In the Halls of EHS

Whoever thought the future would be less fun? When I was a little kid growing up in Everett, I used to sit and daydream out my window thinking about what it will be like to live in the future. Ironic as it may seem, here I am in the future daydreaming about the good old days in the past. I guess there's just no pleasing people like me.

I once thought that by the time we passed into the next century, we wouldn't need cars anymore. I envisioned a life that mimicked the Jetsons in so many ways. If nothing else, the world would be a better place in which to live. And I guess in so many ways, it actually is. But then again, in so many other ways, it certainly is not.

One of the things I've learned to appreciate in the art of writing is when a writer is so gifted that he or she says something that rings so true throughout all time. Perhaps the best example that comes to mind is Charles Dickens' opening line in his epic novel about the French Revolution entitled, "The Tale of Two Cities."

In setting the tone for the period of which he writes - he says, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness...in short, the period was so far like the present."

I can quote those very words whether I'm talking about 1966 or 2006. And to think, he was talking about 1775 when he wrote that in 1859. What he had written rings so true for every generation along the entire historic timeline of the human race. The man was a genius.

So as I sit here banging away on my laptop, I'm thinking to myself how so many things about my childhood growing up in Everett were far better than many of the things we have today. And by the same token, I'd rather be sitting here typing this out on a laptop than on an old Underwood typewriter - believe me.

We could go on endlessly comparing every little detail of our present lives with that of the past, weeding out the good from the bad. Everything looks better at a distance than it does up close. Maybe that's why the past always looks more cheerful than the present. And then again, I suppose it's all a matter of how you look at it. Like Big Brother, Bob Emery, so aptly put it, "The grass is always greener in the other fellow's yard."

What brought all this on was when I sat down to write about my very first day at Everett High School. After talking to several EHS alumni from other graduating classes, I've come to one startling conclusion. No matter what generation you belonged to, you will always fondly look back on the very first day you made that giant leap from your formative years up into High School. And let's face it, once you set foot in the halls of E.H.S., your life was never the same again.

Raise your hand if you agree with this statement. "Sometime during the summer between the ninth and tenth grades, I experienced a personality shift that culminated into a higher level of awareness and maturity." Did that happen to you, too?

Perhaps it was because of the many changes going on in my family life that I had that experience. It's hard to say. I got my license that summer. That certainly changes you right there. Another thing that happened was that my older brother got married when he came home from Vietnam. And my sister got married the year before that. The house was really thinning out.

Speaking of the house, we finally moved out of that six-family apartment building on Arlington Street. We now lived on the second floor of a smaller three family just one house in from the corner of Foster and Chestnut. After sixteen years of being crammed into one small bedroom with three boys, I now had my own room. What a blessing that was - let me tell ya.

The nuclear family was dwindling, and the extended family was expanding. By the time I was the only one left still going to school, my parents were exhausted. When it came my turn to go off to high school, they really let up on the reins. They just got tired of fighting, I guess.

Another reason for that was because they now had grandchildren. We're talking about two people who really do love children. You could tell by that gleam in their eyes how their grandchildren were bringing back that magic touch that goes out of your life after years of hard knocks. Another good thing about grandchildren is that they go home at the end of the day and you can kick back and take it easy.

With this newly expanded family enriching their lives in so many ways, they were far too busy in a happy sort of way to keep tugging on my leash. As long as I wasn't getting into any serious trouble, they let go of the reins. I can remember nights during my high school years when I got home just in time to get ready to go to school. As long as I kept my nose clean, I enjoyed far more freedom during my high school years than any of my siblings ever imagined.

After 5 long years of hard labor, I quit my newspaper route before the end of the ninth grade. No, I didn't go out looking for another job. I took the whole summer off. What I did was jam as much money as possible into my savings account that year. I wanted to concentrate more on having a good time during my High School years. I had amassed a little fortune to live on by 1968 standards. By the end of that summer I had a grand total of $1,800 in the bank. I didn't dare tell anyone - not a soul.

Taking all of these changes into account, it makes no wonder I was experiencing a paradigm shift in my life. I was going off to high school with no limits imposed. Man, I was ready to party.

Tell you what. Why don't you take a seat on the Everett time Machine. I'll take you back to my first day at Everett High School. After all, what else have you got to do today? Obligations? Let em slide. Let's live a little. Come on, I'll introduce you to the Everett High School graduating class of 1971 - on their first day of school.

On Tuesday morning, September 3rd, in 1968, my radio alarm clock went off at precisely 7 o' clock that morning playing "Angel Of The Morning," by Merrilee Rush. I remember it as if it happened only yesterday.

My Dad goes off to work in the wee hours of the morning, so I never got to see him before school anyways. My mother came hobbling out of her room looking like the "Wreck of the Hesperus" because she works nights.

"What are you doing up?" I asked.

"I gotta see you off to school," she said.

"For what? Ma, really, you've had enough. You've had four kids. Take it easy, now. I know the way."

"Don't you want me to see you off to school?"

"Nah, go back to bed. I'll see ya when I get home."

"What about breakfast?"

"All I'm having is a cup of coffee and a cigarette."

"Don't you want a bowl of Cheerios?"

Now honestly. If you've been following this blog for any length of time you've probably figured out by now that throughout my childhood growing up in Everett, I was a Cheerios freak. That's all I ever wanted for breakfast, except on Sundays when my Dad was home. After nine straight years of Cheerios for breakfast every day before school I could no longer stand the sight of them.

"Okay then, if you don't mind, I'll go catch up on my sleep," she said.

"Of course I don't mind. Go get your sleep. I'll see you when I get home."

So that was my morning. A cup of freshly brewed Chock Full of Nuts coffee, a Winston (because Winstons taste good like a "knock-knock," cigarette should) and a nice hot shower to bring all my senses back to life. Not much later after that, my friends came banging on the door.

One thing that was different about going off to school that morning was that we weren't wearing ties. It wasn't until our junior year that they dropped the dress code altogether, but at Everett High, you didn't have to wear a tie. Other than that, our walk to school was much like any other day.

It didn't feel any different until we reached the top of High Street and stepped onto Broadway. That's when it all changed. That was the first time I ever had to walk across stop and go, bumper to bumper traffic to get to school. And just the sight of that enormous crowd of kids stretching from the corner of Hancock Street all the way down to Vargis instilled a sense of excitement that was just too hard to hide.

You could tell who the sophomores were in the crowd from a mile away. We were the ones who were still on our best behavior. Besides that, we were the ones who were walking. I certainly don't remember ever seeing any of the seniors hoofing it that day.

Man, you should have seen all the girls, "Wow!" I've never seen so many girls in all my life. I like this already. My neck got sore from spinning around checking out the chicks that morning - let me tell ya.

Woah, dudes, I gotta tell ya something. Everett has some of the prettiest girls on the planet. I couldn't believe my eyes. Where have they been hiding these jewels all these years?

As soon as I reached the front steps of the high school I heard someone yell out, "Dudes, look who's here. Little Huff is in high school with us now. Do you believe it?" Guess who said that. It was Beaver.

"What took you so long, Dude?" He asked.

"They made me go through elementary and junior high first," I laughed.

"Does you're brother know you're here?"

"Why, was I suppose to get permission?"

"Man, you just stick with me," he laughed. "I'll show the ropes."

If anyone could show you the ropes at EHS, it was certainly Beaver. He was in the tenth grade when I was in the eighth. He was in the tenth grade when I was in the ninth. And he was still in the tenth grade when I got there. Nobody on the planet knew the ins and outs of the tenth grade better than Beaver. That's for sure.

The bell rang and the doors swung wide. The kids poured into that building like sugar into a funnel. Just inside those front doors was yet another flight of steps leading up to the main floor. Nobody was walking in a straight line, everyone was talking, and laughing, and carrying on as if they were honestly happy to be there. And you know what? They were.

I've never seen anything like this inside of a school building before in my life. There were teachers standing in the hallways, but instead of pointing accusing fingers and shouting in all directions - they were smiling. Wow, teachers that smile, can you believe that? I thought that was against the law.

I had to laugh when I heard one of the teachers yell, "Hey Beaver, are you still here?"

"I'm still here," Beaver waved back.

"You must have tenure by now."

"Hey, you people need me," Beaver said. "I'm the only one who knows where all the light switches are."

Kids were conversing back and forth with teachers as if they were old friends. Is that unbelievable or what? Hey, there was even a teacher there who had a goatee. You talk about a break from the doldrums of public school etiquette. The atmosphere was so lax I felt like kicking my shoes off and walking around barefoot. This is exactly the way I always dreamed school should be.

If all that wasn't enough to get your wheels spinning, then just wait until you set foot into the Rockwood auditorium. That's where my very first day at Everett High began. We all crammed into the Rockwood auditorium for our orientation into the last three years of public school in Everett.

Now that was an assembly unlike anything else I ever experienced in school before. Kids were standing up waving and yelling out to their friends. Kids were criss-crossing through the seats to find each other. And when I spotted Stevie and Danny sitting across the room, I didn't even have to ask permission to go sit with them. Nobody cared. Is that awesome or what?

The noise quieted down to a low murmur when a distinguished looking gentleman took to the podium. His voice was gruff, but his manner was mild. He said, "My name is Eddie Leo. That's Mister Leo to you." The crowd roared.

As Mr. Leo began his presentation, the noise in the audience raised back up so loud that he was hard to hear, especially so for me because I have a hearing problem. I remember that teacher with the goatee pointing in our direction saying, "Hey guys, quiet down a little bit so people can hear, okay?"

How could you not comply to a courteous request like that? He didn't shout. He didn't threaten. He didn't blame anyone. He simply asked us to be courteous of others. I wanted to send this guy over to the Parlin and say to the teachers, "Now this is how you get kids to respond in a dignified manner. Talk to them like this and they'll be more than happy to comply."

So who was that guy with the goatee anyway? He turned out to be my geometry teacher. His name was Mr. Brogna. What a class act that guy was. I have nothing but admiration and respect for Mr. Brogna.

Even though Mr. Leo explained everything in detail, when we were all dismissed to go to our separate homerooms, I had no idea where to go next. Lucky for me, Stevie knew where the tenth grade H's were supposed to go. If not for him, I'd still be wandering around aimlessly through the corridors.

Suzie Trail was my tenth grade homeroom teacher. Well actually, that's "Miss Trail" to you. She wasn't any more than a few years older than we were. And what a sweet looking thing she was, let me tell ya. My knees wobbled the moment I laid eyes on her. I honestly couldn't see me taking too many sick days that year after gazing into a lovely pair of eyes like that.

After taking our seats, Miss Trail passed out some info cards for us to fill out that gave our contact info and things like that. I remember Stevie looking over at me saying, "Dude, snap out of it and fill out your card. You've got all year to ogle over the teacher."

"Oh yeah, the info card. Thanks Dude, I almost forgot."

I did wind up dating a girl from my homeroom that year. Of course, by the end of that school year we kind of went our separate ways. As it turned out, she was the only girl from Everett High that I ever went steady with. After that, there was just too much going on to get nailed down like that ever again.

Miss trail then passed out our class schedules and answered any of our questions to help us navigate this complex maze. Looking at my class schedule, I remember thinking, "Man if I ever lose this thing, I'll never know where I'm supposed to go." Did I ever lose it? Dudes, you must know me by now. I lost that thing by the end of my first class. I spent the rest of that day asking everybody else where to go next.

Our class schedules at Everett High bore little resemblance to anything I was ever accustomed to. We rarely had the same subject at the same time period on any given day. Of course, the once a week classes like gym, health, and art were pretty much stable, but other than that, everything else was pure pandemonium.

When the first class bell tolled, we spread out in all directions. No lines, no waiting, take any route you please so long as you get there. And let's face it. The only thing that kept getting us late for class was shooting the breeze in the hallways with our friends.

Another thing that really made Everett High school a lot of fun was that I had enrolled in the Mechanic Arts Department. Except for my studies, all my other classes were just a bunch of guys hanging out together. What a blast and half.

I will never forget my first class at Everett High school for as long as I live. I had Mr. Shotz for English. This guy had to be somewhere in the vicinity of around 102 years old. You could tell this guy was totally confused by the way he mumbled to himself as he hobbled all bent over back and forth behind his desk.

He started yelling at Beaver for talking out loud and then forgot he was even yelling at him in the middle of his sentence. And because I laughed, he made me change my seat away from the window so I wouldn't benefit from any of the healthy sunlight. Then he started yelling at another kid who was sitting down in front and the kid hadn't actually done anything. This guy was too funny for words.

He told us to open our books to the first chapter, and we didn't even get our text books yet. You should have seen him waiving his finger in the air yelling that we were supposed to come to class prepared. When Beaver told him that he hadn't passed out the text books yet, he yelled, "One more peep out of you and I'm calling the police."

I'm telling ya, I laughed so hard that day my face hurt. Halfway into the school year we still hadn't done so much as a single grammar lesson, whatsoever. All this guy did was wander about the classroom shouting at kids. This poor guy was really as gentle as a lamb. He should have retired about a decade or two ago. God only knows what was holding him up.

Every few minutes or so, he'd throw another one of us out of class. Before long, there were a half dozen or more of us standing out in the hallway. So not to get into any serious trouble, we'd sneak back into his classroom and quietly take our seat. Three minutes later, he'd forget all about having kicked you out.

Mr. Shotz left teaching for health reasons before the end of that school year, never to return again. The funny thing is, I cannot for the life of me, remember who took his place. I'm sure it was nobody as exciting as him. I can tell you that. He was one tough act to follow. Believe me.

For World History in my sophomore year, I had John Forrestaire. His class was relatively easy. He spent the whole period writing all the notes you needed for the lesson that day out in long hand on the blackboard. You had to sit there and copy it all down. This guy could write about 300 words a minute in chalk.

By the time we got all that out of the way, we barely had enough time to discuss the day's lesson before the bell rang. John Forrestaire was an alright kind of guy. We did have open classroom discussions sometimes. And he was relaxed enough to share a few laughs with you during class. I really liked this guy.

Like I said, I had Mr. Brogna for geometry in my sophomore year. He was a great teacher. Geometry can be both boring and confusing if you let it. It really comes in handy when studying mechanical drawing. It really came in handy twenty years later when I needed it for creating 3D models in Lighwave - let me tell ya.

Mr. Brogna had a mild manner and an air of sophistication about him. He could calm a rowdy class of boys without so much as a single shout. He chose his words wisely and effectively. I don't ever remember him getting angry, so to speak. His manner of teaching helped you understand complex problems in simple terms. If there ever was a teacher who set a good example for boys to know how to act in a more dignified environment, this was the guy.

For Biology, I had James Micarelli. This guy even looked like a rocket scientist. That was the year we dissected a fetal pig. That was sick. What was really sick about that was when someone in our classroom cut the head off of his pig and stuck it on the end of his pencil. And no, I'm not going to tell you who did that.

Mr. Micarelli was a well learned gentleman as well as a regular guy. We had some really good times in his classroom. He said things about the coming future that we all scoffed at. One that particularly comes to mind is when he said, "The day will come when you'll pay good money for clean drinking water." How true that is today.

Andy Mastrangello was my Mechanical Drawing teacher. Just to give you a small indication of how much I really respected this guy, consider this. I named my first born son after him.

Andy Mastrangello graduated from Everett High School back in 1962. If memory serves me well, my sophomore year was Andy Mastrangello's first year of teaching at Everett High. He started dating one of the Home Economic teachers from across the hall that year. They later married and raised a family of their own.

I mastered the art of Mechanical Drawing in his class. Because of his excellent guidance, I became a better perspective artist. The things I learned in his class have benefited me throughout my artistic career.

It's funny that I became a graphic artist and yet, I have virtually no memory of my art teacher back at Everett High. I only remember that she was crabby and had less talent than a stick. It was Andy Mastrangello who made a real impact on my artistic talents during my high school years. That art teacher made none, whatsoever.

For woodworking I had Mr. Csicsek (proper pronunciation is "chee-check"). Now there's a guy who could knock your block off if he had to. He was a somewhat heavy set guy with a lot of brute force behind him. I remember watching him knock apart an old wooden table with his bare fist. You weren't too quick to mouth off to this guy - let me tell ya.

He was really a nice guy. We had a lot of laughs in his class. What was so great about our shop classes is that they were really laid back as opposed to our regular classes. Shop class was a relaxing break from the normal school day routine. I liked that.

For study period I had Leo Kutrubes. I never had him for any other subject so I really couldn't tell ya much about this guy. The kids in the more advanced academic curriculum, whom we referred to as being in the "college" course, seemed to like him. Many of my colleagues in the "Mechanic Arts" department didn't think too highly of him. As for me, I really didn't know the guy.

I never had any run-ins with Leo Kutrubes that I can recall. Then again, I didn't really get into any serious trouble in high school. Only once did I have to suffer through detention in all three years at Everett High. That was a magnificent improvement over my earlier public school days - trust me.

You just spent the first day of school with the Everett High graduating class of 1971. In so many ways, it was so much like every other graduating class. And just as Charles Dickens was able to draw a correlation between all generations throughout time, so may we with every graduating class from Everett High school.

Each graduating class does have it's own uniqueness that leaves it's mark on the ever changing Everett High school environment. Back in 1961, they had bragging rights when it came to having an all star football team that went all the way down to Miami to stand their ground as champions amongst the eastern seaboard. Granted they lost, but consider this. Little Everett High stood up to gigantic Miami and defended their hometown honorably.

And wait until you hear this. It was the class of 1962 who staged the famous "Cafeteria Strike" that earned the right for all the following classes to leave the school premises for recess. Thanks guys.

Sophomores were really treated like under classmen during the earlier sixties and fifties. They were sent scurrying through the halls looking for an elevator that didn't exist, and some of them were told there was a swimming pool under the gymnasium floor. Imagine falling for that?

It really wasn't like that at all by the time we got to Everett High. The times had changed. It was more like the kids against the establishment than it was a seperation between the lower and upper classmen.

When I first entered EHS, I did consider signing up for sports and other academic activities, but it was the crowd I fell in with that kind of steered me away from all that. Near the end of my sophomore year I migrated up into the hills of Glendale Park to join the hippies. That was more my style.

Amongst these people I found comradery instead of competition. I found trust instead of jealousy. I found harmony instead of one-upmanship. And I found people who really knew how to party until the sun came up.

The graduating class of 1971 was punctuated with the most mind-blowing, tripped-out, hang-loose, far-out, awesome, free-loving, protesting, long-haired, concert-going, and party-hard class of freaks that ever trod the boards.

You keep tuning in and I promise you a true to life glimpse inside the class of 1971 beyond your wildest dreams. They weren't just crazy, man. They were insane. They had to be. They were from Everett!

With Folded Wings

Today, right now, where I am, the rain is falling down from the heavens so hard it's almost impossible to look out the window. The sky is so dark and gray outside that the whole world seems shrouded in a mist of despair. It's only natural, I suppose, that my thoughts should wander towards a melancholy threshold.

The last time I spoke to Stevie, he asked me, "Did you hear about Freddy?" Freddy was one of us. He hung around with our crowd out on Stevie's front steps. I have so many fond memories of Freddy that it's impossible to count them all.

He lived up on Linden Street. My earliest recollection of Freddy happened outside the Park Theatre. I honestly cannot tell you the exact year or what grade I was in.

A bunch of us from Arlington Street had just rounded the corner onto Chelsea after stepping out of the alleyway between the Park Theatre and that other building that I believe was the VFW. After seeing the long line stretching halfway up Chelsea Street, we walked under the marquee towards the end of the line.

There were always cars parked there along the curb. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two kids leaning up against one of those cars. Because I was engaged in a conversation with one of my friends, I didn't even give them so much as a glance.

Only seconds after passing by those two kids, a big heavy arm came across my face from behind. Instinctively, I grabbed a hold of the elbow and hand of that arm and threw my attacker over my back onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, I kept a firm grasp on my attacker's hand so as to break his fall.

It was then I discovered that my attacker was a kid named, Michael. I consider this kid a good friend. Michael looked up at me with somewhat of an embarrassed smile when I asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

He got up and dusted himself off. I reached out to shake his hand to make sure there were no hard feelings. With that somewhat embarrassed smile he looked over at his friend and said, "See, what did I tell ya?"

His friend laughed and said, "Man, did you go down."

To which he responded. "He'd do it to you too if you tried anything."

"Not me," his friend replied. "I'm way too fat."

"Come here for a minute," his friend said. So, I walked over there.

"Okay, so what's this all about?" I had to ask.

Then Michael asked, "Why all the secrecy about you studying Karate?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're studying Karate, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"For crying out loud, Paul. I outweigh you by fifty pounds and you just threw me over your shoulder in seconds flat."

"Everybody knows how to do a simple flip like that."

Then his friend said, "Oh please. That was no simple flip. I've never seen anyone get thrown like that before in my life."

"Honestly guys," I laughed. "That was a lucky flip. I've never done anything like that before. It was a lucky shot"

"Paul really," Michael said seriously. "I know you're studying Karate. Why don't you admit it?"

His friend then broke in on the conversation, somewhat tactfully I might add, and said. "Forget it. He doesn't want to talk about it."

Then he added, "Do you remember me?"

"You look familiar," I said, "but I can't remember from where."

"Does throwing snowballs at a drunk ring a bell?"

"Were you there, too?" I had to laugh.

"Yeah, I was there too. I was the fat kid"

What a funny story that is.

It happened outside the Brown Derby on Ferry Street. I cannot believe that place is still there. We couldn't have been any older than about the fourth or fifth grade at the time. So this had to happen more than 45 years ago.

Me and about three or four of my friends were walking along the sidewalk on Ferry Street towards Broadway. There was another small group of kids walking towards us. Had our paths not become abruptly interrupted by a drunk who came stumbling out of the barroom, we would have come face to face right there in front of the Brown Derby.

We all stopped dead in our tracks. The two groups of kids stood facing each other, about five yards away on either side of that drunk. The only reason he didn't fall flat on his face after stumbling out of the doorway is because he caught himself by grabbing onto a car parked along the curbstone. In the process, he lost one of his shoes.

He stood there motionlessly for about a minute or two, and then he put his shoeless foot down - into a deep puddle of wet mush. Looking up into the sky while still holding onto the roof of that car he cried out, "Oh for cry sakes!" We all burst out laughing.

"You think it's funny you (very naughty word goes here) kids?"

"We think it's hysterical," my friend, Jacky, said.

"It won't be so (very naughty word goes here also) funny when I smash your (very naughty word goes here too) heads together," he shouted.

"You gotta catch us first," Jacky said.

"I know I can catch the fat one," he shouted. Referring, of course, to the kid I'm telling you about. The one who said he was there, too.

That guy started chasing after the fat kid. He still only had one shoe on. We all ran straight across Ferry Street through the traffic. This guy stopped because of all the cars passing in between him and us. We now all stood on the opposite sidewalk.

"That guy's gonna kill me," that kid said.

"Are you kidding?" Jacky said. "He can't beat us all up. Look at him. He can't even stand up right. We'll all gang up on him and beat him to a pulp. Everybody make a snowball."

As soon as the traffic cleared, this guy started across the street towards us. Somebody yelled, "Fire!" And we let him have it.

That snow was wet and mushy. You know what that means, don't you? Those snowballs were as hard as a rock. And you know us. We all aimed for the face. That guy stumbled backwards and landed on his keister in the middle of Ferry Street. Before he could pull himself back up, we had another volley of snowballs ready for him.

We never even gave him the chance to get up off of all fours before we fired the second volley. We all then ran about five or six car lengths towards Glendale Park and ducked behind a parked utility truck. While somebody kept watch, we replenished our ammunition. He never did pursue us after that. He wobbled back into the Brown Derby.

Seconds later, three or four guys came out of the Brown Derby with him. He was pointing across the street at us. At first, we thought he was gathering friends to come after us, but when they started laughing at him we knew the situation was nowhere near that serious.

"Can you believe that?" Jacky said, "He was going to organize a gang of grown men to come after us. We ought to make these snowballs as hard as ice and go after them. We'll knock their eyes out with these things."

We never did go after them. In the end, cooler heads prevailed and we had decided that at that point, the victory was all ours. Why push it?

After that, we all gathered on one of the benches in Glendale Park and had a good laugh over the whole incident. We had bragging rights. That's for sure.

Okay, let's get back to the Park Theatre.

So now this kid says, "So you guys going in?" Meaning into the Park Theatre.

"Yeah, you?"

"Yeah. Come on Mike, let's join up with these guys. You mind?"

"No, not at all. Come on."

That's my earliest memory of Freddy. That day in front of the Park Theatre. But the story of that meeting doesn't end there. That was one of those days when the kids at the Park Theatre really got out of hand.

The crowd was really rowdy that day. I'm sure it was one of Leo's most trying times in all of his career. We were sitting near the back of the theatre on the right hand side. Somebody somewhere threw something. We got splattered with it.

Freddy had a whole box of buttered popcorn. He held onto the box but whipped all of his popcorn into the direction he thought the other projectile came from. The lights went on after that.

Leo's voice boomed over the PA system. "Okay, who threw the popcorn?"

The ushers crowded around our area. Kids in other sections were pointing over at us. One of the ushers pointed right at us and asked, "Was it you?"

Freddy pointed at the kids sitting in front of us and said, "I think they did it."

"Did you do it?" The usher asked them.

"We didn't do it. It came from behind us," they answered quite angrily while giving us dirty looks.

"You did it didn't you?" He asked us again.

"We don't have any popcorn," Freddy said. "Check and see who has the box."

Sure enough, the ushers found the empty popcorn box under their seats. Freddy kicked it there.

They turned to us and said, "We'll wait for you guys outside. You're dead."

"They won't be there," Freddy laughed.

"What makes you so sure?" I asked.

"Think about it. There's six of us and three of them. Besides, if they saw what you did outside, they won't stick around."

He was right. They didn't hang around.

I didn't run into Freddy again until a few years later when I started hanging around with Stevie Hudson. That's when I really got to know Freddy.

When Freddy was around, we laughed. His sense of humor was contagious, to say the least. No matter how serious the situation, he showed you the humor in it. He did have a serious side, but only when it was absolutely necessary. Believe me, this was a kid you could call on in a pinch. He'd come through for you come hell or high water.

Freddy was a really heavy set kid, but let me tell ya something. It was no liability when it came to charming the ladies. This kid had a way with women that absolutely bowled me over. The girls loved Freddy. They fell for all of his sweet talking with those baby blue eyes of his in a big way.

One of the funniest nights I ever spent with Freddy was up in his top floor apartment on Linden Street. His father bought him this awesome multi-band radio for his birthday. We sat up in his living room trying to see what kind of exotic broadcasts we could draw in on his new radio.

After a while, we came across what sounded like a personal phone call. Because the voices sounded just like the way people talk to each other over the phone, we sat there listening intensively. We couldn't imagine that we were listening to somebody's personal telephone conversation, but that's what it was.

It was a phone call between a woman and a man. They did the usual ums and uhs between words, long pauses, and everything else we all commonly do over the phone. It soon became obvious that this was a conversation between a married man and his back street lady friend. Their names were Ronnie and Betty.

Towards the end of the conversation, Ronnie told Betty to call him sometime after ten o' clock because Diane usually falls asleep around nine-thirty. Betty asked, "Are you sure? I don't want to get you into any trouble."

"Don't worry," Ronnie said. "It'll be fine. In the rare event that Diane should answer the phone, just ask for Joe and she'll think it's a wrong number."

"Okay," Betty answered. "Give me your number again so I can write it down."

Ronnie gave out his phone number over the radio. It was an Everett telephone number.

You can just imagine what happened next - right? We're talking back in the days when nobody had caller ID or anything remotely similar in technology. These were the days when kids could have fun on the telephone. And boy, did we ever.

At precisely 9:58 p.m., Freddy dialed Ronnie's telephone number. The conversation went like this.

Ronnie: "Hi. You're a few minutes early, but that's okay. The coast is clear."

Freddy: "What you mean the coast is clear?"

Ronnie: "Oh, I'm sorry. Who is this?"

Freddy: "Who do you think it is?"

Ronnie: "Who are you looking for?"

Freddy: "Is this Ronnie?"

Ronnie: "Yeah, who's this?"

Freddy: "Is Diane asleep?"

Ronnie: "Who is this?"

Freddy: "This is a friend of Betty's. The games over, pal. Diane is onto you. Just wait till you get hit with all the evidence in court. You're gonna pay through the nose, buddy boy. It's all over now."

"click." Ronnie hung up.

We rolled on the floor in stitches.

"Can you image the trauma Ronnie's going through right now? Just wait till Betty calls," Freddy laughed. "I can just picture it. The phone's gonna ring and Ronnie's gonna sound like Jacky Gleason going "humina - humina - humina."

This is a blast," Freddy laughed. "Let's do some more."

We cracked open the phone book and started dialing some the local businesses. He called for a taxi, a pizza, and a Chinese food take-out delivery to a house across the street that didn't look as though anyone was home. We then sat at the window and watched all these services converge on his unwitting neighbors all at once.

The taxi kept honking his horn and the delivery guys kept knocking on the door. Ten minutes later, they all gave up and went away. So Freddy called them all back and yelled at them for not showing up. Fifteen minutes later, they were all back again honking the horn and knocking at the door. Ten minutes after that, they all gave up again.

Again Freddy called them all back and gave them hell. But this time, each of them said that they would no longer honor anymore phone orders from that address. "Just wait till these people try to order anything over the phone," he laughed.

I know that sounds cruel, but what kid has never played tricks on the telephone, especially back in our day? It used to be favorite past time amongst kids back then. You could never pull anything like that off with the technology they've got today.

And then there was the night Freddy said, "Hey, there's suppose to be some big party in Melrose tonight. You wanna go?"

"Whose party is it?"

"I don't know. I heard some girls talking up at Everett Station. It supposed to be somewhere behind Melrose Square at some girl named, Kathy's house. Come on. Let's go."

We caught the Bus on Broadway across from Hancock Street and got off in Malden Square. From there we thumbed a ride to Melrose. We walked up to that big crowd of kids hanging around in front of that church on Main Street. Freddy asked, "Where's Kathy's party?"

"Who are you?" One of the guys asked.

"I'm a friend of Kathy's, but I've never been to her house."

"Oh, the party doesn't start until after nine. You can grab a ride with one of us."

"Whose got a cigarette?" Freddy asked.

We sat there mingling with the crowd for about a half hour. When everybody took off to go to Kathy's party, Freddy got us a ride with a couple of the girls there. On our way over to Kathy's house, they asked us how we knew Kathy. Freddy told them that he and Kathy go back a long ways.

When we got to Kathy's house, instead of trying to just blend in with the crowd, Freddy threw up his arm and shouted, "Hey Kathy, we made it."

"Who are you?" Kathey asked with a somewhat quizzical look on her face.

"Don't tell me you don't remember me. It's me, Freddy. I brought Paul with me."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you," she said.

"Oh Kathy, I don't believe it."

"Where did me meet?" She asked.

"You don't remember?"

"Were you the one down on the beach?" She asked.

"Yeah, don't you remember?" Freddy was playing her for all she was worth. Let's face it. Kids from Everett have a gall and a half.

"I don't remember inviting you," she said.

"Why else would I be here?"

"Well, come on in. I'll introduce you to everybody."

What a blast we had that night. When the party broke up in the wee hours of the morning, the girls who gave us a lift to the party wound up taking us down to the beach. We took a long walk along the tide's ebb on the sand against the backdrop of a really romantic sunrise. What a night to remember. I'm telling ya.

I remember waking up on Freddy's living room floor later that afternoon. There was Freddy sprawled out on the couch sawing wood to beat the band. When he snorted awake, I asked, "Dude, did you get a phone number or anything?"

"No, did you?"

"I forgot to ask."

"Yeah, me too."

"Do you remember their names?"

"No, you?"

"No man, that's not good. How we ever gonna find those girls again?"

"We'll find different ones next time."

"Dude, they were really pretty."

"Pretty girls are a dime a dozen," he laughed. "If we ever get that hard up we'll go back to that crowd in front of the church and look them up. There's too many girls and not enough time to get hung up on them two."

That was Freddy's life philosophy in a nutshell. Life was something you play by ear. You go with the flow and make your own rules as you go along. There's no need to buck the system. If things don't go your way in this direction, you go around the other way.

In all honesty, it was probably no more than about a half a dozen times that Freddy and I hung out together without the rest of the crowd. But every time was a real doozey. I once said to him, "Freddy, I can't take it any more. You're too much for me, Dude. Do you do these kind of things all the time?"

"I only get like this when I'm with you," he laughed. "You bring out the worst in me."

Falling asleep on Stevie's floor because we were having too much fun to go home at a decent hour is something Freddy and I have done more often than not. I remember a couple of nights we sat up playing cards until the sun came up. Man, those were the days.

Maybe Freddy comes to mind right now because that torrential downpour outside is making me drift off into a melancholy daydream. I'm just standing here looking out through this sliding glass door watching the raindrops fall from the edge of the maple leaves down onto the patio. My mind is a million miles away right now.

I'm thinking to myself about how some people pass through our lives so briefly sometimes and yet leave behind a wealth of sunshine that we can lean on to get us through the hard times. They leave us with memories that make us smile when we're having a hard time to find anything to smile about. It kind of makes you think that that's the real purpose behind friendship in the first place. Doesn't it?

Stevie's words haunt me now and I've got to be honest with ya. They're edging my eyes with tears. I remember his words so vividly. He said, "Did you hear about Freddy?"

"No, what about Freddy?"

"He died."

"He died?"

"Yeah, a few years ago. I did the eulogy at his funeral. If that isn't sad enough, his wife, Linda, passed away about a year and a half after him. She was from Everett, too. They left a teenage daughter. She was devastated."

Well, I guess she would be. It tugs at my heart strings knowing that poor child suffered such a devastating loss at such a young age. I did not know her mother, but I can tell you this. If she won Freddy's heart, she must have been a phenomenal person. I never thought Freddy would ever settle down. Only an exceptional person could have captured his heart.

It saddens me to think how that poor child will never get the chance to know the Freddy I knew. I'm sure he left her with a wealth of sunshine to lean on. He did me.

How silly it is that we look at death as the bitter end. One of the best books I've ever read in my life is "With Folded Wings," by Stewart Edward White. The manuscript was sent to the publisher only days before the author's death. The book is now in the public domain and you can download it for free by "clicking" your "Right Mouse Button" and choosing "Save Target As" on this link.

This book explains how our mindset is so much like that of the caterpillar. We all go through life thinking that what we are experiencing is as far as we can go in life. Like the caterpillar, we cannot even begin to imagine what's in store after we pass beyond this dimension. We go through life with folded wings.

When the caterpillar rolls himself up into a cacoon, he thinks he's dying. He has no idea that he is about to experience a magnificent rebirth, sprout colorful wings, and soar off into the sky with an unconfined freedom unlike anything he has ever experienced before. His passing is not an end, but an entirely new beginning. We, being so much more than a lowly insect, must certainly pass into an existence beyond our wildest dreams.

All I can see in my mind's eye right now is Freddy's smile. It's the only expression I've ever seen on his face. And even at a moment when my heart feels so heavy thinking about him, the memory of his smile shines so bright that he's making me smile even behind these tears.

I'm a very lucky person - especially because Freddy was my friend. And "We're From Everett!"

The Party of the Century

Today I'm gonna swear. I can't help it. It's not my fault. I know that sounds like a cop out, but let me explain something to ya. There are just some kids who come into our lives when we were growing up in Everett that are nothing less than ten miles of bad road. You know what I mean?

My mother once said to me, "What is it about you that always attracts these off-beat whacko types?"

"Gee, Ma, I couldn't tell ya."

For some strange reason, those are the kinds of kids that were always attracted to me. I don't understand it. After all, I'm such a quiet and shy, keep to myself kind of guy.

So that's why I'm gonna say a naughty word today. It's not my fault. It's the fault of one of those bad kids that somehow weaseled his way into my life. So do you really want to know whose fault it is? Okay, I'm not holding any punches here. It's time to let the cat out of the bag.

It's Steven Hudson's fault. That's right. It's all his fault. That kid is bad to the bone. He's been a bad influence on me since the day we first met. Now this is one kid I should have scraped off my shoe years ago, but just can't to seem to pull it off.

Even the way we first met was under derogatory circumstances - let me tell ya. It happened one day during recess at the Parlin Junior High school. My friend, Freddy, pointed at this tall skinny kid and said, "Paul, you gotta go see that kid's tie."

Okay, so now you're wondering why this kid was wearing a tie to school - right? I'll explain that. No, it wasn't because he was such a geek, although he kind of looked like one. Of course, back then we all looked like geeks because of the strict dress code they had in school.

Boys got sent home from school with a note back then if their hair was too long. They had a finger rule. Your hair had to be cut above your ears at the width of a finger. Think I'm kidding? Mr. Dakin sent me home from school in the seventh grade at the Fairfield Whitney one day because my hair violated the finger rule. That's a true story.

Back then, they did not allow the girls to wear slacks of any kind to school. Even in the dead of winter, they had to walk to school through the freezing sleet and rain with their legs exposed. My heart goes out to those girls. And even though I loved looking at their legs, they certainly had my sympathies. I cannot begin to imagine how torturous that must have been.

All the boys had to button their top shirt button and wear a tie - no exceptions. It never failed, every morning before school I'd stand in front of that bathroom mirror choking and gagging trying to get that top button buttoned. Some teachers allowed you to wear a string tie, but some did not.

What we called "String Ties" were actually "Bolo Ties" of Native American origin. They consisted of a cord draped around your collar, held together by a "bolo" that you could slide all the way up to your neck to hold your shirt closed without having to button that top button. It was more comfortable than the traditional necktie. The drawback was that you had these two dangly strings bouncing up and down on your chest as you walked.

Now that we've got all that out of the way, let's get back to our story.

So, like I said, Freddy grabbed a hold of my arm and said, "Paul, you gotta go see that kid's tie." I walked over to this kid and I'm standing there looking at his tie. As I recall, it was a slightly wider than usual black tie with this cursive looking calligraphic scroll design along the length of the tie.

Well actually, it had two scroll designs running parallel to one another down along the front. On second glance, I could tell that one of the scrolls was the mirror image of the other. It was a nice design, slightly unusually, but quite artistic if nothing else. I liked it.

"Hey dude, I like your tie," I said with somewhat of a shrug because at this point I really didn't see what the big deal was all about.

"Thanks," he said with this "you-know-what" eating grin as if he's waiting for the second shoe to drop.

Then, Freddy said, "No Paul, you don't get it. Tilt your head to the left and just look at the design on the right side of the tie."

That's when it hit me.

At first glance I'd have to say that looking at this kid from a distance, you'd never suspect what a party-hard "barrel of fun" this kid really was. He looked so straight and narrow you'd swear this kid was every mother's son just waiting to happen. Nothing could be further from the truth.

When I tilted my head to the left and looked at the scroll on the right, I burst out laughing. It was not only because that scroll was the perfect example of what you could do creatively with a simple word neatly written in cursive penmanship. And it was not only because that kid's tie broke every rule in the book on proper public school etiquette. But it was also because by all appearances, this was one of the last kids on earth that you would suspect would wear a tie to school that blatantly said "Bullshit" on it.

I laughed so hard that Mr. Cardillo, who was one of the teachers monitoring the school ground that recess, turned and asked, "What's so funny?"

"Oh, Mr. Cardillo, you gotta see this," I said. "Look at this kid's tie. Is that a scream or what?"

Mr. Cardillo shook his head and laughed. I knew he was the kind of guy who would see the humor in it without making a big deal out of it. Mr. Cardillo was a really great guy. This kid, however, apparently didn't know that. You should have seen the look of surprised concern that come over his face when I pointed out his tie to one of the teachers.

That's all it took for this kid and me to become the best of friends. If that sounds shallow to you, then let me tell you something. Just because we're all from Everett doesn't mean we're all alike. On the contrary, I've never witnessed such a diversity in convictions and lifestyles anywhere else in the world as I did amongst the people from Everett. On the other hand, there are just some things about people that have "Everett" written all over them. Rebellion is certainly one of them.

It just so happened that I was over my friend, Eddie's house about a week before that happened. We were listening to some albums on his record player and fooling around with his guitar. At the time, neither one of us could really play anything. We knew a few chords, but that was about it.

After getting into some heavy Beatles and Stones, Eddie pulled out this album by a group called, "The Ultimate Spinach."

"The girl in this band is from Everett," he said.

"Get out."

"No really. She plays guitar and sings lead on this number. Check this out."

He played a song on the album entitled, "Reasons." The finger picking guitar work was very impressive to say the least. Oh, but the voice, that's what really caught my attention. That girl's voice was poetically magnificent. I couldn't help but ask, "That girl's from Everett?"

"Yeah, her name is Barbara Hudson."

"Wow, she's incredible!" She was incredible.

So we're back at recess at the Parlin now and me and Freddy are still talking to this kid with the funny tie. Freddie points at this kid and says to me, "Do you know who his sister is?"

Of course I say, "No."

"His sister is Barbara Hudson from the Ultimate Spinach."

"Get outta here. Is your sister Barbara Hudson?"

"Yeah."

"With the Ultimate Spinach?"

"Yeah."

"I don't believe it."

"It's true."

"Oh no, it's not that I don't believe you. I don't believe it because I was just listening to your sister sing last week. She's awesome."

"Thanks."

"You into music?"

"Something wicked," he said

"Dude, we gotta get together some time. You seem like a funny kid."

"So do you," he laughed.

"What's your name, Dude?"

"Steve."

"Steven Hudson, huh?"

"Yeah."

"My names Paul," I reached out to shake hands.

"Yeah, I know."

"What da ya mean you know?"

"Everybody knows you."

"They do? What am I famous?"

"Kind of. Everybody knows you're crazy," he laughed.

"Hey, you wanna take a walk down to the record shop after school and check out the new tunes?"

"Sounds cool," he said.

Okay, now here's the funny part. When I met up with Stevie after school I said, "Hey Dude, I'm broke. I gotta run by my house and get some cash. Is that all right with you?"

"Yeah, that's cool."

After coming back out of my house, he said to me, "Okay, you can come to my house now whenever you want to."

"Oh really?" I said somewhat sarcastically.

"Yeah."

"Okay, so why all of a sudden am I invited to your house?"

"Because you're poor like me. I was afraid that maybe your family had money and you'd look down on me."

"Hey Dude really, when it comes to being poor, my family's got the market cornered. Don't ever feel like that. If somebody's gonna like you - they're gonna like you. If they only like you for status, they ain't a friend. They're a parasite."

"Yeah I know. I just feel more comfortable knowing you're poor like me."

"Dude, if I wasn't poor I'd be living in Newton, not Everett," I laughed.

That's the way the whole thing started. We both knew right then and there that we had formed a friendship for life. And we did. We shared a lot of laughs together over the years.

A whole gang of us hung around at Stevie's house down on Malden Street. Stevie's mother and father were like a second pair of parents to the whole gang of us. You couldn't help but love these people. They were real down-to-earth Everett people.

His father's name was Ralph. We all affectionately called him, "Ralphie." His mother's name was Lillian. We all just called her, "Ma." His Dad was a retired Airforce officer who worked his retirement years for Hoods milk. His mother was an executive secretary at American Biltrite in Chelsea. It was because of her that I landed my first corporate account as a graphic designer shortly after graduating High school.

I cannot number how many times we gathered out on Stevie's front porch all through the night having the time of our lives. I finally did get to meet his sister, Barbara. What an awesome kid she was.

Barbara used to sit there out on the front porch with us and finger pick some of the most beautiful guitar work I've ever heard in my life. I'd sit there totally mesmerized thinking to myself, "One of these days I'm gonna be able to play like that, I swear."

It was Barbara who taught me how to finger pick in the first place. She was that kind of kid. Man, you couldn't ask for a nicer person. And if you thought her voice sounded magnificent on those Ultimate Spinach records, you should have heard how she sounded singing live. My gawd, that girl's voice was so romantically poetic that it harmonized with the sounds of nature themselves.

Now honestly, a girl so lovely with so much talent as that is not going to hang around for very long before the wolves come salivating. After awhile this guy named, Marty, started hanging around a lot. He was the older brother of one of the kids we graduated with. His father was a teacher at the Parlin.

Marty is legendary when it comes to guitarists who grew up in Everett. The only other Everett kid that even comes anywhere close to Marty with a guitar is Bobby Conroy. The rest of us are miles behind them - trust me.

Marty used to sit out on the front porch, playing guitar and singing entire Beatle's albums - note for note and word for word. His performance was beyond sensational. He had a magnificent voice, and like I said, his guitar work was unbelievable. What also made his performance so memorable is that he would pause between songs the same length of time as there was between the song on the Beatle's album. It was an incredible thing to experience.

Besides being very musically talented, Marty had a sense of humor that would knock you out. This kid was very funny. Not only that, but he had a personality that was so warm and friendly that you could not help but love this kid. What a class act this guy was.

So whatever happened to Marty? He married Barbara. Isn't that awesome? Yeah, they're still together. They have three beautiful children who also graduated from Everett High. They still live in Everett. Barbara volunteers much of her free time and talent with Everett's youth in a musical way. These are two really beautiful people - let me tell ya.

Now let me get back to telling you a little bit about Stevie's Dad. Ralphie was kind of strict on Stevie on some things, but very lax on others. It was hard for him to be too strict for two reasons. First because Ralphie really loved his son. He'd do absolutely anything in his power to make his son happy. And secondly because Freddy and me were always hanging around and the two of us were about as conventional as a Salvidor Dali painting. It's kind of hard to keep your son on the straight and narrow when his two best friends are real screwballs.

Hey, you should have seen the time when Ralphie was teaching Stevie how to drive. What a riot. Whenever Ralphie took Stevie out for a driving lesson, me and Freddy hopped into the back seat to go along for the ride.

The first thing Ralphie would say is, "Make sure you grip the steering wheel firmly with both hands at all times. Place your left hand at the ten o' clock position, and your right hand at the two o' clock position. Always wrap your thumbs all the way underneath the steering wheel so you've got a good firm grip."

I gotta be honest with ya. Ralphie was a great driving teacher. As a result, Stevie's a good driver. He's nothing like me at all. You ask anyone who's ever driven in a car with me. They all say the same things.

Whenever anyone gets out of my car after riding with me they always say, "I feel like I just took a ride in a rocking chair. Why do you always wait so long to apply the brakes? You're supposed to slow down when you come to a stop light. You're not supposed to jam on your brakes the moment your headlights are perpendicular with the streetlight."

Another thing they complain about is the way I always steer with my left hand and hang my right arm over the back of the seat. They say I look too relaxed to drive. They also hate the way I turn around, take my eyes off the road, and look behind me to talk to whoever is in the back seat. People hate that. Don't ask me why.

Stevie was driving beautifully that day on Broadway in Revere when he smashed into the rear end of that car in front of us with full force. It wasn't his fault really. None of us were paying attention and nobody realized that the light had changed.

We were all having a grand old time trying to come up with funny band names. Danny came up with "Transparent frog." We laughed hysterically. Then Stevie came up with, "Four to Nothing." If that wasn't funny enough, he said, "Hey, their first album could be titled, "You can't get that out of Four to Nothing." We laughed until our sides ached.

The idea behind it all is that the stranger the album title or band name, the funnier it was. We're talking a time when bands were coming out with really weird names like, "The Strawberry Alarm Clock," and "Mott The Hoople." What we were trying to do was come up with something so out of the ordinary that it defied conventional wisdom.

All of a sudden this awesome idea for a wild band name struck me really funny. I started laughing before I could even say it out loud. The more I thought about it, the harder I laughed. Stevie and Danny were laughing because I was laughing even though they had no idea what I was trying to say. I finally calmed down enough to get it out.

I said, "Okay, this is an album title by a new group. Are you ready for this?"

"We're ready," they laughed.

"A Frozen Cake of Thought" by "Moon Toot."

They laughed, but they kind of looked at me as if to say, "Woah, this kid needs some serious counseling." It was at that very moment we crashed into the car in front of us.

You want funny stories about Steven Hudson? Man, I could on indefinitely. Like the time we were all coming home from that "Sea Train" concert up in Marblehead. "Sea Train" had earned their fame with a poetic folk song based on the "Story of Job" from the Bible.

Driving home from that concert, we were all three sheets to the wind, except for our designated driver, Danny. I was sitting up front in the passenger seat. Stevie was in the back seat in between Freddy and Toby. All of a sudden we hear Freddy in the back say, "Oh man, pull over. I think I'm gonna be sick."

Stevie was so wasted he turned to Freddy and said, "You can throw up on me, man, if you want to. I'll understand." Danny and I lost all composure when we heard that.

Don't you dare sit there reading this saying "Tisk - tisk." Let's face it. If you grew up in Everett, chances are, you've had your share of praying to the "Porcelain God." It happens.

Which brings me to our New Years Eve story. During our Everett High school years, we had a New Years Eve party at Stevie's house that broke all the rules. Stevie was working at the First National grocery store in Prattville at the time, so he had invited a few of his coworkers. I had invited a few of the kids from Glendale Park.

Ralphie and Lil had gone out for the evening so we had the place to ourselves. Even Billy from upstairs came down to party. Billy was a year or two younger than us.

Calling this "The Party of the Century" is an understatement. We got our hands on every different kind of alcoholic beverage we could find and mixed them all together into a concoction that was as potent as nitroglycerine itself, I swear.

The music blared and the kids were dancing, and laughing, and singing, and carrying on like it was their last day on the planet. There was even one girl there who was walking her invisible dog all around the living room. That was a party to remember.

After all the kissing, and hugging, and laughing, and crying, that goes on when that ball dropped in Times Square, the crowd thinned out. Stevie turned to me and Freddy and said, "We got to knock this place into shape before Ralphie and Lil get home."

We scurried about the place trying to hide every telltale shred of evidence that would give any indication of how wild and out of control that party got. Raplhie and Lil knew were going to have a party. What they didn't know was the extent of it all.

We had all the windows and doors open to dissipate all the cigarette smoke. We wiped down all the furniture to get rid of the smell of that alcohol. And we even had to throw away some clothes that somebody left behind.

In the middle of working diligently to clean up this crime scene, we heard what sounded like a lion's roar come from the bedroom. We just looked at each other and said, "What in the world was that?" And then it hit us. "That was Billy."

We raced into the bedroom. There was Billy stretched out across the bed on his back. He looked like he had been crucified right there on the bed. His eyes were half rolled up into the back of his head and his mouth was hung wide open. We knew he was still alive because he was moaning.

"Oh no," Stevie said. "What are we gonna do with him?"

"Let's slide him under the bed before Ralphie and Lil get home," Freddy laughed.

All of a sudden, Billy let out with one last giant groan, and then he projectile vomited straight up into the air. That stuff flowed like a fountain. It shot straight up for several feet and then fell back down all over the place. The bedroom was flooded. It was every where. And the smell - whew!

So what happens next? Ralph and Lil step into the front door. Of all times for this to happen - right? We had just finished getting the whole place spiffed up. Ralphie was livid.

It's not so much that we had a wild party that ticked him off, as it was that we allowed this kid to get so sick. Ralphie was really disappointed in us. He was ashamed of us. And because we respected Ralphie so dearly, we felt every ounce of that shame - let me tell ya.

Billy was fine after he thew up. I ran into him about ten years later. The first thing I said was, "Do you remember the time...?"

"Yep, don't even go there," he laughed.

If you really want to get a good idea of what a bad influence Stevie was on me, just thumb through that 1971 Everett High School yearbook. There's a picture of Stevie and me at the bottom of one of those pages. That was Stevie's idea to do that. I'm not that kind of kid.

There was another incident I should mention involving our tenth grade homeroom teacher, Miss Trail, but I won't. I know I shouldn't leave you hanging like that, but there's no way I'm ever going to put that incident in writing. Stevie can tell you all about it at the class reunion.

After graduation, Stevie and I began to drift apart. Oh no, not in friendship, mind you, it's just that life began to get in the way. Stevie went off to college and I met a studio musician who was teaching me how to play guitar beyond my wildest dreams.

Shortly after that, Stevie started dating a girl who graduated from Pope John and I started seeing a girl from Reading. Hey, let's face it. Nothing breaks up the old gang like a couple of girls. They'll do it every time - no?

Stevie and I haven't talked to each other in decades. A few months ago, his sister, Barbara, gave me his phone number. He still lives in Massachusetts. Talking to Stevie again after all these years reassured me of one thing. No matter how much distance or time passes between us, we'll always be the best of friends.

We sure have a lot of good memories to share. Give me time. We'll get there. Man, we were crazy. I guess that goes without saying. After all, we're all a little bit crazy. We've got to be. "We're From Everett!"

Your Cheating Heart

There was just one aspect about growing up in Everett when we were kids that simply cannot be ignored. It was virtually impossible to study for a test with all the distractions that were going on outside. Let's face it. Everett never was one of those bedroom communities that rolled up its sidewalks at night.

There was always something going on outside your window in Everett no matter what neighborhood you lived in - even back in the early sixties. That was especially true down on Arlington Street.

That's one of the things I hated about going back to school after a carefree summer of frolic and fun. Nothing is worse than having to stay in after supper to study for a test when you can hear all of your friends outside having the time of their lives. It's enough to drive you utterly mad.

That reminds me of an incident that happened when I was in the sixth grade at the Horace Mann Elementary school. On this one particular Thursday afternoon, I had to stay in after supper to study for a history test on Friday. Stretched out across the bottom of my bed with my history book trying to make sense out of all this historic baloney, all I could hear was the kids playing stick ball right outside my window.

How on earth was I going to remember that the Boston Massacre happened on March 5th in 1770, when I'm listening to the kids outside yelling, "You didn't step on third. You're out!"

"I stepped on third. You're just mad cuz you missed me."

"Nossah, you leaped over the base. And besides, you stepped off the baseline."

"How could I help it? The tail lights of Mr. Bowser's car cross over the third base line."

"That's because you kicked the pizza box when you rounded the corner."

"Well that proves I stepped on third then."

"Nossah, you kicked it, but you didn't step on it."

"That don't matter as long as I touched it."

Are they serious? I mean, really? They all know I can't come out because I'm studying for a test. A little common courtesy goes a long way. Why don't they play something quiet like "my eye spies" or something?

All of a sudden I hear somebody shout, "That does it. You're a cheatah. I quit!"

Good, maybe I'll get some peace and quiet now. Sounds to good to be true - doesn't it? You know what they say "If it sounds to good to be true then it usually is." That is especially true with kids. You know kids. They'll get mad at each other and quit playing one game only to make up and start a whole new game of something else only two seconds later.

I better get busy while the going is good. Let me see now. The Boston Tea Party happened on December 17th in 1773. So in the chronological time line of events leading up to the American Revolution, the Boston Massacre happened before the Boston Tea Party. I better make a study list.

Halfway into my study list, I hear someone outside yell, "I got my gools."

"Where were you? I didn't even see you."

"I was down inside the Coolin's trash barrel."

"Whew man, you smell like a fart."

"That's because my foot went through a bunch of egg shells with some soupy stuff all over them and my socks got all wet."

That does it. I can't take it any more. So I go over to the window and shout, "Quiet down out there. I'm trying to study for a test."

"You missed it, man. Joey was hiding in the Coolin's trash can and he smells like a fart."

All of a sudden I see Jacky sneak up behind everybody and grab a hold of the tree out in front of my house. "I got my gools!" He shouts.

"Hey, no fairs. I was talking to Paul up in the window."

"Where?"

"Right there. See?"

"Hey Paul, come on out and play "hide and go seek" with us."

"I gotta study for a test."

"Do that later."

"My mother wants to me to do it now."

"Tell her you're finished. She won't know."

"Okay, let me see if I can pull it off."

Now honestly, sometimes I'm not the brightest bulb on the tree. Not once did I take into consideration that if I can hear everything that's going on outside, then certainly my mother, who's sitting in the very next room, can hear everything just as well. She can certainly hear me yelling back and forth out the window to the kids down on the sidewalk. That's for sure.

When I step out into the living room, I don't even get the chance to open my mouth. She looks at me and says, "Get back in there and study for your history test. You're not going out tonight and that's final." Without saying a word, I slump back onto my bed.

Two minutes later the ice cream truck comes jingle jangling down the street.

"I'm getting a push up."

"Hey, I was here first. Get in line."

"I'll take a creamsicle, please."

"Hey Gracie, want a Hoodsie?"

"You got any Fudgicles?"

Ma, can I get an ice cream? The ice cream truck's outside."

"Go get an ice cream and then come right back upstairs."

"Thanks ma. You're the best."

Seconds later, I'm standing at the back of the line.

"Hey, it worked? You can come out and play?"

"No, it didn't work. I gotta get my ice cream and go back inside."

"how's your studying going?"

"Not too good."

"You oughtta make it easy on yourself and make a cheat sheet for your test."

"I couldn't do that. You can get kicked out of school for cheating."

"Only if they catch you. Besides, you're only in the sixth grade. It's not like you're in college or anything. Everybody cheats."

"Nossah. I've got girls in my class that ace everything. They never cheat. They don't have to."

"That's because girls don't have a real life. All they care about is looking pretty and making everybody think they're smart. They don't struggle with the added burdens of a social life like guys do. Heck, they don't even play football."

"Well, I'm not gonna cheat."

"Suit yourself. Look stupid in front of everybody else. See if I care."

Okay, so now I'm back up in my bedroom hitting the history book. I've had my ice cream and it's really time to buckle down and get this show on the road if I'm gonna pass this test. This is my first test for the school year. I don't want to start the season off with a loss. If that happens my mother will really come down on me.

The only logical thing to do is to sit down and make a chronological list of all the events leading up to the Battle on the Old North Bridge in Lexington. I've got one thing going in my favor now. The streetlights came on and all the kids had to go in. I've finally got some peace and quiet to study with.

Once I buckled down it only took me about twenty minutes to make that study sheet. After looking at all this information in a neatly organized fashion, it doesn't look so overwhelming. Now the big trick is to lodge this information into my memory banks.

The bad news is that when the streetlights come on, all my friends got to go in, but now all the teenagers come out and hang around outside. They're even worse then my friends for two reasons. The first one is because they talk about other people behind their backs and tell dirty jokes. Their conversations are far more interesting than anything my friends ever talk about. And the second one is because they can't just stand there and talk, they got to have a radio on where ever they go.

I'm trying to ignore all the distractions going on out on the sidewalk while trying to remember that the "Sugar Act" happened before the "Stamp act." And because the colonists violently protested these acts, the British drew up a "Quartering Act" to house British Soldiers in the colonist's homes. Man, you talk about asking for trouble - right?

At least I'm focusing on the material now. That lasts for about another ten minutes until I hear Artie down on the sidewalk yell, "Hey, you know what I'm gonna do to Angie when I get her at the drive in? I'm gonna ...," so now I'm running over towards the window because you know I want to hear the rest of that conversation.

Why is it always just when somebody's about to say something really risqué that somebody else in the crowd cuts them off saying, "Shhh, quiet down man. Everybody's got their windows open." There's no way I'm gonna hear the rest of that conversation now that he's toned it down to just above a whisper. All I can hear now is Arnie "Woo Woo" Ginsberg shouting out over my brother's car radio.

If that isn't enough to keep me distracted, they've got Hank Ballad on the radio singing, "There's a thrill up on the hill, let's go, let's go, let's go." I'm sitting here trying to absorb all this information about the "American Revolution" and my foot's tapping to the beat and my leg's going up and down to the rhythm of the music. You can't win.

Okay, so maybe Hank Ballard ain't enough to throw you off course, but let me tell you something. I don't care what generation you come from. If Fats Domino's "I'm Walking To New Orleans," or Elvis' "I'm All Shook Up," or even Bobby Day's "Rockin Robin" doesn't get your foot tapping, then you are stone deaf. It's as simple as that.

You want to know what my weakness is? My weakness is Chuck Berry. Hot damn that boy rocks my soul. Whenever "Johnny B Good" comes on the radio, I'm walking across the floor on my knees playing my hockey stick like a guitar and I can't quit until the music stops.

Let's face it. When you're in your room all by yourself and a hot piece of rockabilly like Chuck Berry comes on and you don't think anyone can see you - you lose it. Don't you? I'm bending over backwards, jumping up and down, and doing the "Chuck Berry" strut playing that hockey stick like it was a Les Paul electric.

When Chuck Berry hits that last hard chord, I collapsed in a ball of sweat on the floor with my clothes all twisted up like I was just in the middle of a drunken brawl. My mother swings open my bedroom door to see what all the commotion is about and looks at me as if she's wondering whether or not to have me committed.

"What on earth are doing?"

"Oh, uh, I was just playing some Chuck Berry on my hockey stick."

"I'm gonna play some Chuck Berry on your fanny if you don't pass that history test tomorrow."

"I'll do fine. I really know my material." I'm lying through my teeth.

"You better. You've got thirty minutes until bed time," she says before closing the door behind her.

Thirty minutes? Where did the time go? I'm never gonna absorb all this in thirty minutes. I'm a dead man. What am I gonna do now?

Have you ever experienced one of those inner conflicts that absolutely tears you in half? It's when you get that little angel sitting up on your left shoulder whispering into your ear saying, "Do the right thing, Paul. Study hard and earn a good grade. You'll feel such an honest sense of accomplishment."

And then on your right shoulder you've got that little devil yelling into your other ear saying, "Don't listen to that goober. He's a sissy. If you cheat, you'll get an "A" and everyone will think you're a genius."

"Don't do it, Paul."

"Don't listen to that sissy. Cheat and get an easy A."

"Don't listen to him. He's evil. He'll lead you down the path of ill dispute."

"And he'll turn you into just another stupid sucker who always gets the dirty end of the stick. Look out for number one, Paul. Nobody will ever know the difference."

By this time I'm pacing back and forth across my bedroom. I don't know what to do. If I flunk that test tomorrow I'm gonna be in a world of hurt. My mother's not gonna let me go out after supper until report cards come out. I can see it now.

It's no longer a question of whether or not I'm gonna cheat. Now it's a matter of how to pull it off so I don't get caught. Miss Blake has eyes like a hawk. She'll spot a cheat sheet from a mile away. What to do? What to do?

There's no way I can get away with writing the answers on the inside of my shirt sleeve. She'll see me peeking into my cuff. She sees everything. And there's no way I'm gonna be able to hide a slip of paper under my test. That's just too obvious.

As they say, "Necessity is the mother of invention." While pacing back and fourth wondering how to pull this off, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sewing needle my brother left on the window sill after cleaning out some doohickey that hooks up to his carburetor. Then, my eyes darted over to that Lindy pen on my desk and everything falls into place.

Do you remember those blue Lindy pens they used to give us in school? If not, let me refresh your memory. These ball point pens were long blue pens with the emblem of a seal balancing a beach ball on the end of his nose near the closed end of the pen. They were not perfectly round. They had three deep concave groves along the length of the pen body.

All I had to do was scratch my notes into those convex grooves with that needle. Miss Blake would never figure that one out in a million years. I wouldn't even have to shift my eyes from my paper to see my notes. What an ingenious idea.

What I did was scratch my notes into my pen in code so I didn't have to write out everything in long hand. The Boston Massacre on March 5, 1770 became BM-3-5-70. After all, everything on my list happened between 1763 and 1775.

I scratched my notes into my pen in chronological order ever so lightly. My notes were virtually invisible to the naked eye. You could only see them when you reflected the light down onto them. It really helped being artistic to pull something like this off - let me tell ya.

It took me about a half hour to get the job done. By the time I jumped into my bath before bed, I had completed my task flawlessly. I never felt so confident before in all my life. I slept like a baby that night. I was in total control of my own destiny.

Sitting at my desk in Miss Blake's classroom the following morning, I felt like a king in his court. This was my day. Nothing could stop me now. I couldn't wait for that test to begin.

Miss Blake always began the day with our English lesson. Since this was a Friday, we had a spelling test. Spelling was one of my strong points. No worries here.

After that, we did our math. Math ain't really all that hard, especially in the sixth grade. The funniest story I ever heard about what somebody did during a math test was this one. They had a problem that asked you to find "X." What they did was circle the letter "X" in the problem, draw an arrow pointing to it and wrote, "Here it is." Now that's something you'd expect from an Everett kid - right? That is a funny story.

When we completed our math lesson for the day, Miss Blake said, "Clear everything off of your desks except for your pens. It's time for our history test." Oh yeah, baby. This is it. Let's do it.

You can only imagine the overwhelming wave of fear that swept over me when I looked into my desk only to discover that I left my pen at home. I remember now. After marveling at my stroke of genius last night, I forgot to put it back with all my school stuff. That pen is lying on top of my desk in my bedroom. I'm a dead man. So, I raised my hand.

"Yes, Paul. What is it?"

"I left my pen at home. Can I run home and get it? I only live down the street. I could be back in three minutes flat."

"Don't be so foolish. I'll loan you pen for today."

"But that's the pen I was issued for school."

"It's no big deal, Paul. I have a pen you can borrow for today."

Miss Blake walked up and down the isles putting a mimeographed test sheet face down on each of our desks. "When I tell you to start, you will turn your test paper over and begin. You will have thirty minutes to complete the test. Any question not answered will be marked wrong and go against your grade."

"Write neatly. If I can't understand your writing, I will mark your answer wrong. Keep your eyes on your own paper. If I see anyone looking at anybody else's paper they'll get a zero on the test. Are there any questions?"

"Yes. May I run home and get my pen?"

"Don't talk so foolish, Paul. Here is a pen you may borrow for today. You are responsible for bringing your supplies back to school every day. Make sure this doesn't happen again."

"Don't worry. This will never happen again."

"See that it doesn't."

She then looked up at the big clock on the wall and said, "When that minute hand clicks onto the number nine, we will begin."

Droplets of sweat began beading up on my forehead. My mouth was so dry that I couldn't swallow. Is it really that hot in here or is it me? My leg wouldn't stop shaking. Dear God, why do these things always happen to me?

It seemed to take forever for that minute hand to click. Either that clock stopped or I've died on the spot. What's the difference? My life isn't going to be worth a nickel when these test results come back on Monday. I'll be confined to my room for the rest of my natural life. I can promise you that.

The minute hand made that ready to shift half of a click.

"Get ready," Miss Blake said. She may as well have said, "Take aim" because I felt like I was about to face a firing squad.

All of a sudden, that minute hand made this great big loud "CLUCK" as it snapped into position. Miss Blake said, "Go." She may as well have said, "Fire!" Because the sound of all those test papers on everybody's desk flipping over all at once sounded just like shots being fired from a firing squad. This was my moment of truth. They may as well have just shot me dead right then and there.

No sense in drawing out the agony any longer than I have to, so I flipped over my test paper. The first question asked, "When did the Boston Massacre take place?" Okay, I know this one. I mean after all, I remember scratching it into my pen. I can picture the scratching in my mind's eye. I can see it as plain as day. It says, "BM-3-5-70" on my pen. So I write, "The Boston Massacre happened on March 5, 1770."

The second question asked, "What happened first, the "Stamp Act" or the "Sugar Act?" That's another easy one. The "Sugar Act" happened first. I know it did because I scratched it into my pen above the "Stamp Act." I'm sure of it.

I could not believe what was happening here. One question after another, I knew the answer. And I knew that my answers were correct. I knew because I remember scratching the information into my Lindy pen.

What had happened is that I concentrated so hard in preparing to cheat that I actually learned the material by heart. Maybe I won't get that "A" but I was going to pass this test. There's no doubt in mind now.

When I got home that afternoon, the first thing my mother asked me was, "How did you do on your test?" She had the radio on in the kitchen. That Hank Williams song "Your Cheating heart will tell on you" was playing in the background and a wave of guilt came over me. So I told her the whole truth. I even showed her what I did to my pen.

"I am so proud of you for telling me that," she said. "You learned a valuable lesson today. And I know that you're an honest kid at heart because you had to tell me that or you would have carried a heavy guilt on your shoulders. So I'm going to reward you handsomely, because you deserve it. I want you to know that honesty really is the best policy."

My mother opened her purse and gave me a dollar bill. If that doesn't sound like very much to you, then let me put it into the proper perspective for you. Back then, one dollar could buy a pack of cigarettes, a loaf of bread, and a half of a gallon of milk. When my father gets home from work everyday, my mother goes off to work at Transitron in Melrose every night until eleven o' clock. She works hard for every cent she earns.

Usually, when my mother rewards me monetarily, she gives me a dime. With a dime you can buy three licorice sticks, two Bazooka Joe bubble gums, three malted milk balls, and two mint juleps. With a whole dollar, the sky's the limit.

She told me I could spend that dollar any way I saw fit. Believe me, that dollar burned a hole in my pocket all through the night. I made up my mind what to do with it, though. On Saturday morning, I went up to the Everett Music Shop on Norwood Street. I always wanted a copy of Fats Domino's "Ain't that A Shame." That was my final decision.

Do you people remember Freddy up at the Everett Music Shop? He was a really nice guy that always had a big smile and a positive attitude about everything. He was a bald gentleman with a mustache. This guy's knowledge in music was phenomenal. When I asked him if he had a copy of "Ain't That A Shame" he asked, "You like Fats Domino?"

"I love Fats Domino."

"Let me show you what I do have."

He took me to the album bins at the back of the shop. After flipping through the pile of older albums for a minute or two, he pulled one out. It had a heavy plastic cover over it that was taped closed. The price on it was three dollars.

"This is a collection of Fats Domino's greatest hits. It's slightly used, but in pristine condition."

"I only have a dollar," I explained.

"This isn't doing me any good collecting dust back here," he said. "I know you'll appreciate this. You can have it for a dollar."

Okay, now this is scaring me. How many times have you been totally honest about something only to have it blow up in your face? And then there's those times when you go out on a limb and do every thing right and the whole world just unfolds like a blossoming flower in front of you. You know what I mean?

I not only wound up with "Ain't that A Shame," but I also got "Blueberry Hill" And "I'm Walking To New Orleans" as well. Hey, let me tell ya something. You can go ahead and cheat if you want to, but I ain't jeopardizing this honesty thing for nothing. I never had it so good before in all my life.

So what's the answer? The answer is - you don't have to cheat. By preparing to cheat you're actually absorbing the material anyway. And I gotta be honest with ya. It feels really good inside when you pull something off fair and square. It's like winning the Super Bowl.

Wait a minute, now. This story ain't over yet. We got our test results back on Monday morning. While handing back our tests, Miss Blake looked at me and said, "You did surprising well, Paul. It shows you can do the work when you put your mind to it."

At the top of my test she wrote, "100 percent - Job Well Done!" Do you believe that? I did it. I not only opened the new season with a victory, I opened it with a blowout. I'll make it into the playoffs. You'll see. I'm inspired now.

Life ain't always a bowl of cherries. You gotta learn to take the good with the bad sometimes. Heck, we know that. If there's one thing we did learn growing up in Everett it's how to roll with the punches. And we're really good at that because - "We're From Everett!"

Who's Your Homeroom Teacher?

Going back to school in Everett after the summer vacation gives us much to talk about. The first thing your parents will ask you is, "What are your teachers like?" It won't do you any good to tell your mother that you hate one of your teachers. More than likely, she'll come up with a dozen excuses to explain that teacher's short comings away.

It's not so much that she's not listening to you as it is that she's trying to help you cope. If you have older brothers and sisters, she's heard it all before anyway. And if you do have older brothers and sisters, let's face it, you've been forewarned.

In the lower elementary grades, teachers come and go so quickly that you sometimes must step into the classroom completely unaware of what lies ahead. The down side to knowing what you're up against is that you'll already know you're in for hard times before you even get there. The upside is that you are sometimes pleasantly surprised by a wonderful learning experience in contrast to what you've been told.

The only time I was ever deeply disappointed with a teacher was when I entered the seventh grade at the Fairfield Whitney. My brother, Carl, loved Mr. Dakin. And he, in turn, really liked Carl. Carl said so many wonderful things about Mr. Dakin that I really looked forward to going into the seventh grade. It turned out to be the worst of all my school years.

Nobody ever really says what's on their mind when they're talking to their parents about their schoolteachers anyway. The only time the truth comes out is when the kids talk to each other. By truth, I mean, how the kid honestly feels about their teacher. What they say is not always accurate. Let's face it, kids can be just as biased as adults. A kid will badmouth a teacher for scolding them even if the teacher was right for doing so.

To be honest, most of the times I got scolded in school - I was innocent. Nah, I'm fooling with ya now. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time - it was all my fault. I'm not saying that to be a nice guy. I'm telling the truth. I wish I could say that I was a little angel. The problem with that is - far too many of you know me only too well for me to even hope to get away with anything so preposterous as that.

When adults sit around talking about teachers and education, many interesting theories and profound suppositions emerge. And although it can be an informative learning experience, it isn't any fun. And you didn't really come here to learn anything constructive - now did you? No, of course not. If you wanted to actually learn something you'd be reading the Everett Mirror - now wouldn't you?

So, instead of learning anything constructive, let's have fun. Let's not talk about our teachers in a mature adult manner. That's boring. Let's talk about them the way we did when we were kids. To do that, let's go back on the Everett Time Machine to our childhood days growing up in Everett.

Okay, the fun starts here. Grab a seat on the Everett Time Machine and strap yourself in. We're gonna have fun today if it kills us. Is everybody ready? Remember, no standing when we're flying through the time tunnel. Keep your hands inside the car at all times, and no spitting into the wind. Here's goes. B-z-z-z-zap!

Isn't this wild? It's like traveling with the "Spirit of Christmas Past." Only it ain't Christmas yet. Everybody pick a travel buddy. And nobody wanders away from the group. The last think we want to do is leave somebody behind here in the past. The Everett Time Machine isn't all that accurate sometimes and we may not be able to get back to this exact point in time to get you.

We're going to start here at the Horace Mann elementary school. We'll walk through the corridors and take a brief look at some of my elementary school teachers along the way. This will be fun. Come on.

Standing here in the middle of where Prospect and Lexington Streets meet, we're looking at the front of the school. We're going to enter through the door at the right side of the building. Stepping into that side door brings us into the corridor on the basement floor of the school. Immediately to our left is the janitor's office. To the right is my kindergarten class. Let's not disturb the class. We'll just peek in through the door to see the teacher.

That's Miss Cook, my kindergarten teacher. Is she adorable or what? She has short blonde hair with cute little curls at each cheek bone. You couldn't ask for a nicer kindergarten teacher. She certainly had the patience of a saint - let me tell ya. Her voice was so soft and pleasant she sounded like she was singing when she talked. It nearly broke my heart to move on to the first grade.

One memory of kindergarten that sticks out in my mind is the time when Miss Cook handed me a note and said, "Paul, could you please take this note up to Miss Dinslow for me? Her classroom is on your right at the top of the stairs up on the third floor." I never felt so important in all my life.

I was as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs when I stepped into Miss Dinslow's sixth grade classroom. Miss Dinslow was an adorable old lady with a very pleasant smile. All the big kids in the sixth grade just sat there staring at me. All of a sudden, I saw my big brother, Billy, sitting there. So I waved to him.

"Is this your little brother, Billy?" Miss Dinslow asked.

"That's him alright," Billy laughed.

"You're a handsome young man," she smiled.

When I handed her the note, she scribbled a reply, and then handed me back the note.

"You take this back to Miss Cook for me, won't you dear?" she asked.

I didn't say a word. I was too nervous.

That's really all there was too it. No big story, just a random moment that for some reason or another got lodged in my memory bank. It's funny how such small insignificant things get logged into memory for no apparent reason. Isn't it?

Follow me now to the far end of the corridor and I'll show you my first grade classroom. If you peek in through the door you'll see Miss Nigro. Va va voom - right? Is she a knockout or what? My first two teachers in public school were absolutely lovely creatures. I was off to a good start - let me tell ya.

I was not one of the boys who hated girls. I was girl crazy the moment I was born. One thing I'll never forget about my first grade class was the girl who sat in the first row who used to always blow kisses across the classroom to me. And yes, I'd blow one back. That happened one day out on the school ground and my sister saw it. She couldn't wait to get home to tell everybody. You know me, I denied the whole thing feverishly.

For the life of me, I cannot remember that girl's name. Can you imagine that? I can remember something so insignificant as bringing a note up to Miss Dinslow's class, but I cannot remember that girl's name. Go figure - right?

Another first grade memory that sticks out in my mind is the time when Miss Nigro picked out three kids to go upstairs to Miss McKinnon's second grade classroom to taste some butter that the second graders made. I was one of them.

The funny thing is - I hate butter. It's true. I eat my toast, my corn on the cob, and my English muffins dry - no butter. They spread their homemade butter on a Ritz cracker and gave one to each of us. When the teacher asked us what we thought, I said, "I don't like butter."

"Well why didn't you say that in the first?" She shouted angrily.

Truth is, they never said we were going upstairs to taste test butter. If I'd have known that I would have said so. And no it's not a matter of butter versus margarine either. I hate them both.

Right upstairs on the second floor above my first grade classroom is my second grade classroom. Now this is really strange because I draw a complete blank when it comes to my year in the second grade. Perhaps that's because nothing happened out of the ordinary. I don't even remember my teacher's name. Is that weird or what?

Now the next classroom I remember only too well. In the third grade I had Miss Martinelli. That was the year we went to Cherry Hill Farm and I lost my lunch money. Miss Martinelli was the first "screecher" I had for a teacher. Man, that woman had a yell that could blast the paint of the walls. In the course of that year she pinched my ear, pulled my hair, and literally shoved me into the principal's desk. Not that I didn't ask for it, mind you. I was a handful, to say the least.

Miss Martinelli had short black hair and protruding lips. When she got angry (seemed like every time she talked to me) she stuck her mouth forward in the kiss position which crinkled her chin in a funny way. Don't get me wrong, I did not hate Miss Martinelli. By the end of the school year we learned to get along with each other.

There really is a lot more to it than that. If you're really interested you can read about our third grade trip to Cherry Hill Farm on my post entitled "It's All Downhill." And you can read about Miss Martinelli taking me down to see the principal on my "Boys Will Be Boys" post.

Here's one incident that really sticks out in my mind that happened in the third grade. At the start of every school day, Miss Martinelli made us sit quietly and organize these little yellow cardboard letters into words on our desks. Those who completed the task in the allotted time frame got a gold star next to their name on the blackboard. Some of the kids had as many as twenty or more stars next to their name. At the very bottom of the list was my name. I only had three.

One morning while just sitting and daydreaming out the window, Miss Martinelli unexpectedly grabbed a hold of my ear and yanked me up to the blackboard. She starting screaming at me saying, "You are a very stupid boy! You have no idea what's going on here! Do you?" She was right. I had no idea what she was yelling about.

"Look how many stars everyone else has compared to you," she shouted. All I could think of was, "Oh great, thanks for pointing out to everyone else in the classroom that I'm stupid."

That sticks out in my mind because on my way home from school that day, I heard somebody call my name. When I turned around, my classmate, Ann, was chasing after me. When she caught up to me, she said, "Hold out your hands."

She poured a pile of little yellow letters into my hands and said, "These are the only letters you need to form those words every morning. Keep them separated from all the rest. Make sure you put them away carefully in your desk every day so you can put them back together again in the morning." She then smiled one of the most adorable smiles I've ever seen in my life and then turned and ran away.

After that, the stars started piling up next to my name on the blackboard. No, I never did make it into the top ten, but Miss Martinelli did comment on how proud she was that I had finally caught on to the world around me. So, I guess that goes to prove that whenever a man succeeds there's always a woman somewhere in the background pushing him in the right direction.

Okay, that's enough about the third grade. Down the end of the corridor to our right is my fourth grade class. I had Miss Dyer in the fourth grade. She was a kindly older woman who used to make us get up during lunchtime and entertain the class. I remember two of the girls getting up and singing that song, "Everybody hates me - nobody likes me - I think I'll eat some worms."

Well, I never wanted to go up and make a fool of myself in front of the whole class, but on this one particular day - Miss Dyer insisted that I do something. That's when Jill raised her hand and said, "Paul Huffman and I go to Sunday school together. We sing Bible songs at Sunday school." If looks could kill - right?

Needless to say, I disgraced myself in front of the whole class singing, "Yes, Jesus Loves Me," with Jill. Jeez, the things they make you do sometimes. I've got a reputation at stake here - or didn't you know?

Across the hall was the other fourth grade teacher, Miss Jarvis. The only thing I remember about her was that she had big teeth, and chewed her food with her mouth open. "Yech!"

Right upstairs on the third floor was Old Miss Walsh's fifth grade class. That's the class where Tommy stuck the sewing needle through his thumb. I can see it now as if it only happened yesterday. He walked towards Miss Walsh and stumbled forward because he fainted. She caught him and stumbled backwards because she was so skinny and frail.

The boys used to purposely walk into Miss Walsh's class with their top button undone so she could see the collar of their tee shirts. She'd get indignant and say "Go back out into the hallway and fix your attire, please. I do not want to see your underwear." She also used to block the entrance to the doorway to force everyone to have to say, "Pardon me," and then she would say, "Certainly."

Later that year, Miss Walsh left teaching for health reasons and we got a replacement teacher. I don't remember her name, but I do remember her holding elections for class officers. I didn't want to run for any office, but she insisted that I run for class treasurer. Me, of all people. I'm the kid who stole funny books at Manny's when he was in kindergarten and broke into the food concession trucks when he was in the third grade. What was that woman thinking?

Last, but by no means least, was my sixth grade teacher, Miss Blake. I actually liked Miss Blake. She spent the better part of every day yelling - at me! There was just something about her that prevented me from ever taking her seriously - no matter how mad she got. Miss Blake was vertically challenged, but in no way was she handicapped horizontally. She was as wide as she was tall.

I know one thing for sure about Miss Blake. I knew it then, and I know it now. She was a good teacher. She had her hands full - let me tell ya. She had a rowdy bunch of boys in her classroom that year.

Is it me, or do the elementary years go by more slowly than your junior high and High school years? It seemed like that to me. Once I left the Horace Mann the years seemed to fly. I spent my seventh grade at the Fairfield Whitney.

Let's start with my homeroom teacher, Mr Dakin. If you had Mr. Dakin then you must remember how important it was to him that we learn the fourth stanza of the National Anthem. The only line I still remember is, "Oh thus be it ever when free men shall stand." And I only remember that because we used to run around saying, "Oh thus be it ever" to each other as a joke.

They say Mr. Dakin won the "Golden Gloves" for boxing in the Navy. I'm not surprised. The guy was a little free with his hands when he got angry. He dished out many a cuff across the back of the head when he got agitated. This guy had a hair trigger temper. He had absolutely no use whatsoever for me. That's for sure. You can read all the vivid details in my post entitled, "The Fairfield Whitney - 1965."

Across the hall was Miss Di Angelo's Literature class. She was VERY pretty. All the guys went "ga ga" over her. I still remember the first time we all walked into that classroom. All the guys just looked at each other with their jaws wide open saying, "Woah."

We spent the entire year reading, "The Courtship of Miles Standish." That was Longfellow's long drawn out (impossible to understand) poem about unrequited love in the days of the Pilgrims. Okay, granted, it's a classic, but to a kid in the seventh grade reading things like "Thus yore betwixt yon maiden" really gets boring fast. She stood there shouting like a lunatic if she caught you yawning. And even if she was worth gawking at, the subject matter was so boring that the class was torturous.

The classroom next to that was the inner sanctum to our Science teacher. He was the worst of the notorious Barry brothers. All he did was dictate and all you did was write. Then, he tested you on it. No class discussions, no demonstrations, and no scientific experiments. That science class was as exciting as watching paint dry.

It was a snap to get into trouble in his classroom - let me tell ya. All you had to do was turn your head to the left or the right and he came down on you like a ton of bricks. I'll be honest with you. The only thing we learned that year in science was how to shut up.

Next door to him was Mr. McGlaughlin, our Geography teacher. In every dark cloud there's a ray of sunshine. This was the only teacher in the entire school that would cut you any slack. He actually smiled and made you laugh. In the Fairfield Whitney - mind you. Can you imagine that?

In his class,