close friends becomes apparent when they meet.

I find it more interesting when total strangers pass each other on the sidewalk. Sometimes, they pass by with a frigid air about them as if they don't even see the other person. At other times, they'll attempt to steal an undetected quick glance. And then of course, there are those who smile with an acknowledging nod to everyone they see.

If it were not for those who march to the beat of a different drummer, it would all add up to nothing more than a faceless crowd walking back and forth all over the streets of Everett. Thankfully, there walked amongst us some very unique characters that you simply could not ignore no matter how hard you tried.

I refuse to say these people were strange because I have yet to clearly define the term normal - especially coming from an artist's frame of reference. What they were was different. Different as compared to the majority, I suppose.

One person that comes to mind is a tall, very thin gentleman I used to see walking down the street nearly every single day when I was a little kid. This man's facial features reminded me of Orson Bean. His hair was always neatly combed. He always carried an umbrella, and he was always dressed in a business suit.

Another thing I noticed about this man is that he always had a smile on his face. What did seem odd about him is that he didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular even though he walked at a hectic pace. I used to see this guy everywhere.

As he was walking by one day, I turned to one of my friends and asked, "Do you know who that guy is?"

"No," he answered. "But my sister says he's crazy."

Even at my young age, I knew this guy wasn't crazy. He was just different.

My curiosity finally got the best of me one summer morning as he walked by the Horace Mann school playground on Foster Street. As he strolled along smiling to himself in his own little world, I spoke to him. I simply said, "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

He looked at me with a warm smile, and with a soft-spoken voice he answered, "Every morning is a beautiful morning." From that moment on, we often greeted each other with a warm "hello" whenever our paths crossed. I never found out who that guy was, but I will never forget him.

I always thought that because my brother suffered with Grand Mal Epilepsy, that I was more receptive to people who were different. That wasn't always true. There are two other special Everett people with whom I have had close encounters. I honestly believe my encounters with these special people added immeasurable depth and warmth to my character.

First, let me tell you about Russell. Russell was a year or two older than I. What was so different about Russell was that he was deaf. He could neither hear, nor speak coherently.

My first impression of Russell was the image of him chasing kids all over the playground to beat them up. All the kids were scared to death of Russell. His younger brother, Teddy, could control him because he knew how to communicate with him.

As soon as all the kids in the playground saw Russell coming, they scattered. And of course, Russell would chase them down. He'd grab hold of your arm and make you come back to the playground and play with him. You felt like you were being held hostage.

What was so uncomfortable about the experience is that you couldn't communicate with him. He couldn't hear what you were saying, and you couldn't understand what he was trying to say. All you could do was entertain him until you could make a break for it and run away. You had to plan it carefully though because this kid could outrun a housefly.

That was my impression of Russell. All that changed after supper one summer afternoon when I was sitting out on my front steps and Russell came by unexpectedly. I didn't have time to run. He stood at my front gate trying to talk to me. All I could hear was babbling. Nothing made any sense.

It just so happens that Martha came over from across the street to call on my sister. She said, "Paul, are listening to him?"

"Yeah, I'm listening," I answered.

"So, what did he say?" She asked.

"What do you mean what did he say?"

"What did it sound like he said to you?"

"It sounded like wah - wah - wah - wah," I said

Russell shook his head and laughed.

"Does he know what I said?" I asked Martha.

That's when Martha explained it all to me. Russell can read my lips. "You can communicate with him if you take the time to learn how. He wants to be your friend. There's nothing to be afraid of. The only thing that's stopping you from being friends is that you won't listen carefully to him."

This time I looked right into Russell's eyes. He said, "Wah - wah - wah - wah," again.

I shook my head in bewilderment and confessed, "I don't know what you're trying to say."

Russell walked right up to me and put his hands on my shoulder. He looked into my eyes and slowly repeated his words. My jaw dropped open. I understood what he said. He said, "I want to be friends."

He then took hold of my hand and placed it against his neck. Then, he placed his hand against mine. That's when Martha explained that we could have a full conversation this way. Russell would understand every single word I said now through the vibrations in my vocal chords.

Listening carefully, I now realized that what sounded like "wah - wah - wah - wah" was actually Russell's way of talking. By the way he shaped each "wah" was how he was forming separate intelligible words. It was much like learning a new language.

I asked him, "What is your favorite color?"

He said, "Red."

I asked, "What is your favorite sport?"

He said, "Baseball."

I asked, "What is your favorite TV show?"

He said, "Zorro."

My world changed.

I understood it all now. The whole reason Russell chased after all the other kids was because he was trying to show them that he could communicate. All he wanted was to make friends. We'll, he made one now.

We spent a lot of time together that summer. One night, after the streetlights came on, we tried to get all the quarters out of the storm drain in front of the Everett pool with a long line of coat hangers tangled together. With a ball of duct tape stuck to the end of it, we did manage to grab about a dollar and a half. After about an hour or so, the ball of duct tape got so dirty that nothing else would stick to it.

What is so amazing is that it was Russell's idea to put the coat hangers and duct tape together to go after those quarters. Now that we could communicate, I came to realize how intelligent this kid actually was. He was no longer a mystery to me.

Towards the end of that summer, we somehow drifted apart. We didn't get mad at each other or anything like that. He just stopped coming around. I really don't remember seeing much of him any more after that summer. Things like that just happen when you're a kid - friends just seem to come and go sometimes. It was a once in a lifetime friendship that I shall cherish for the rest of my days.

Another life changing encounter involved that special person we all knew and loved as "Crazy Rosie." Is it possible that anyone could have grown up in Everett without having at least once crossed paths with Crazy Rosie?

Ever since I could walk the streets of Everett, Rosie was there. She came waddling down the street in the middle of the hot August heat dressed in a heavy fur coat. She wore an overly decorated Sunday-go-to-meeting hat, huge hoop earrings, and her lipstick was smeared all over her mouth.

With a beaded handbag that was almost as big as a pillowcase, she passed by with an expression on her face that had "Leave me alone" written all over it. Her handbag was always filled to the brim with the weirdest odds and ends sticking out of it. And if you looked at her, she'd yelled out "What the "F#$%" is you're problem?"

Rosie loved her daily walks. She was no spring chicken, but she was out and about almost every single day walking all over the city. Sometimes you'd find her catching her breath sitting on somebody's front steps somewhere puffing away on a ten-cent cigar.

I cannot count how many times Rosie came walking down the street singing, "I'd like to get back to my little grass shack in Hawaii" at the top of her lungs. Every once in a while, you'd see her dressed in nothing more than her underwear, swinging from the crossbars of the clothesline in her backyard.

One of my funniest memories of Rosie was the day we were all standing out on Broadway during recess back in our High School days. All of a sudden, Rosie came walking up Broadway, straddling the meridian strip, in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic. She was dragging one of those shopping carts on wheels behind her.

Her shopping cart was filled with the strangest objects you'd expect to see someone lugging all over town. She had a lampshade, a roll of paper towels, a telephone receiver, one old shoe, canned foods, and even a yardstick sticking out of that shopping cart.

As she approached each motorist, she held out a bitten graham cracker and shouted, "You want a bite of my cracker?" When each motorist answered," No, thank you." She yelled back, "What's the matter - my cracker's not good enough for you? Well, F@#% you then."

Standing amongst us that day was Beaver. Now there's a character for ya. Nearly everyone who grew up in Everett knows Beaver, I'm sure. This is one person who needs no introduction. Beaver shouted out, "Hey Rosie, get out of the traffic before you get run over."

"Mind your own F@#%ing business," she shouted back.

"Hey, who do you think you're talking to? You crazy F@#%," he shouted back at her.

The two of them stood there pointing and shouting obscenities back and forth across the street from each other. You'd think Rosie was going to snap and do something crazy - right? Instead, after exchanging obscenities with Beaver, she let out with a hardy laugh and said, "You're all right, kid, you know that? You're as crazy as I am."

What does that tell you right there? Rosie knows she's crazy. How does that old saying go? If you're crazy, and you know you're crazy, then you're not really crazy at all. I wonder sometimes.

By the time I reached High School, we had moved from that apartment building at the bottom of Arlington Street to a house up on Foster Street. On this comfortably warm summer day, I was sitting out on my front steps playing my guitar. Along came Rosie.

Without so much as a glance, she sat down on my bottom step and lit up a cigar. I just kept on playing my guitar. After about three minutes or so, she turned and started watching me attentively. I stopped playing, looked up at her and smiled.

"Don't stop playing on my account," she said. "I'm enjoying myself." So naturally, I went right on playing. This little recital went on for about another twenty minutes. Running out of material to entertain her with, I placed my guitar back into its case and said, "I need a coffee break."

Rosie stood up and dusted herself off. "You know what?" she asked.

"What?"

"Your music is very pretty. I had a really good time. Thank you."

"So did I," I said with a smile.

"I'm glad I met you," she said with a warm smile that I never thought Rosie was capable of.

"And I'm glad I met you," I answered.

"Oh Christ," she laughed, "Everybody knows me."

Rosie then turned and walked away. When she was about ten houses away, she turned to look back. I waved. She waved back. She was too far away for me to know whether or not she was still smiling.

The very next time I saw Rosie, she did not recognize me whatsoever. I said, "hello," but she ignored me.

I guess what it boils down to is that nobody is crazy all of the time. Just as nobody's normal all of the time either. We are all different. That's what makes us individuals. You can only imagine how boring life would truly be if we were all the same.

Similarities between us help us bond together. The differences between us make life interesting. Respecting those differences builds truer friendships. And that's the kind of people we are because - "We're From Everett."

Character

On summer mornings, all the kids from the surrounding neighborhoods trickled into the Horace Mann school playground. Sometimes we'd get there before the school ground teacher showed up. We all sat along the top step of that cement stairway that led out onto Foster Street and talked.

Across the street from that stairway lived one of the nicest Everett families you'd ever want to meet. They had three girls and one boy. Tommy was the oldest, and the only boy in that family. He was probably about two years older than I. His sister, Nancy, was my age, and the twin girls were the youngest of the lot.

What was so special about Tommy was that throughout his childhood, he suffered with polio. Perhaps "suffered" is a poor choice of words because it never slowed him down or hindered him in any way.

Even though he wore a full leg brace and walked with crutches, Tommy could play baseball with the best of them. We'd stand on the baseline holding his crutches for him so after he hit the ball; he could leap onto his crutches and book it to first base. Believe me, we made no allowances for his disability. We didn't need to. This kid could get to first base faster than you could throw the ball there - crutches and all.

They had a cute little summer screen house in their backyard. On this particular morning, Nancy invited us all over to her screen house because she and her sisters were putting on a dance recital. The cost to attend the recital was ten cents.

My friends Bobby, Tommy, and Donny said they weren't interested. I was. What caught my interest was the way Nancy described her proposed recital. Sometimes, something captures your interest because the description intrigues you. Listening to Nancy describe her recital sparked an awareness in me that made me realize how important it is to choose your words wisely.

Her explanation made me want to see how well the description would compare to the actual presentation. To me, that lesson was well worth the ten cents. Ever since I learned how to hold a pencil, I loved to draw and write. Whenever I saw a work of art, or read a piece of writing, or heard someone speak that seemed superior to anything I ever did, I lunged at the opportunity to learn from it. What better way could I hone my craft - right?

Not wanting to miss out on this opportunity, I emphatically stated, "That sounds like fun. I want to go."

"Are you serious?" Bobby asked. "Why should we spend ten cents to watch Nancy dance?"

"Why not?" I answered. "What else are we doing today? At least it's something different."

"Yeah, okay, I'll go, too," Tommy said.

"What about you?" Bobby asked Donny.

"Yeah, what the heck, let's go, " Donny answered.

"Okay, I'll go too," Bobby gave in.

It soon became unanimous. All of the kids gathered at the school ground stairway that morning agreed to go to Nancy's show. "Okay, " Nancy said, "I've got to go get everything all set up. I'll let you know when we're ready."

From that moment on, I felt like we had something special to look forward to that day. While we all sat on those steps playing a round of knuckles, Nancy and her siblings transformed that little screen house into a mini theater. I kept getting whacked across the knuckles because I wasn't really paying attention to our card game. Instead, I kept one eye on watching those kids prepare that screen house for their recital.

So why was I so interested in watching those kids that morning? Well, I have always had a lot of respect for Tommy. It wasn't just because he refused to let his disability hinder him, but because he had a maturity that seemed so far beyond his years. This kid had more class in his baby finger than most people had in their whole body.

Not once did I ever hear this kid talk down to, or ridicule, or criticize anybody. If he disagreed with you, he listened attentively to your point of view before offering his. He had such a way with words that I believe this kid could talk me into, or out of, absolutely anything. And if you didn't understand something, he took the time to explain it to you in such a way as to help you understand it.

I'll never forget the day I played a game of baseball cards with this kid. He scored a "leany" on just about every throw. Man, my stack of baseball cards was dwindling away to nothing. He could have wiped me out effortlessly. Instead, he took the time to explain to me what I was doing wrong. Then, he gave me the opportunity to win all my cards back. Now you tell me. Is that a quality character or what?

Another interesting story about Tommy is that he once gave me a small mimeograph machine. He just wasn't interested in it any more. It had all the necessary supplies with it to start printing. After weeks of planning and drawing, I published my very first comic book with it.

I called my comic book, "Tuff Town." Most of the stories in my comic book involved someone getting punched in the face for the silliest reasons. Please keep in mind that I was only about seven years old at that time. Because the comic book had about 24 pages, I was able to print out about two dozen copies. I didn't sell them; I just passed them out around the neighborhood and told everyone to pass them along when they finished reading them.

To my surprise, I got rave reviews on those comic books. Some of those comic books got circulated far and wide. One that I know of made it all the way down to Cape Cod. You can only imagine my astonishment when I ran into an old childhood friend some twenty years later who said that he still had a copy of that comic book. He said that once he started seeing my editorial cartoons published in the newspapers, he was determined to latch onto that thing. "I figured once you became rich and famous, I'd be sitting on a gold mine," he laughed.

From listening to Nancy describe her recital, I realized that she possessed the same qualities as her brother. Knowing and respecting her brother as I do, it became obvious that I could learn something valuable from this person. And that's why I was so preoccupied with watching these kids prepare for their recital. I was really looking forward to whatever it was that I was going to learn.

The moment finally arrived. Nancy waived us over into her back yard. I made darn sure I was at the front of the crowd. More than anything, I wanted to grab a good seat. If nothing else, I wanted my dime's worth.

My memories of that experience are a bit scattered. I mean really, we're talking roughly forty some odd years ago when I was in elementary school. It's funny how I can still remember that but can't remember where I left my glasses ten minutes ago.

Tommy sat just outside the entrance to the screen house behind a large overturned box that he used as a makeshift ticket booth. He collected the money. Inside, they had set up rows of folding chairs in a neat little theater type setting. Within minutes, the show began.

In all honesty, the only thing I vividly remember about the entire recital, was Nancy's performance. What she did, basically, was tap dance to a phonograph record. Oh, but it was much more than just that. For me, it was an experience I will never forget.

Everything about her presentation was flawless. Dressed in one of those sequenced dancing tuxedoes (I believe it was blue), complete with shimmering silver dancing shoes, and a black baton, she took to the stage ever so gracefully. She performed her number with such skillful professionalism that the lesson I was to learn that day became as obvious as the nose on my face.

What she had done was discovered her passion. Like anything you choose to pursue in life, if you love it enough, it will surrender all of its secrets. That girl showed me what happens when you give something your all. I was impressed.

Nancy had enticed me into wanting to see her performance without bragging about the mastery of her skills. What she had done was let her performance speak for itself. It certainly did that.

Nancy and Tommy are just two examples of people with exceptional qualities that were born and bred in Everett. Believe me - the list goes on and on. In my lifetime, I've known many gifted people from Everett.

My good friend Marty (his father taught at the Parlin) is a legendary guitarist. I fondly remember sitting out on the front porch listening to him play all the songs (note for note) on any Beatle's album you requested. He even paused between each song the same amount of time as there was between each cut on the album. His wife, Barbara, has one of the most beautiful singing voices I've ever heard. She once recorded and performed as a member of the Ultimate Spinach rock band back in the early 1960's.

My lifelong friend, Jon (who recently sent me a post card of the Horace Mann school) is perhaps the greatest pen & ink artist I've ever known. I had a friend named, Billy, who was an electronic genius. He once built a sound snooper that enabled you to hear people talking from hundreds of yards away.

And my wife Carol creates with a sewing machine with the same skillful artistry that Beethoven composes on a piano with. She created a witch's costume for our daughter on Halloween that took the neighbors by storm. Every time that girl puts needle to thread, a masterpiece emerges.

So far, I've only talked about a very small example of the exceptional people that come out of Everett. What I dare not overlook are some of the other extraordinary qualities that Everett people have shown me over the years. Everett is a hot bed of talent. It is the breeding ground of many scholarly educators, scientific innovators, skillful carpenters, marketwise entrepreneurs, dynamic speakers, creative writers, and well learned medical assistants and providers.

Far more importantly, since beginning this "We're From Everett" project, I have come in contact with so many people from Everett that have proven to me that there exists a humanitarian side to the people from Everett that is more than just admirable, it is absolutely heart warming.

There is far more character in the people from Everett than Albert N. Parlin could ever hope to encompass in his little essay inscribed on the school that bears his name. You want character? We've got it. We're from Everett!

Forgiveness

Sometimes, it is necessary to learn the more important lessons in life the hard way. The true value of the lesson learned sinks in deeper after you've suffered the humiliation and disappointment involved with the experience. The lessons that made the biggest impact on me were the lessons that hurt the most to learn.

I grew up on Arlington Street in Everett. The experiences of which I write - are my experiences as seen through my eyes. They are all presented from my perspective. As such, I may sometimes relate a story or portray an experience that may differ from your perspective. Likewise, my experience may not include some of the elements that you experienced because - I didn't experience them.

That does not mean that either one of us is wrong. It just means that we see things differently. There is nothing wrong with that. What we have in common is some of the people we knew, the landmarks we frequented, and a similar perspective of the major historical events that occurred in our era. Those are the common threads that bind us all together

Make no mistake that we are all individuals. We are all different. And even though we all grew up in Everett, no two of us are exactly alike. Reading through my articles, you will discover that my family was quite unconventional. It was their unconventionality that makes them interesting. There was nothing phony about them. They did not live a lie.

There exists amongst us those who refuse to extend the courtesy of allowing you to be different. Rather than to acknowledge that difference as an opportunity to broaden their horizons, they see it as a threat to the validity of their own preconceived standards that they believe we should all live by.

These insecure people react to anyone who is different by launching a viscous attack. Character assassination and name-calling are how they deal with anyone who is different. They've drawn a line in the sand whether you acknowledge it or not. You are either with them or against them - pure and simple.

A very derogatory comment I recently received has uncomfortably reminded me about one aspect of growing up in Everett that I have so naively forgotten about. The comment was insulting to both my family and I. My feelings were so hurt that I questioned whether or not to continue my "We're From Everett" project at all.

Perhaps having focused so strongly on the positive side of growing up in Everett, I left my blind side open to a cheap shot. On the other hand, I questioned whether my artistic temperamental sensitivity had caused me to over react to the insult. After much contemplation, I came to the following conclusion.

It has become somewhat of a moral imperative that I do each of the following three things. First, I will publicly address the person who insulted my family and I.

Secondly, since I've openly invited all of you to join with me to reminisce about growing up in Everett, I'm going to tell you why I have chosen to do this in the first place.

And finally, I'm going to share a few incidences I've experienced growing up in Everett that absolutely removes the misconception that growing up in Everett was all peaches and cream.

First thing first - to the person who insulted my family and me - you are forgiven - unconditionally!

Secondly, have you ever wondered why I have taken such a bold step as to lay out my life before you like an opened book? Am I starving for attention? Do I have something to prove? Or have I made a startling discovery?

The answer is "C." I have made a startling discovery.

Like many others who have contacted me since I began this project, I have lost loved ones who were very dear to me over the course of my life. Take a stroll through the beautiful Woodlawn Cemetery some day. You'll discover thousands of untold stories inscribed on the gravestones. If nothing else, you will come to realize that time marches on - long after we've gone.

Our journey here on earth is but a fleeting moment in the historic timeline of human kind. We don't have enough time to waste any of it being bitter and vengeful. The clock is ticking. If we don't take the time to tell those we love that we do love them - we may miss out on the opportunity forever.

Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Perhaps the most important reason I began my "We're From Everett" project is because you (in one way or another) were a part of my childhood. We have all shared many good childhood memories while growing up in Everett.

I felt that by documenting those experiences on-line, we could leave behind a legacy for our children's children that would allow them to know their ancestors on a very personal level. Would you not have cherished the opportunity to know your ancestors to that extent? Up until now, there was nothing on the internet about growing up in Everett.

Has this happened to you yet? I once ran into somebody from my childhood that I hadn't seen in over thirty years. When we were children, this person was nasty and combative. I never held much faith in this person ever accomplishing anything in life.

What a pleasant surprise it was to discover that this individual had grown up to become a scholar, a humanitarian, and a gentleman. The point is - people change. If you remember somebody from your childhood who you absolutely could not stand, verily I say unto you, do not hold to that opinion until you find out what became of that person after they've grown up. That person may cherish the opportunity to ask your forgiveness for a past transgression.

Never deny yourself a single opportunity to make amends. Nothing equals the value of a true friend. If you doubt that theory, try to imagine what your life would be like without a single friend. After all, "We get by with a little help from our friends."

You want to talk about some bad experiences while growing up in Everett? I've had a few. Who hasn't? Most I've forgotten over time, but there are still those that for one reason or another, remain lodged there in the back of my mind.

During a wedding I attended in my adult years, I encountered a former classmate from the Horace Mann Elementary School who I hadn't seen in decades. The encounter was pleasant, but he reminded me of an incident that took place at Everett High School.

Apparently, we were all lined up to go into the Rockwood Auditorium for an assembly. I walked down the line handing out Necco Wafers to everybody saying, "Here, eat these so they don't go to waste." He said we all ate them because we felt intimidated.

He then asked, "Aren't you going to eat any?" My response was, "Nah, I hate these things. My aunt works at the company and always brings them home. So not to hurt her feelings I take them, but then I give them all away."

After explaining that was my honest reason for giving them away, I did apologize that I came across as intimidating. That was never my intention. He laughed the incident off by saying, "Hey Paul, we were just kids. No need to apologize for something so silly as that."

The whole time he was telling me that story, I realized that he did not remember yet another incident that happened in our lives. It happened when we were in the first grade. We were playing in a sand pile in his back yard. After I made several sand molds with an old plastic drinking cup, he stamped on them all. That was fine with me. I thought it was funny.

However, after doing the very same thing to his sand molds, he got angry and threw a handful of sand in my face. The sand got into my eyes, blinding me. His grandfather, who was standing right there, pointed at me and laughed when it happened. After rubbing the sand from my eyes, I got angry and punched this kid in the arm.

Believe me, a punch in the arm from me (especially when I was in the first grade) was not going to incapacitate him. I'd be lucky if I so much as wrinkled his shirt. This kid took off crying like a baby into his house. His grandfather grabbed hold of my shirt, drew back his arm, and open-handedly slapped me across the face. It stung like a horsewhip.

He then shoved me backwards, and I fell over a cement garden planter, landing on my ass in the driveway. This lunatic then came charging after me shouting, "Get out of here before I knock your block off." I ran all the way home with tears in my eyes.

When I got home, my brother Billy was sitting out on the front steps with a few of his friends. He grabbed a hold of my arms and demanded to know whose hand print was on the side of my face. Fearing that my brother would go off the deep end and wind up in jail, I told him I did not know who hit me. Those of you who knew my brother will understand my concern.

Another incident that sticks out in my mind happened when I was in the fourth grade. Kids from the surrounding neighborhood gathered at the back school lot of the Parlin Junior High School for a game of whiffle ball. Amongst the kids gathered there that day was one kid that was several years older than the rest of us.

This kid towered over the rest of us by at least six inches. My friend Tommy said that this kid was in the eighth grade. What was so odd about this kid was that his upper torso was much longer than his legs, and his long arms dangled as he walked. His huge triangular head with widely separated eyes made him look like a crossbreed between a human being and a preying mantis.

This kid pointed at me and said, "You can't play."

"Why can't I play?" I asked somewhat nervously.

"Because I don't like you."

"You don't even know me."

"It doesn't matter. I don't like the way you look or the sound of your voice. If you so much as say another word, I might go nuts and hurt you."

From that point on, I didn't dare open my mouth. This kid could hurt me and I knew it. The fact that he looked so inhuman instilled a fear that he was capable of doing something illogical. I saw no need to remain in such an uncomfortable environment, so I turned away and started walking home.

"Hey Paul, don't go," my friend Tommy called out.

"Let him go," the strange kid said. "I don't like him."

"Paul's alright. He's a good kid," Tommy said.

"Just let him go. I'm afraid I'll hurt him if he stays," he said.

I felt so lucky to get out of there without getting hurt. So, why didn't I set my brother on this kid? Because that kid never laid a finger on me. He threatened me, but he never touched me. I never saw that kid again after that day. That was just fine with me. It was because of that incident that I began taking karate lessons.

My last story takes place while delivering newspapers on Christmas morning. The Christmas Edition was as large, if not bigger, than the Sunday edition. Because I had a significantly large route, I had to use a big wooden pushcart to deliver my newspapers. It was murder pushing that thing uphill in the snow on Walnut Street.

Many of my customers left a special envelope for me that morning. I had collected about sixty dollars in tips alone. Because it was still as dark as night at five o' clock in the morning, I was kind of nervous lugging that kind of cash around.

Halfway up Walnut Street, I saw a guy on the opposite sidewalk, leaning against a tree, yelling at his shoes. This guy was smashed drunk. As soon as he saw me he yelled out, "Hey kid, you got any money?"

"No, I don't have any money."

"Hey, get over here."

"I gotta deliver my newspapers," I said nervously.

"You get over here or you won't live to deliver any more newspapers," he said angrily. It was hard to really understand every word because he was slurring his speech.

To say I was frightened out of my mind is an understatement. I tried to ignore this guy and just kept on delivering my newspapers. He started making his way across the street towards me. Twice, he fell down into the dirty slush in the middle of the street, and I kept delivering newspapers as fast as my legs could carry me.

This guy followed me all the way up Walnut Street. By the time I reached Hancock Street, it was beginning to get light out. The only reason he didn't catch up to me was because he was so drunk that he kept stumbling into the snow.

My big break came when I reached Hancock Street. All of a sudden, an Everett Police Car pulled up beside me. The officer rolled down his window and said, "Hey Paul, you didn't take the Christmas envelope I left out on the mail box for ya."

You can only imagine how happy I was to discover that one of my customers was an Everett police officer. I didn't hesitate to tell him why I forgot to pick up that envelope. "Well, we'll just see about that," he said. My heart danced with joy watching him handcuff that guy and throw him into the back of the cruiser.

And there it is. My acknowledgement that growing up in Everett was not all peaches and cream. That is the last time I will dwell on anything negative about growing up in Everett. If it's negativity you want, than perhaps you're right - you should go elsewhere.

I learned a valuable lesson today. When we gather as friends to share the good times, we let down our guard because we don't feel threatened. When our guard is down, we're sitting duck for those who will seize the opportunity to hide behind anonymity and take a cheap shot.

It also reminds us that those people are out there, and it kills them to see anyone else having a good time. They'll do everything in their power to destroy that. We can't let them win.

What we need to do is keep reaching out to them until we remove that splinter from their heart that makes them so bitter that they've forgotten how to love. And then we need to welcome those lost sheep back into the fold as a part of our family - where they belong - because regardless - we're all from Everett.

Everything You Know Is Wrong

One valuable lesson I learned while growing up in Everett is not to believe that something is true only because it's the popular opinion. The truth is still the truth even if no one believes it. You can convince some people to believe just about anything if you're crafty enough to manipulate the facts. Even so, the truth is still out there waiting to be discovered.

People sometimes draw conclusions based on popular opinion rather than on fact. You can find countless documented examples of how a widely accepted truism came into existence simply because people heard it said so many times. Many of these widely accepted truisms are in fact - false.

One of the more common ones that comes to mind is how so many people believe that if they don't exercise - their muscle will turn into body fat. You may get fat, but your muscle does not turn into fat. They are two separate entities and one does not transform into the other.

So, what's this all about anyway? It's about illusions and things that go bump in the night. During my childhood days in Everett, I've not only seen some really strange things, but have experienced some really weird encounters that I still don't understand to this day.

Sometimes the truth is so fantastic that it defies logic. People attempt to explain such strange phenomena by using commonplace beliefs. In many instances, such attempts do make sense. After all, we do try to find the logic in things that seem to make no sense at all - especially when they happen to us.

The following is but a brief list of some of the strange things that happened to me while growing up in Everett. All I can say is - draw your own conclusions.

Encounter #1: OEEV.

This happened in 1957, towards the end of the school year. It was the summer before I started kindergarten. I know this because it was a beautiful summer morning. My older brothers and sister had all gone off to school. And Jack Chase had already concluded the morning news with "So long, and make it a good day."

My mother stood at the kitchen sink, washing the morning dishes. From where she stood, she could clearly see our entire back porch and most of the back yard through the kitchen window. Because of that, I was allowed to go play out on the back porch alone.

We lived on the second floor. The kitchen door led out into the back hallway, which in turn, led out onto our back porch. Because of the third story porch above, you had to step out half way across the porch to see the entire sky.

Upon stepping onto the threshold of the doorway that led out onto the back porch itself, I noticed an unusual silence. Not only did the birds stop chirping, but also the leaves in the trees stopped rustling. I've never heard such silence in all my life.

Coming from behind, a shadow rolled slowly below my feet and continued outwardly across the porch floorboards towards the railing. This shadow was in the shape of a point - like the point on a house roof. It rolled slowly across the floor of the porch, and continued to roll across the landscape below. The day grew strangely dark.

Suddenly, something appeared from out behind the roof (or perhaps I should say the porch floor above me). It was so big that I froze right there on the spot. Too scared to move, I stood there watching it for the longest time. Moving ever so slowly, it eventually filled the sky - all of it.

No, it did not even remotely resemble any kind of flying saucer. What it actually looked like was a giant iron triangle. It looked so close that I could almost reach out and touch it - figuratively speaking, of course. I saw no flashing lights of any kind.

The entire bottom of this thing, which was all I could see, was covered with an intricate web of tubing. At the very center, it had a strange series of weird looking hieroglyphic type characters. The ones I could make any sense out of, looked like the letters "O-E-E-V."

What I remember next is very odd indeed. There was a small utility closet in that back hallway. I remember feeling dizzy and confused. Because I felt that falling sensation, I reached out to grab hold of something. What I grabbed a hold of was the doorknob to the door of that closet.

Opening the door, I stepped out of the closet. I do not recall ever going into that closet. Trembling with confusion, I opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen. My mother looked back at me, shut off the water at the kitchen sink, knelt down in front of me, and took hold of my arms.

"Paul," she said, "Are you alright? You look white as a ghost." She felt my forehead and said it felt unusually cold.

"I'm okay," I said. "I just feel a little tired." I was afraid to tell her what had just happened in fear of getting into any trouble. There's no reason for me to have thought that, but you know kids.

"Why don't you go lie down for a little bit and get some rest," she said.

That's what I did. I laid down on the couch and fell asleep. I slept the entire day until everyone else got home from school. When I woke up, my mother asked me how I felt. I felt great. After that, I went outside to play.

My whole life, I've questioned that incident. You must remember, I was only five years old. At that age, your imagination tends to play tricks on you. Little children sometimes perceive things differently than they actually are. Many years and many experiences have passed since that day. I wonder sometimes whether or not it was all a dream.

Since the age of information has dawned, it's a snap to research anything. There are millions of sites dealing with UFO phenomenon. There's so much conflicting information out there that's it's hard to know what to believe. Interestingly enough, a google search on the letters "OEEV" turns up the strangest collection of confusing results.

Amongst the many notable American's in history that claim to have had a close encounter are Jackie Gleason, President Richard Nixon, and President Jimmy Carter. It is also interesting to note that President Ronald Regan made references to extraterrestrial encounters in many of his speeches.

To be honest, I never thought what I saw that day was a UFO. It looked more like a modern day stealth fighter than it did a UFO. Truth is - nothing like today's stealth fighters existed back in 1957. What confuses me is how slowly and quietly it passed overhead. I do not recall seeing it travel out of view. Then again, I was only five years old and was both frightened and confused by the incident.

Encounter #2: The Large Bike.

Again, I was very young when this happened. For the sake of argument, I'll say I was probably in the first grade. All the neighborhood kids, including me, were playing "One foot off the Mudguard" on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building. There were about a dozen or so kids present.

When playing this game, the one who is "it" stands out in the middle of the street addressing the other kids who stand on the sidewalk. They tell the kids on the sidewalk how many steps they are allowed to take off the mudguard (the sidewalk they're standing on) towards the safety zone (the opposite sidewalk).

After taking the allotted steps off the mudguard, the players must stand motionless in the middle of the street. No talking, or laughing, or showing your teeth are allowed. The one who is "it" tries to get the kids standing motionless to move, laugh, talk, or show their teeth. If they do, they get tagged and they now join with the person who is "it" to catch the other players. If not, the players try to make a break for it at the first opportunity and run to the safety zone.

I was one of the kids standing still in the middle of the street. We were facing the brick wall of the Storm Shield building across the street. All of a sudden, what looked like a man riding a bicycle appeared out of nowhere. It was one of those really old fashioned bikes that had a huge front wheel and a tiny back wheel. The bicycle was so high that the man sat about eight feet off the ground. He cast a shadow along the wall as he passed by.

The man peddled the bicycle along that sidewalk right in front of the brick wall at a very slow pace. He traveled the length of the wall, and then just vanished from view. Three of us saw it. Everyone else swore we made it up to draw their attention away so we could run to get our gools.

Had no one else seen it, I probably would have dismissed the incident entirely. But when Ronnie pointed at it and said, "Did you see that?" I knew I wasn't imagining things. Like misery, insanity also loves company.

Encounter #3: The Ball of Light.

This happened towards the end of the school year in 1965 when I was 13 years old. If my memory serves me well, it happened on a Saturday morning. The weather was sunny and warm. Well actually, the sun was still just coming up over the horizon because it was probably around five o' clock in the morning.

I was riding my bike - heading up to Robie's newspaper office on Broadway to begin my morning paper route. Robie's newspaper office was at the opposite end of that string of buildings attached to DiBlasi's sub shop.

In route to Robie's office, I passed through the back schoolyard of the Parlin Junior High school. Normally, I passed through the left side of the schoolyard, rode up over those two small hills next to the print shop, and then continued on to Broadway. On this morning, however, I rode into the right side enclosed courtyard for no other reason than to make a loop because I was enjoying my bike ride.

Upon entering that courtyard, what appeared to be nothing more than a ball of light passed just above my head from behind. It flew straight into the brick wall on the opposite end of the courtyard. Then, it disappeared as if it went right into the wall. The entire incident lasted no more than a split second. It was travelling that fast.

When it happened, I swear, my bike accelerated with out me peddling it. I had to squeeze on the hand brakes so not to crash into that brick wall. Yes, I've questioned a thousand times whether or not I actually saw that ball of light or just imagined it. I felt nothing and I heard nothing. The incident sent shivers down my spine. It was years before I mustered up the courage to tell anyone about the incident in fear they would think I was crazy. Now that I know I'm crazy, it doesn't matter - does it?

In actuality, there are many theories about these strange balls of light. The general agreement amongst meteorologists is that strange disturbances in the atmosphere cause a phenomenon known as "ball lightning." Scientists are still not sure what causes this strange phenomenon, but they do acknowledge that it is real and it does exist. Believe me - it will send shivers down your spine if it happens to you.

Encounter #4: The House on Summer Street

This happened following the school year when I was in the second grade. After a pleasant shopping trip with my mother down Everett Square, she asked if I would enjoy walking home because it was such a beautiful summer day. We walked up Broadway, and turned down Summer Street.

Several houses before reaching Orchard Street (diagonally across from the Immaculate Conception Convent), she suggested we stop in at this adorable little house to visit one of her friends. I cannot recall the woman's name, but it turned out to be a very pleasant visit.

I distinctly remember what the woman looked like. She was a much older woman, a bit on the heavy side, who walked bent over as if she were wearing a large bustle. Her housedress was very old fashioned, decorated with small light flowers on a dark background. With her gray hair pinned back in a sort of bun, she had perhaps one of the warmest smiles I had ever seen.

While my mother enjoyed a pleasant chat with this woman, I played on her kitchen floor with a fun little toy set that she said once belonged to one of her children. For the life of me, I cannot remember what the toy was. I do remember that it was an unusually old toy. My mother sat drinking tea with this woman for what seemed like a half-hour or so. After that, we bid this lovely lady farewell, and started off for home.

The incident sticks in my mind so well because a few days later, while I was sitting on my front steps reading an Archie funny book, this lady walked by. She was on her way down the street, but stopped to say hi to me. With that same gentle smile that I remembered so well, she patted me on the head ever so affectionately before continuing on her journey. I don't remember if we said anything to each other or not.

After she passed by, I went upstairs to tell my mother that I had just seen the lady who we had visited a few days earlier. To my surprise, my mother had no idea what I was talking about. My mother swore that we never visited anyone on Summer Street. As a matter of fact, my mother claims that she never knew anyone that lived on Summer Street.

It gets even stranger than that - believe me. Never again did I ever see a house on Summer Street that looked even remotely similar to the house that we visited that day. I have traveled up and down Summer Street and the surrounding area several times throughout my life in search of that house. It's just nowhere to be found.

Encounter #5: The Mysterious Passenger.

This encounter scares me. It happened in 1970, on the last day of school for the graduating seniors at Everett High school. I was just a junior then and didn't graduate until the following year.

They dismissed the seniors early that day. For the next hour or so, they circled the school honking their horns and howling in celebration of their last day in school forever. I remember how envious I felt while sitting at me desk in that dreary classroom listening to the celebration going on outside. The only consolation was that next year it would be my turn.

What else was going through my mind is that my brother-in-law had loaned me his Chevy Impala for the weekend. My girlfriend was home from college and we anticipated a fun weekend together. With all this excitement to look forward to - the day seemed to drag on forever.

When the final bell tolled, I dashed out to the car, hopped in, and fired her up. Just as I did, the passenger door swung open and some kid hopped into the seat. "You need a ride?" I asked.

Because I was so preoccupied with backing out of a tight parking spot in heavy traffic on Linden Street, I didn't even look at this kid. I just assumed he was a fellow EHS student who needed a ride.

That sounds trusting, I know, but back in our day it was just a sign of the times. Kids hopped into each other's cars uninvited and asked, "Hey, can you drop me off?" It was no big deal. We just did that for each other because we're from Everett.

"Yeah," he said. "Can you drop me off on Kinsman Street near Swan Street Park?"

"No problem, Dude" I answered as I finally backed out of that tight spot and headed off down the road.

"So, where's Kinsman Street?"

"You don't know?"

"No, dude, never been there. Show me the way."

"Take your first right onto Warren Street."

The traffic's heavy; kids are crossing the street, and I'm reaching around the dashboard with my free hand to find the cigarette lighter. After the lighter popped out, I'm trying to press it against the end of the cigarette in my mouth while trying to keep a sharp eye on the road. The last thing I need right now is an accident.

"Did you graduate this year?" I asked while puffing on my cigarette to get it lit.

"No, I didn't make." He answered.

"Gee, that's too bad. Well anyway, you can graduate with me next year," I said as I rounded the corner onto Warren Street.

"No I can't," he said. "I didn't make it."

Busy keeping one eye on the road while trying to plug the cigarette lighter back into the socket, I turned to say, "What are you talking about?" But there was nobody there. I was in the car all by myself.

I stamped on the brakes right there in the middle of the street and just sat there looking at the empty passenger seat. To say I was dumbfounded is an understatement. A few seconds later the guy behind me leaned on his horn and snapped me out of it.

Too shook up to drive, I pulled up along the curb in front of what looked like a two-family house surrounded with a white picket fence. It was one of those houses that had a silo looking corner on the front with a coned roof on top - you know what I mean - right?

Across the street from that house - If I remember correctly - was one of those three family flat-roofed apartment houses. The reason I'm trying to describe the area as I remembered it is because I was relatively unfamiliar with the area.

The hairs on my forearm were standing on end. That's why I pulled over and jumped out of the car. Shaking like a leaf, I must have walked around that car at least a dozen times just trying to sort this one out.

I've heard many stories over the years from people who swear they've had a visitation from a loved one that had recently passed away. That makes more sense to me than what I experienced. I didn't even know this person. The entire encounter just doesn't make any sense.

It certainly left a lasting impression on me. I can tell you that. Don't ask me how my weekend went after that because I really don't remember. I hope I had a good time.

Just try to explain something like that to anyone. The first thing they'll say is "What in the world were you drinking?" Any more stories like these and I'm afraid you'll book me a reservation in the rubber room.

Somewhere out there lies a logical explanation, I'm sure. I just haven't found it yet. Some explanations are just not available yet. That's how I see it.

Imagine how you would have taken it if forty years ago somebody told you that you will someday pop popcorn in a box without fire in less than three minutes. Think about how you would have reacted forty years ago if they told you that we will send snapshots back and forth to each other over telephones that we carried around in our pockets. What was so far fetched yesterday - is totally normal today.

Those are my strange experiences. If you can find a logical explanation - I'm all ears. If you think I'm crazy - well - that goes without saying. You can't blame me for that. After all - I'm from Everett!

One From The Heart

Mother's Day is celebrated in many countries around the world. The tradition itself stems from spring festivals dedicated to the maternal goddesses they celebrated throughout ancient Greek and Roman history. Here in America, it was a woman who instigated the first observance of Mother's Day.

To honor her late mother, Anna Jarvis of Grafton, West Virginia, initiated the first observance of Mother's Day in 1907. What is so incredible about that is - it was Anna's mother who campaigned for a Mother's Friendship Day following the Civil War some 50 years earlier.

Because of the loving devotion of this dedicated daughter, West Virginia became the first state to officially recognize Mother's Day in 1910. Four years later, in 1914, President Woodrow Wilson declared the second Sunday in May as Mother's Day.

Rather than clutter up this blog with well-worn cliches depicting the glory of motherhood, I feel it more appropriate to portray the strength and stamina it takes to be a mother. By understanding the price one pays to shoulder such a responsibility, we earn a genuine respect for the sanctity of motherhood.

My observance begins not in Everett, Massachusetts, but on a little Island off the coast of St. Johns, Newfoundland. First, allow me to give but a brief history of the area I'm talking about. North of New England along the eastern shores, you'll see the Canadian province of Nova Scotia jutting out into the ocean above Maine.

Another 300 miles north of that is a large island about the size of New England. That's Newfoundland. Once an independent subject of the British Empire, it became a province of Canada after World War Two.

Some 500 years before Christopher Columbus reached the Western Hemisphere; the Vikings became the first Europeans to land on American shores. In 1013, Vikings ships docked on the Bay of St. John's, Newfoundland. History suggests these Vikings interacted favorably with the Beothuk Indians.

A Beothuk Indian squaw named, Shanawdithit, lived amongst the whites during the winter of 1829 in St. Johns, Newfoundland. She left behind a legacy of drawings and writings that gave the world an in-depth knowledge of her people's customs and beliefs. After her death at Victoria Hospital in St. Johns, they buried her at Saint Mary's church. She was the very last of the Beothuks.

A milestone in the history of mass communications, Marconi sent the first transatlantic wireless transmission from Signal Hill, in St. John's, Newfoundland, to Scotland on December 12, 1901. The stone castle (Marconi's tower) from which he sent that transmission still stands as a very popular tourist attraction today. I had the honor in 1966 of signing that guest book for the very first time.

On December 4, 1926, on Bell Island, off the coast of St. John's, Newfoundland, James and Julia gave birth to a baby girl they christened as Mary Grace. She was the third of six children born into this wealthy family. Her father owned and operated the only general store on Bell Island.

Known primarily by her middle name, Grace grew up accustomed to a finer social standard, living in a mansion complete with servants. Grace's father was both well respected and very much loved within the community for he was a generous man. He took it upon himself to feed the hungry in his community during the great depression, and during the war, he openly welcomed many a sailor and soldier from foreign lands into his home.

During the war, Grace and her High School friends frequented the favorite social spots in St. Johns where a soldier could socially mingle with the local girls. On one of these occasions, her girlfriend set her up on a blind date with an American soldier. She really didn't like this guy very much at first, but agreed to see him a second time anyway because she didn't want to hurt his feelings.

On a subsequent date, this soldier expressed his true intentions. He told her that she was indeed the very girl with which he wished to spend the rest of his life. At the war's end, she married that soldier boy.

Her father did everything in his power to keep his baby girl from moving away to the United States. He even offered her new husband his entire business and fortune, lock, stock, and barrel. The proud American boy from Indiana, who had grown up bare foot poor, turned him down.

First stop, Terre Haute, Indiana. In French the name suggests, "The high plateau in the land of the Indians." Grace soon discovered that the weather in southern Indiana was the exact opposite of what she was accustomed to. Having grown up where five-foot snowfalls are not uncommon, she now lived in the unbearable heat in southern Indiana where it seldom ever snows in winter, and the summer gets so hot she couldn't breathe.

Lucky for her, shortly after the birth of her first son, they left Indiana due to a lack of work. They moved to Everett, Massachusetts, in 1947. Grace had an aunt from Newfoundland who owned several rental properties in Everett. There, her husband worked first at the Swift Meats packing plant for several years, before latching on to a full time position as a truck mechanic at Tufts University.

In 1948, her second child was born. She now had the perfect family - a boy named after his father, Billy, and a girl named after her maternal grandmother, Julie. In September of 1949, she had a third child, another boy, whom she named, Carl. It would be an unfortunate accident that befell her third born child that would test her mettle to the max.

To hear Grace tell the story in her own words would absolutely break your heart. Having come to Everett with no immediate family nearby, she felt somewhat alienated. The feeling grew stronger when riding on the bus one day. Another lady passenger struck up a friendly conversation with her by asking, "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," she answered.

"Are you German?" the woman asked.

"No."

"Are you Italian?"

"No."

"What are you then?"

Since Newfoundlanders were British subjects up until the end of the war, Grace always considered herself British. So she responded with, "I'm British."

"British?" the woman responded expressing an air of disgust. The woman then turned around in her seat, stuck her nose up into the air, and totally ignored her for the remainder of the bus ride.

When her third child was only 3 months-old, his four-year old brother, Billy, tried to pick him up out of his crib because he wanted to hold him and give his little newborn brother some love. The task proved to be a little too much for the little guy, and the baby fell over his shoulder, landing headfirst onto the floor.

Hearing the crash, Grace quickly ran into the room to find her baby, Carl, lying on the floor with the oddest look on his face. He seemed all right at first. She said he didn't even cry. Because he had a somewhat strange far away look about him, she asked her aunt for advice. Her aunt kept trying to convince her that Carl was fine and that she needn't be concerned.

We all know there really is something to this mother's intuition thing. There was just something about her little infant son that bothered her. He was taking the bottle all right. Everything seemed normal, but she just didn't feel comfortable. The next day, she took him up to see Doctor Corkery on Hancock Street.

Dr. Corkery took one look at Carl, and rushed him over to Children's Hospital. For the next six months, Grace was not allowed to visit with her infant son. They didn't have a car back then; so she took the "T" every day to Children's Hospital just to be near her little baby - even if she couldn't see him.

The entire ordeal physically and mentally drained this poor woman. After all, she still had two other children to look after. She rose to the challenge admirably. Grace proved to be an amazing person.

I don't remember if she ever described how she felt when she first saw all those scars across her infant son's head from all the brain operations. I do know how happy she was to hold her little baby boy once again. Believe me - this is a mother who loves her children with all her heart and soul.

Two years later, in February of 1952, during a brutal Friday night snowstorm, she gave birth to her fourth and final child, whom she named, Paul. We won't spend any more time on this character because, after all, he's the one writing the words you are reading right now.

Grace's problems were far from over. Years later, her son, Carl, would suffer Grand Mal Epileptic seizures as a result of that brain injury. Barely a day passed by when Carl wasn't rushed to the hospital because of a seizure. The poor woman never got a moment's rest. It wasn't until 2003, when Carl was well into his fifties, that yet another brain surgery had achieved phenomenal success in controlling his seizures.

When her first born son, Billy, was twelve years old, he became bedridden for a complete year due to a treacherous bone infection to his legs called, "Osteomyelitis." Because we were such a close knit family, we couldn't stand it if one of us got sick and couldn't join in on the family fun. We gathered around Billy's sick bed, when he felt up to it, so we could play with him.

I vividly recall the day all of us kids were in the bedroom with Billy, as he lay on the top bunk suffering from the discomfort of his affliction. To cheer him up, we played catch with a rolled up ball of socks. During all the fun, Billy reached out over the edge of the bunk to catch the ball. Unable to properly balance himself because of the weakness in his legs, he fell out of bed and crashed onto the hardwood floor. Grace mustered the strength to lift her crying boy back up onto the top bunk, and comfort his pain.

Years later, she suffered the anguish of watching that little boy grow up and go off to war. Every day of her life she faced the daily struggles of keeping her poor family clothed and fed. Her house was always spotless, and she always took the time each day to let each of her children know that they were loved. On top of all that, she worked a full time night job at Transitron in Melrose testing diodes.

Grace never tolerated disrespect from her children. She wouldn't hesitate to take the belt to their hides when they stepped out of line. She ruled with an iron fist founded on tough love. Her children knew right from wrong. They knew whenever they did something wrong (and they did from time to time), that they would pay the price. And they did.

Each of her children have suffered moments in their lives when they felt as if they had nowhere else to turn. In moments like these, they relied heavily on their mother for help and support. She always came through for them admirably. Her children always came first in her life.

One any given day she'd soothe our ailments, do the laundry, cook the supper, wash the dishes, help with homework, and clean the house before going off to her full time job. I see before me a remarkable woman who accomplished more in a single day than I have in a lifetime. Now into her eighties, she still drags out the barrels on trash day, and shovels the snow off the front steps in winter.

Like so many other mothers, she had to face one of the most challenging traumas a mother ever has to face. Watching her suffer through this drama absolutely broke my heart. In 1991, her first born son was diagnosed with cancer. We drew closer together as a family to support one another through this ordeal. My sister, Julie, took a leave of absence from her job as a nurse to care for her big brother on those days when he was not hospitalized.

I will never forget the day I installed the trash compactor in my mother's kitchen. Because my parents were getting older, taking out the trash was becoming a daunting task for them. We had hoped that trash compactor would make at least one of their daily chores that much easier.

My intention was to head off to visit my brother at the hospital after installing the trash compactor. Just after completing the task, the kitchen back door opened. In stepped my sister, my sister-in-law, and my brother-in-law. They had just come home from visiting Billy at the hospital.

"So, how is Billy feeling today?" I asked.

Julie turned to my mother and father and said, "Billy's gone."

That soldier from Indiana, and that girl from Newfoundland, collapsed in each other's arms. They held onto each other and cried their hearts out. Seeing them hurt like that completely tore a whole in my heart.

Is this the reward fate hands them after all these years of struggling through all the hardships they had to face together in their lifetime? Is this the payoff that awaits those who muster up the fierce dedication it takes to face all the challenges that fate throws at them? Is exhausting fatigue the only compensation for those who strive to achieve in the face of overwhelming odds?

What is the sense in all this anyway?

Maybe it is all pointless, but one thing is true. It's life and we must live it. We have no choice. We simply must cope with whatever fate throws at us no matter how unfair the results.

So, where do we get the strength to weather these storms?

We develop it over the course of our lifetimes. That inner strength comes from years of comforting, nurturing, and the loving we receive from our mothers who expect nothing in return - other than our happiness.

There are no words to justifiably say thank you in a way that properly honors the dedication and sacrifices they have unselfishly bestowed upon us since our birth.

For every mother, who has suffered the heart breaking loss of one of their children, a special star shines in the heavens on Mother's Day just for you. The love you deserve for your selfless sacrifice multiplies ten thousand times ten thousand. For you will not receive your appreciation in a material good. You will receive it directly from the spirit deep down in your heart.

And for every mother, who has passed beyond the far horizon, we will honor you with every breath we take. We will thank you with every word we speak. We will remember you dearly deep within our hearts.

How shallow the words may seem in comparison to why we are saying them. Hopefully, every mother will cherish them in the spirit of which they are given. With nothing more than the sincerity in our hearts, we say to every mother out there, "Thank you - dearly - for without you - life would not exist."

Happy Mother's Day - You deserve so much more.

And very special Happy Mother's Day to my MOM.

She certainly deserves it after all I've put her through.

Family Snapshot

Growing up in Everett was crazy. Not crazy in the true sense of the word, but crazy as in mindless ecstasy - for a kid that is. We did crazy things. What comes to mind are those blaring hot summer days when we should have stayed indoors out of the intense gamma rays.

Stay indoors? In Everett? Nah!

Hot sunny days (we get many in southern Indiana) inspire random childhood memories that culminate into an overall picture in my mind's eye of a lazy, hazy, crazy, hot summer day in Everett. I'm not talking about the kind of day when something spectacular happened. I'm just talking about the kind of days that pass by without batting an eye.

Right in front of out apartment building on Arlington Street, the city planted a maple tree that now blanketed the facade of our building. It acted like a giant sun umbrella that filtered out the hot summer sun and allowed those soothing gentle breezes to blow in from the eastern shores during the late afternoon.

Looking out the second floor living room window after poking a few holes through the screen with a pencil to occupy my idle mind, I can see Mikey Smith down below on the sidewalk in front of my house. That kid may as well move in. What the heck, he's here every day anyway.

I'm looking down at his back and I can see the sleeves to his shirt rolled up. He's leaning up against the trunk of that maple tree with a Lucky Strike tucked in behind his left ear, and a whole pack of butts pocketed into the crease of his right sleeve. Mikey had long, straight, reddish blond hair that fell across his entire face. He keeps jerking his head to one side to throw his hair back. He reminds me of that tough-guy cigarette smoking angel in the 1987 movie, "Made in Heaven." His voice even sounds like him.

Just in case you didn't know Mikey, this kid was a genuine human being. And just because he never grew up to be any taller than knee-high to a grasshopper didn't mean you were gonna shove this kid around. He could fight. Believe me, Mikey could hold his ground.

It was tempting to go a few rounds with this kid even though he was seven years my senior. He quickly reminded me that there was indeed some truth to the old saying, "Never judge a book by its cover." Our match was all in fun, but as they say, "Many a truth plays out in jest." If I learned anything that day, it was the fact that having this kid at your side in scrap was no liability - believe you me.

Okay, so what's he doing out in front of my house on a hot summer day? He's with his best friend in the whole world - my big brother, Billy. These two were inseparable. You can't have one without the other. That's just the way it was.

On this day, Billy stood beneath that spreading maple out front washing and waxing his prized possession - his 1962 Rambler American with a six cylinder engine and a three speed manual transmission. That was as close as he ever got to his real dream. What he really wanted was the Rambler 400 series convertible.

As I understand it, he got this little number for a song. It needed an engine. He bought it anyway. For the first six months it set up on cinder blocks in the backyard while he transformed it into a lean mean street machine to chauffeur his chick around town.

That's back when Billy was dating some girl named, Ellen, who always wore a leather jacket, sported a beehive hairdo, and her favorite saying was, "Up your nose with a rubber hose." That girl irked the living daylights out of my mother. My mother was tickled pink when they finally broke up.

They've got the radio blaring out on the sidewalk while they work. Well, not blaring in the sense as you would think today. Blaring back then meant you could hear it if you were hanging out the window above their heads, but it doesn't make the glass in the windows vibrate. Then again, neither the Everly Brothers, nor Del Shannon, ever wrote any